“Cubs or Sox?”
“Cubs.”
He smiles, pulling his glove back on before tugging his hat over the red shells of his ears. “Right answer. Hand me some more of those wood chips.”
We work in silence for a while, feeding wood chips into the smoker and taking turns being the one to stoke the embers and the one to hold their hands up near the flame, although I’m not sure if it’s to block the wind or just to keep our hands warm. We communicate in head tilts, grunts, and nods. Otherwise, the only sound between us is the carnival barker–level football commentary blaring from his phone speaker. When the Cowboys score, Otto shuts it off with a huff.
“Gonna be another Bears loss, I bet,” he says in a voice more deflated than Tom Brady’s football. “Stick to being a baseball fan. At least the Cubs manage a win from time to time.”
“Enough to keep us hopeful every once in a hundred years,” I say.
“Yeah, 2016 was a good year.” He tilts his head back, checking the sky for a memory of the last Cubs World Series win. “I think I might fly out to Arizona this year for spring training since I won’t make it to Wrigley much with the wedding this summer.” He pauses, then looks down from the sky and back at me. “Are you coming to the wedding?”
I speed through my answer. “We haven’t discussed it.”
Luckily, Otto seems more interested in talking baseball anyway. “What about spring training? You ever been? It’s a fuckin’ party.”
One f-bomb from him and any remaining tension in my body dissolves. “I’ve never been,” I admit.
“You’ve been to Wrigley though, right?” His tone has shifted to concerned father mode.
“Dozens of times,” I reassure him. “Don’t worry. My dad raised me right, pulling me from school at least once a year for Cubs games.”
“That’s a good dad.”
“Yeah, he’s the best,” I say. “He came to all my softball games growing up too.”
“And what is your Cubs fan Dad up to today?”
“He’s in Florida.” The wind whips through the yard, an unwelcome reminder of the weather I’m missing out on. “We always go to Florida for Thanksgiving.”
Otto nods, but his frown doesn’t budge. “Why aren’t ya there, then?”
I rub the zipper of my coat between my thumb and forefinger. Whyaren’tI there? If only he knew how many times I’ve asked myself the same question over the last twenty-four hours. “I hung back to…” I pause, revising my story in real time. “To see Ellie,” I finish. “And to meet you guys, of course.”
“So you’re not down in Champaign?”
“Not yet. I’m trying to transfer next semester. Just gotta pass accounting first.”
Otto nods and grunts. “You should ask Kara to help you,” he says, oblivious. “She’s an accountant. Even teaches a class at the community college.”
I could correct him. I probably should. But instead, I just smile and say, “Great idea.”
“How’s it looking?” A familiar voice interrupts with stellar timing. I turn toward the house, where Ellie has slid the kitchen window open just enough to yell through the screen.
“Like a turkey!” Otto shouts back.
“Murphy, did you talk him into reading the instruction manual?” Ellie asks, holding up crossed fingers.
Before either of us can form a snappy reply, Kara’s distant voice clucks in the background about letting the cold in, and Ellie slides the window closed again, only to reappear moments later outside the back door. In her long tan coat and a giant pair of white New Balances, she shuffles across the patio, trying not to trip on her oversize shoes.
“What, didja leave all of your shoes back in Champaign?” Otto teases. “Have to steal mine now?”
“I didn’t feel like lacing up my Docs,” Ellie says, shaking one giant white sneaker toward her dad. “These are cool. You know Dad shoes are back in style again?”
“Oh good,” Otto snorts. “You know how I always have to be in style.” He drags the side of his glove beneath his nose, wiping snot away. “Colder than a witch’s tit out here.”
Ellie cringes at the expression, but it gets an honest laugh out of me. It’s the kind of thing my dad would say, the sort of nonsensical phrase he probably got from his own father. It makes me miss him.
