Mr. Meriwether gets the cash counted and puts it in a little black bag. I finish cleaning up, hang up my apron and hat, and bid Mr. Meriwether a good evening. As I walk home, there’s a chill in the air with the promise of autumn. I make a mental note to start bringing a jacket with me. And I think maybe I could get myself something nice, but it’s just an idea. I don’t really know what I would buy. I read the same books over and over, because I’m worried if I start a new one, I won’t like it, so I won’t finish it. So then I’ll buy another one, but I won’t finish that one either, and I’ll have all these unfinished books and what will I do with them?
And besides, why go to something new when the old stuff hits the spot? I keep tick marks of the times I’ve readLes Misérablesinside the torn front cover. I’m on my 157th read. Perhaps I’ll open a bottle of champagne when I get to 160. But now it’s giving me ideas. They’re practically crawling through my mind like vines, and I write them on Aunt Amy’s little typewriter in the evenings. Just snippets of things, scenes, and whatnot, and I’m excited to get home to work on another one just brewing.
So I get there and open the front door, and right as I walk in I hear a man’s voice talking with Aunt Amy. I walk inside quietly, hoping I’m not interrupting anything, but I hear her voice again.
“Paul?”
“Yes?”
She says nothing more, so I go into the sitting room and see she indeed has company. The man turns and he stands, clutching a hat in front of him like a poor man standing in a soup line.
It’s Pops.
He doesn’t say anything.
I don’t say anything.
I will stand here until next year just like this, refusing to say anything at all if I have to, but neither one of us have to.
“Come sit down, Paul,” Aunt Amy says. She glances at my father. “It’s all right.”
He eyes me up and down and they’re clear eyes. Not bloodshot eyes, not glassy or unfocused eyes. He gazes at my uniform. The black bow tie and slacks. The white button down. Mr. Meriwether says the soda jerks at Murphy’s wear the same thing and they’re our competition, so I should wear what they wear, because it’ll confuse people enough. I still don’t know what that means.
And it had crossed my mind a time or two that Pops might show up one of these days. I’d just hoped that, when he did, I wouldn’t be here. I’d hoped I’d be somewhere else. With someone else.
“Paul’s got himself a job,” Aunt Amy says conversationally, sitting in the easy chair. “He works for a nice man. Over at Eckert’s.”
If she was thinking Pops might be distracted enough to inquire anything more, that was her first mistake.
He gets right to the point. “I’d like you to come home.”
His voice is nice and even when it’s sober. He could be an announcer on the radio with a voice like his. Only they sometimes get paid in products and if he had to do a beer commercial, that just might be the end of him.
I glance over at Aunt Amy. Her face is apologetic. He surprised us both.
“I don’t want to,” I say to him.
He looks behind him at Aunt Amy, a silent request passing between them, which she silently refuses. She’s not going to leave us alone.
He turns to me again, his thick brows furrowed. “I can see that. But it’s not going to be like it was. You’re my son. You should be home with me.”
“I don’t need to be with anyone. I’m nineteen.”
A couple prickly moments pass before he says, “Yes. Yes, that’s true, but while you’re getting on your feet, it would be better to leave Amy be, hmm?”
“He’s not a bother,” Aunt Amy says. “I’ve told you.”
“Yes, well, this isn’t his home, Amy. This isn’t where he was raised.” He clears his throat. “And if it’s schooling you’re after, I can arrange a tour at the university for you. I’ve got some money put away. I can help you.”
“I don’t need your help.” I already feel exhausted. As if I’m in a game of table tennis, having to bat away any serves he makes. And really, what can he do? The only reason he’s here is because if he can convince me to go home with him, then what happened didn’t really happen. He’ll have my silent admission that it wasn’t really that bad, and it isn’t really him that’s to blame. It’s clear as day he needs this more than I do.
“We both…said things we didn’t mean, Paul.” He’s careful, choosing his words.
And I choose mine just as carefully. “Is that what you think it is?”
I see him bite his cheek. I can’t really remember what I said to him now. Or even what he said to me. They were certainly cruel things, awful things, things that cut you deep. But I won’t forget his fist and I won’t forget the cops at Aunt Amy’s door, looking past her right at me, too polite to push her aside.
“I threw it all away,” he says, his tone changed. “Every bottle. I can promise you that. I wanted to wait for a bit, until I came here. To make sure. And it’s done. I’m done with it now.”
