The first couple
of days after his operation, my father had greeted me the minute I walked into the house, peppering me with questions about the day’s business. Toward the end of the week, though, his interest had begun to flag, and I’d come home to find him sacked out on the living room couch, exactly the way he was that Monday afternoon—flat on his back, his mouth wide open to the ceiling. He wasn’t snoring, exactly, but he was making a weird guttural noise, like a beginning reader sounding out the letter
K
.
“Kuh … Kuh … Kuh,” he rasped, releasing a dreamy, doglike whimper every third or fourth breath. He looked relaxed and innocent, like a man who’d finally found his place in the world.
I left the money and paperwork on the kitchen table and tiptoed upstairs to the bathroom, locking the door behind me and turning on the shower full blast. My parents had recently installed one of those high-tech massaging showerheads. It featured a variety of settings, from a soft spritzer-bottle mist to pulsing bursts of pressurized pellets that might have been shot out of a firehose. I twisted my way through the dial several times that afternoon, soaping in the mist, rinsing in the pellets, soaping in the pellets, rinsing in the mist. If the hot water hadn’t given out, I might’ve stayed there for hours, shrouded by the steam cloud and the pea-green plastic curtain, trying to scrub away the fear with a washcloth.
A towel wrapped
around my waist, I pushed open the door of my bedroom and stepped into a maelstrom of scattered books and papers and articles of clothing and sporting goods. It looked as
though my closet had become ill and vomited its contents across the bed and floor. For a moment I entertained the possibility that an intruder had ransacked the room, but then I saw Matt sitting at my desk, his back to me and the chaos, calmly reading my Shakespeare essay.
“Well, well,” he said. He hardly seemed real to me at that moment, turning slowly in the chair and adjusting his paper cap. “The great sahib returns from the jungles of New Jersey.”
“Jesus Christ,” I said, letting my eyes rove over the mess, too tired to formulate a fresh metaphor. “It looks like a cyclone hit.”
“Hurricane Matt.” He smiled proudly. “That’s what my mother used to call me.”
“Did you find what you were looking for?”
He nodded, flipping the paper to its cover page and pronouncing my title in a stuffy British accent, as though he were the host of
Masterpiece Theater
, his lower lip jutting out like Churchill’s.
“‘Bastard Authority: Legitimacy and Subterfuge in Shakespeare’s
Measure for Measure
.’” He retracted his lip and shook his head, chuckling like I’d just told him a good joke. His hands bobbled up and down in front of his chest, as though he were juggling invisible oranges. “‘Legitimacy and Subterfuge.’ Oh, baby.”
“They’re actual words,” I told him. “You can find them in the dictionary.”
His expression grew serious, even a bit skeptical.
“This paper won a prize?”
“Second runner-up. Why? Doesn’t it meet your standards?”
I must have sounded annoyed, because he held up his arms in front of his face as if to fend off an expected attack, momentarily re-creating Junior’s posture in the parking lot.
“It’s good,” he conceded. “But your thesis feels a bit contrived. I mean, isn’t it unfair to superimpose a modern definition of political legitimacy on a pre-modern text?”
“I can’t talk about this now,” I told him, trying not to think about the weight of the bat in my hand, the cringing expression on
Junior’s upraised face. “I’m totally exhausted. I’m going into my parents’ room to take a nap, okay? I’ll be out in an hour or two.”
When I got
downstairs, Matt and my father were immersed in another round of Monopoly. I wandered over to the dining room table and pretended to be interested in who was the thimble and who was the winged shoe, and which of them owned the houses on Baltic and St. James. My father asked Matt to give him a minute.
“Come into the kitchen,” he told me. “I need to have a word with you.”
His expression was unusually serious, and I wondered if he’d somehow found out not only about the damage to the truck, but about the whole mess I’d gotten myself into over the past few days.
“Not in here,” he whispered, when I stopped in the front of the dishwasher. “In there.”
Following him into the cramped and chilly laundry room, I couldn’t help noticing that he was walking a lot better, almost like a fully evolved specimen of
Homo sapiens.
His face looked better too, unshaven though it was. His eyes were clear and engaged with the world; he seemed ten years younger than he’d been a week ago, as if the doctors had removed a lot more than one angry hemorrhoid.
“Shut the door,” he said.
“I’m sorry,” I told him, before he could get another word in. I had already made up my mind to throw in the towel. The moment had arrived for me to take full responsibility for the lies and the damage to the truck, to apologize for putting his business and his only child at risk for no good reason. “It’s all my fault.”
He looked confused.
“It is?”
“It’s not?”
“You didn’t invite him,” he said with a shrug. “He just showed up on our doorstep.”
“Who, Matt?”
He gave me a disapproving look, as if I wasn’t keeping up.
“Don’t get me wrong, he’s okay in small doses, he really is.” He frowned, running his fingers through his matted hair. “Why don’t you take him somewhere tonight? Out to a movie, whatever. My treat.”
“Sure,” I said.
My father smiled with relief. “And maybe bring him with you on the truck tomorrow?”
“No problem. I could use the company.”
“Great.” He started toward the door, then stopped. He looked happy and relaxed, eager to return to his game. “Oh, by the way, how’d it go today?”
I hesitated only a fraction of a second.
“Fine,” I told him. “Business as usual.”
“Forget the car,”
Matt called out, as I headed down the front walk toward my parents’ Malibu wagon that evening. He was standing by the dented front door of the Roach Coach with a hopeful, slightly pathetic expression on his face. “Let’s take the truck.”
