And Pops knew what I needed. He knew. He saw me. I went into their bedroom when my mother first stayed at the hospital. She was there for a week, and they said there were all these tests they had to do, and I didn’t want to know, so I went into the closet. I ran my fingers over her dresses. I sat on the blush-colored carpet and looked up at all her things. Hat boxes arranged like she’d need her winter ones within reach. And Pops came in, undid his tie in the mirror. I caught his eye in the reflection, and the way he scowled at me, I guess he couldn’t hide it any longer.
I was never the son he wanted. Let’s just be honest. All his friends’ sons played in the big game while I watched. All his friends’ sons were exuberant, extroverted, and extraordinary. All his friends’ sons were broad and strapping and could crush me in a fight. My mother was between us, always, providing that much-needed zone of peace. Neither one of us was willing to trample over it to be at each other’s throats.
And then she was gone and there was nothing there but a wasteland.
Sooner or later, one of us was going to snap.
I burrow myself under the quilt. I read and try to forget, but that’s the thing.
Forgetting isn’t forgiving.
I’m pacing around the sitting room and Aunt Amy’s doing her needlepoint.
She’s got the TV off because we usually watchLassieat seven and thenLawrence Welkright after, but I think I might not be here. Maybe. I look over at her, and she’s watching me with that raised brow.
Before she can speak, I say, “I’m leaving.” I point to Asher’s apartment. “I mean, just going over there. Later. Just right there.”
She blinks at me, needle paused. “Oh. Well. That’s nice.” She starts the needle up again. “Is that the fellow from yesterday?”
“Yeah. I mean, yes.”
A mild smile crosses her lips. “I’m glad, you know. Making friends.”
“Yea—yes. Sure.” I sit, my knee bouncing with nerves.
“What’s he like?” she asks, her attention on the pattern she’s making. It looks like a goose in a dress with a bonnet.
“Huh?”
“Your friend. What’s he like?”
“I don’t know. He rides a motorcycle.”
“Oh, that’s who that is.” She pulls a stitch out of the beak. “I wondered, you know. I hear it all the time but wasn’t sure who it belonged to. And I suppose it would be someone inthatbuilding.”
I look down at what I’m wearing and consider changing clothes again. He seemed to think what I wore yesterday was odd, when I thought I looked pretty swell honestly, so today I’ve got on one of my button-ups, short-sleeved, and my blue jeans. At first I tucked the shirt in, then untucked it, then repeated the pattern about five times before I settled on it just hanging out. Because I could see him doing that. That’s what he’d do.
I look over at her. “What do you meanthatbuilding?”
She shrugs. “You can always tell someone by how they keep their house. That’s all I’m saying.” She glances over at me with a faint smile. “I’m sure you’re a good judge of character, though, and it’s good you’re getting out and about.”
“Is it?”
“Certainly, Paulie. It’s good to do things.”
“So I can just forget about before already and get out of your hair?”
Her head turns to me, and I feel a kick of defiance. Followed swiftly by guilt. It isn’t her fault. None of this is her fault. Almost two months ago, she stood between me and the cop in her chiffon nightgown, hairnet and everything, as if the cop’s questions might hurt me even more. She had one big man-hand on my shoulder, reassuring, and she cleaned up my bloody lip and put a frozen chicken on my eye. I was in no state to answer questions, so she was the barricade between me and the law. And she didn’t have to do it. Not at all.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I don’t know why I said that.”
Her face creases with hurt. “I don’t want you to forget anything. And you’re not in my hair.” She purses her lips. “I just wish that…” She shakes her head. “Never mind.” She stands up and goes into the kitchen. “I’m going to make some tea if you want any.”
I just wish that you’d forgive him.
She’s never said it, but I know she thinks it. And it’s fine. I can hold this over my father’s head for as long as I want. The phone calls from him aren’t going to convince me. Oh, no. I already know there’s nothing he can do. Nothing he can say. Lines were crossed. And the thing of it is, I’m not forgivable, and I know that I’m not, so I can hold my own absolution hostage for as long as I want.
If Asher had wanted to, he could have stormed over here and told Aunt Amy what I was up to. And the very next phone call she would have made would have been to Pops, and I’d be out of here. What else could she do? Her nephew’s a peeping Tom. It would have been humiliating for her. But Asher didn’t, and now it’s like we’re pals hanging out. And all because I couldn’t keep my eyes off him. This can’t possibly be the consequences, can it?
