C HAPTER F OUR

Jake stands outside the building, leaning against the wall as if he’s waiting for a bus he’s in no particular hurry to catch. He’s got all his stuff jammed into a lumpy blue laundry-type sack, which he adeptly shoulders like a merchant seaman. I try to take it from him as we head toward Broadway, but he insists he can carry it. I’m treating him like a little kid, even though he’s bigger than me.

“I’m sorry about all this, Dad.”

“Don’t be sorry. It’s not the end of the world.”

“Mom won’t like it.”

This may be the understatement of the century. Jake’s mother, Doris Perez (B.A., Wesleyan College; M.A., Yale University; Ph.D, Columbia University), will probably have to be coaxed in off a high ledge when she hears this news.

“Let’s face it,” I say. “Your mother will kill us when she finds out.”

“Think so?”

“Jake. Have you and your mother met? Do you know how she feels about matters pertaining to formal education?”

“I have some idea.”

“Well, then, I suggest we live it up in the little bit of time we have left. A last meal before we’re executed.” I point across the street. “Is that diner any good?”

“It’s all right.”

“Want to get a burger or something?”

“Burger’d be good.”

We cross Broadway, and I wait until we reach the other side before saying, “By the way, I got fired today.” Jake stops walking. “You’re kidding me!”

“No, it’s true. Quite a day, huh?”

“Dad. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.”

“Maybe we shouldn’t eat out.”

“Don’t worry about it. I just got a seven thousand dollar refund from the school. We can have burgers and fries, if you like. Shit, you can even go nuts and order a milk shake. For once we’re rolling in it, pally.”

It’s a typical Greek diner, with autographed glossy photos of soap opera actors nobody ever heard of grinning down on the brisk afternoon trade. Jake and I take a booth near the window. We order identically medium-rare cheeseburger platters with Cokes. People tend to eat poorly on the days they get bad news, I’ve noticed. I once sat in the kitchen of a woman whose husband had just been killed by a falling air conditioner (DEATH FROM THE SKY, read the front-page headline for my exclusive story), and in the course of a half-hour interview she chewed her way through an economy-sized bag of Cheetos and a box of Mallomars. She had not been happily married, but of course that particular detail never made it into print. (Unwritten tabloid rules: all widows grieve, and all guys who get killed by falling air conditioners were wonderful husbands.)

I watch my son eat. He doesn’t wolf his food the way I do. He takes a bite of his burger and sets it back down on the plate, while I hang on to mine as if I’m afraid somebody might swipe it. He has a neat puddle of ketchup beside his fries, while I’ve Jackson Pollocked the stuff all over my fries. I’m glad to see that one of us has a touch of class.

He chews and swallows. “Why did they fire you?”

“They didn’t. One guy did. The day city editor.”

“Why?”

“It doesn’t really matter. We weren’t getting along.”

“How long have you been there?”

I need a moment to think about it. “Twenty-eight years.” A shiver goes through me. “Almost twenty-nine. Would have been twenty-nine next month.”

If I’d been a cop or a fireman, I’d be long retired, with a pension. As it is, I’m an ex-tabloid newspaperman, and I’m screwed. Jake knows it, too.

“God, I’m sorry, Dad.”

“Like I said, don’t worry about it. I’ll get another job.”

“Where?”

“Jake, you let me figure that out. Come on, eat up. We’ve got the whole day to figure things out. The whole weekend, actually, with your mother away.”

I look out the window and see cars pulling up at the school, and kids piling into them. “Kind of early to be getting out of school, isn’t it?”

“Friday dismissal,” Jake says. “We always get out early on Fridays.”

Somehow I never knew that. “Why?”

He shrugs. “So the rich kids’ parents can get a head start on the way to their country homes and beat the traffic, I guess.”

Jake has never had a country home. His mother lives on West Eighty-first Street, and my place is on West Ninety-third. Our joke is that during the hot weather he likes to stay with me, because it’s a little cooler up north.

Suddenly two kids are standing at our booth, one tall and thin, the other short and chubby. Both carry book bags on their backs, and they’re breathing hard, as if they’d run a long way to get here.