I was all set to explain that insurance regulations prohibited me from using the truck except for business purposes—we ignored this prohibition all the time, but Matt didn’t need to know that—when it occurred to me that it wouldn’t be a terrible idea to get the Roach Coach out of the driveway for a few hours. I still hadn’t told my father about the damage and didn’t want him to discover it on his own if he or my mother decided they needed to make a quick run to the store while Matt and I were out. He might have overlooked the dent—it wasn’t that conspicuous in the dark, just a slight depression in the thorax of our cockroach—but he wouldn’t have missed the busted headlight.
“Okay,” I said, reversing course with the aid of the decorative lampost at the edge of the lawn. “Might as well get used to it. You’re going to be spending a lot of time in there in the next few days.”
I should have known Matt would get all excited when he saw the hard hat resting between us on the seat. He picked it up and studied it from a variety of angles, as though it were a relic from a distant and peculiar land.
“Well, lookey here.” He brought the helmet to his ear and rapped on it with his knuckle. “Is this real?”
“I guess. As real as anything can be in an age of mechanical reproduction.”
“Cool.” He jammed it on over his dining-hall cap, then scooted over on the seat to admire himself in the rearview mirror. “I’ve always wanted one of these.”
Against my advice, he was still wearing the hard hat when we entered Scotch-Wood Lanes, his face set in a proud smirk as he acknowledged the grins and double takes his headgear inspired in the league bowlers, men around my father’s age sporting team shirts with the names of factories and small businesses sewn on the back: Freez-Dry Incorporated, A-I Paving, Reliable Auto Body, On-Time Trucking. I picked up the pace a bit, hoping to place some distance between us as we approached the front desk.
Scotch-Wood was cramped and a bit dingy, but I’d chosen it that night as a protest against Echo Lanes, which had recently installed a computerized scoring system. Magic Score was supposed to be the next big thing in bowling technology; it kept track of your score automatically and displayed it on an overhead screen, relieving you of the burden of calculating it on your own with pencil and paper. Aside from insulting the intelligence of bowlers, the real purpose of Magic Score was to prevent you from taking a couple of practice rolls before starting your game, a custom some consultant must have decided was costing the bowling alley thousands of dollars a year in lost revenue and needed to be eliminated.
There was no computerized scoring at Scotch-Wood, just like there was no “pro shop” in the lobby and no foreign beers at the bar and no new coat of varnish on the saggy, dead-sounding lanes and not a lot of chitchat from the surly-looking guy who was reading
The New York Post
at the front desk. He waited until he was finished with his article to peer at me over the top of his glasses, which were perched way down over the tip of his nose.
“Yeah?”
“Any lanes free?”
“One or two?”
“Just one.”
“Shoes?”
“Eight and a half.”
“No halfs.”
“Make it eight.”
The counterman was a wiry, gray-haired guy with a military-style crew cut. Without looking, he reached into one of the cubbyholes behind him, grabbed a pair of worn-out, three-tone rentals and slapped them on the counter. One glance and I knew exactly how they’d feel: loose and slippery and none-too-sanitary, the soles eroded to the thickness of cardboard. The counterman shifted his glance to Matt, taking in the hard hat with a look of mild, pursed-lip disapproval that passed so quickly I wasn’t sure if it had been there at all.
“What about you?”
Matt looked puzzled.
“What about me what?”
“Shoes,” I said, acting as his guide and interpreter. “What size?”
“Don’t need ’em.” He stepped back, lifting one foot to show the guy his footwear. “I’m an owner, not a renter.”
Something changed in the counterman’s expression. What had been a kind of habitual, impersonal disdain turned into something much more specific and hostile. He laid his glasses down on the folded newspaper and stood up a little straighter, smiling the way people do when they don’t like you and don’t care if you know it. He wasn’t a big man and he wasn’t young, but reading glasses aside, there was something in his ramrod posture and quiet self-confidence that made you suspect that he was either an ex-Marine
or ex-cop or both. His veiny forearms, I noticed, were decorated with faded, hard-to-decipher tattoos.
“You’re a thief is what you are,” he said in a quiet conversational tone. “Where’d you steal them?”
“I didn’t steal them,” Matt protested with more amusement than indignation. “I coughed up four bucks for these babies.”
The counterman shook his head.
“A thief and a liar. Nice combination.”
“I’m serious,” Matt told him. “I got ’em at a secondhand shop on Whalley Avenue.”
“In Connecticut,” I explained, offering this fact as a kind of indirect apology for Matt’s faux pas. “That’s where we go to school. He’s just visiting for spring break.”
The guy looked at me like I was babbling in a foreign language.
“New Haven,” Matt added, trying to help me out. “Yale University.”
I groaned to myself. It was better to leave Yale out of it.
“Yale University, huh?” The counterman nodded, pretending to be impressed. “That’s a good school. Do they teach you anything besides lying and stealing?”
“I didn’t steal anything,” Matt insisted, placing his hands on his hips and thrusting his chest defiantly forward, as though we were doing improv and he had just figured out how to play his role. “What kind of villain do you take me for?”
“You can’t buy these shoes,” the counterman informed him. His face was visibly pinker than it had been a moment before. “You can only steal them from people like me. People trying to make an honest dollar. But you wouldn’t know much about that, would you?”
“This is slander!” Matt crossed his arms on his chest and emoted in a stentorian voice he may well have considered Shakespearean. “It’s knavery, pure and simple.”
“Shut up,” I muttered under my breath, but he gave no sign of hearing me.
The counterman shook his head.
“I suppose you bought that hard hat too.”
“That’s mine,” I volunteered. “I loaned it to him for the night.”