“Jake,” the short one says, “what happened in Plymouth’s office?”

“I’m out,” Jake says flatly.

The two of them look at each other, eyes wide. “Man,” the other boy says, “that sucks.”

“I’ll be all right,” Jake says.

The tall one turns to me. “Are you Jake’s father?”

I nod, but don’t offer my hand. Somehow it doesn’t seem like the right time for a handshake, and this is something these boys understand.

The tall one shakes his head in wonder. “Your son’s essay rocked,” he says. “Did you read it?”

“I sure did.”

“Great shit,” the short one says. “Really, really great shit.” He thinks he’s being bold, saying “shit” to an adult. This is the kind of kid whose idea of rebellion is wearing a baseball cap backward, or going to Colgate University instead of Yale, the way his father and grandfather and great-grandfather did.

Jake is smiling at them, the falsest smile I’ve ever seen him wear, but they don’t know that. “You guys really liked my essay?”

“Oh, dude, it was awesome.”

“Funny how neither of you mentioned that when Edmondson asked for comments.”

Their faces fall. The tall one swallows, and his Adam’s apple looks like a Ping-Pong ball lodged in his throat.

Jake laughs. “I’m just busting your chops,” he says. “It’s no big deal.”

The boys seem relieved. The short one asks, “What are you gonna do, man? I mean, where are you gonna go?”

Jake shrugs. “Ask my father.”

They turn their gaze to me. I take a sip of my Coke. “I have no idea,” I say as cheerfully as I can. “Maybe I’ll put him to work somewhere.”

The boys laugh, then abruptly stop laughing. What at first seemed like a joke suddenly strikes them as a possibility both real and terrifying. You can quit school at age sixteen in New York City, but that’s a concept that’s never dawned on these kids. What with college and then graduate school or law school or med school, plus the “year out” here and there for the Peace Corps, or just to go backpacking across Europe, they could be crowding thirty before they’re ready to go out there and turn a buck. That way, the gap between the start of a career and the maturation of a massive trust fund is only a few years.

I laugh out loud. “I’m just busting your chops,” I say. “I’m not going to put Jake to work just yet. Truth is, I have to find myself a job first.”

The two kids look at me, then at Jake, their mouths hanging open.

“He just got fired,” Jake explains helpfully, almost cheerfully, and it’s nearly balletic, the way they take identical steps backward, away from our booth. They have obviously been taught to stay away from losers, because losing is contagious. But they’ve also been taught to be polite, so they’re in a little bit of a jam. I decide to let them off the hook.

“Well, fellows, it’s been nice meeting you,” I say, and it’s just what they need to make their move. They tell me it’s been nice meeting me, and then turn to Jake.

“Stay in touch, man,” says the short one.

“You know where to find us,” adds the tall one, and with that the two of them are gone, good-bye, out of there.

Jake takes a sip of his Coke. His former classmates pass the front window of the diner but don’t look back for a final wave. It’s dangerous to do that. Look at what happened to Lot’s wife.

“Pair of assholes,” Jake says, almost sympathetically. On another day I might have been stunned to hear my son speak this way, but not today. Foul language won’t even crack the top ten list of this day’s concerns.

“Why are they assholes?”

“I don’t know, Dad. Maybe they were dropped on their heads when they were babies.”

“No, what I meant was, what makes them assholes?”

“Coming in here and acting as if they care about me getting kicked out.”

“They don’t care?”

“Are you kidding? They’re like people who slow down on the highway to look at a wreck. All they want is some juicy stuff to report back to the rest of the guys.”

“You know, that’s exactly the impression I got from them, but I didn’t want to say anything.”

“They’re not complicated people, Dad. They’ll just play the game for all it’s worth, and get the jobs they’re supposed to get, and marry the people they’re supposed to marry. Then one day they’ll die.”

My son, the philosopher.

“And they’ll be buried where they’re supposed to be buried,” I say. “You left that out.”

“Good point, Dad.”

“Listen, I want to know about this teacher, Edmondson. He’s really the one who started this whole mess.”

Jake rolls his eyes. “Edmondson’s an old fart who’s been there too long. He read what I wrote and he panicked. Don’t be pissed off at him. He’s just a frightened old man. He felt compelled to report what I’d written to Plymouth, another frightened man.” Jake gestures in the direction of the school. “You’d be surprised at how much fear there is in that place.”

“Fear?”

“Yeah, fear. Everybody’s hanging from a thread, or they think they are. But look what happens when you cut the thread, Dad. You don’t die. You don’t even get sick. You go to a diner and have a burger and fries.”

“Is that how it works?”

“Far as I can see.”

For the first time, I’m getting a little angry with him. He’s no longer in private school, but he’s still got that private school mentality, where you’re cocooned from the meteor shower that is the real world. It’s time to slice open the cocoon.

“Let me tell you how I see it,” I begin. “Right now I’m numb. But I have a feeling that when the numbness passes, I’m going to be scared.”

Jake stares at me. “Scared of what?”

“Oh, you know, the usual mundane things. Making a living. Taking care of you. Little things like that.”

“Don’t worry about me. I can take care of myself.”

“Is that so?”

“You’ll see, Dad. Trust me.”

“Trust you with what?”

“I’ve got a plan.”

I laugh out loud. “You’ve been out of school for twenty minutes, and already you’ve got a plan?”

“It just came to me, in a flash. It’s a pretty damn good plan, too.”

“Jake. Don’t screw around.”

“I’m not!”

“All right, then. Care to share this great plan with me?”

“Not just yet, Dad. I’m still polishing it.”

“Polishing the plan?”

“Yeah. I need a little time. And for the moment, I’d just like to enjoy my meal.”

I’m dying to hear this plan, however ridiculous it might be, but I don’t push him. We don’t have much to say for the rest of the meal, which sits in my gut like lumps of lead. I finish eating before Jake does and I check the time. It’s barely three o’clock, and there’s no sign of any student life anywhere out on the street. They’ve all cleared off as if there’s been a bomb scare.

“I won’t ask you about your big plan,” I say, “but have you got any plans for tonight?”

Jake shrugs. “I was going to see my girlfriend. I’m not sure she’ll be my girlfriend anymore, after this.”

This is a girl I’ve been hearing about without ever meeting. I have to wait for Jake to make the occasional remark about her and assemble the remarks into a human being, like an archaeologist trying to piece together a civilization from a few shards of pottery. All I know is that she goes to a private school on the Upper East Side, and they met at a party a few months ago.

“You think she’d break up with you because you got kicked out?”

“Let’s just say it wouldn’t amaze me.”

“What’s her name again?”

“Sarah. What’s your girlfriend’s name these days, Dad?”

“At the moment I don’t have one.”

“Yeah, right.”

“It’s the truth.”

Actually, it’s not the truth. For the past month or so I have been dating (if that’s the right word, and I doubt that it is) a thirty-seven-year-old lawyer named Margie. Last night we got drunk together, and I remember her saying it would be nice to take a trip together, and suddenly I realize this has developed into a relationship of unspoken seriousness that has me uneasy. I rarely make it past the month mark with a woman, and my usual distance is actually more like three weeks. In matters of romance I’m a sprinter, even though I don’t really have the legs for it anymore.

I have no intention of introducing Margie to Jake. He’s met just two of the women I’ve dated since I split from his mother, and both times it was a mistake, so my policy since then has been to restrict myself mostly to midweek sex and keep the possibilities open for father-son activities on the weekends—possibilities that have been drying up, I’ve noticed, as Jake’s relationship with Sarah has progressed. Lately all I’ve gotten is Saturday morning breakfast with the kid.

But this weekend is special. With his mother away I’ve got Jake sleeping over for two nights, so Margie is on hold until Monday. Margie said she understood, but her words didn’t exactly match her narrowed eyes.

Jake finishes the last of his french fries. “Come on, Dad,” he says. “Tell me her name.”

“Whose name?”

“This woman you’ve been seeing.”

I sigh, shake my head. “How did you know?”

“Your voice gets funny when you lie.”

“It’s nothing serious.”

“Just tell me her name.”

“Margie.”

“You like her?”

“She’s all right.”

“Do you love her?”

This is amazing. Until now Jake has never, ever asked me a single question about my love life. Now, suddenly, I’m in the middle of an interrogation.

“It’s too soon to tell,” I say, and he looks at me as if he doesn’t quite believe me.

“If you think it’s too soon to tell,” he says softly, “you’re probably not in love with her.”

I find this to be a stunning observation. I also know he’s right. Why has it been so difficult for me to admit this to myself? Margie annoys me. She’s loud and she’s silly and she’s bossy, or maybe the problem is that I’m somber and dark and stubborn. Either way, we are going nowhere. I’m going to have to deal with it, now that my son has opened my eyes.

Jake downs the rest of his Coke, wipes his mouth with a napkin. “I think you should have someone you can love, Dad. Maybe another wife.”

I laugh out loud. It’s a hell of a thing to say, and a hell of a time to say it. “Yeah, I’m a real catch. A guy crowding fifty, with no job.”

“Come on.”

“Listen, it’s hard for people in my line of work. Former line of work.”

“Why?”

“We get bored easily. We’re sarcastic. We don’t have a great outlook on humanity.”

“Why not?”

“Why not? Look at the way the world is, son!”

“Yeah, but you were probably like that before you worked at the paper.”

“Thanks a lot.”

“Am I wrong? Tell me if I’m wrong.”

I sigh, shrug. “I guess I’ve never had a great outlook on humanity.”

“Why not? Did you have an unhappy childhood?”

“Hey, what the hell is this? You just got kicked out of school, and we’re talking about my childhood? Why are we doing that?”

“Because I don’t know anything about your childhood, Dad. Not one friggin’ thing.”

“This is hardly the time to discuss it!”

“All right, Dad. Whatever.”

“I grew up in Queens. You knew that much, didn’t you? I moved to Manhattan. Both my parents are dead. Happy?”

He holds a hand up. “Just forget it, Dad. I didn’t mean to pry.”

He picks up his Coke and takes a long pull on the straws. I rub my face with my hands, give his shoulder an awkward pat.

“Jake. I didn’t mean to get nasty.”

“If you don’t want to talk about it, we won’t talk about it.”

“We were talking about newspapermen, and the way they look at the world. Problem is, we’re convinced that everybody’s working an angle. In the end we can only date each other, and that always turns out to be the worst thing of all.”

“So who are you supposed to date?”

“A lot of newspapermen date waitresses. I don’t know why. Maybe because they eat out a lot.”

“Does that ever work out?”

“Not often. The waitresses want to be doing something else. You have to be willing to listen to their hopes and dreams. That gets a little grueling, at my age.”

Just then, the waitress comes to clear away the dishes. She’s a cute enough girl, closing in on thirty and a little thick at the ankles. When she turns to go I wink at Jake before calling her back.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I just had to ask—are you an actress?”

She blushes. “I’m trying to be one.”

“Where’d I see you? Were you in a commercial or something?”

She nods happily. “I did the orange juice commercial. I’m the mother, pouring juice for the kids?”

“That’s it, that’s it! I knew I recognized you!”

“I’m rehearsing for a play now. The theater’s my passion.”

“Good for you!”

She tells us the wheres and whens of her off-off-off-off Broadway production, balancing our plates and glasses on her forearm all the while. She’s practically floating on air when she walks away, as I’ve given legitimacy to the distant dream her family has certainly encouraged her to drop.

I turn to Jake. “See what I mean?”

“Did you actually see that commercial?”

“What commercial?”

He pats his hands together in mock applause. “Very good, Dad. You found a waitress who wants to be an actress. How rare.”

We both laugh. It’s my first real laugh of the day, and it feels good, like a swallow of coffee on a winter morning, or that moment when a hangover finally lets go and the cool, healing sweat breaks out on your forehead and you’re ready to go out there and punch a cop. I feel something special coming. I don’t know what it is, but it’s coming, and I can’t stop it, and I don’t want to stop it.

And then, suddenly, I know what it is. Nearly eighteen years after his birth, I suspect that I am at long last going to get to know my son. And for better or worse, he is going to get to know me.

“Okay,” I begin. “Here’s my plan. Let’s dump your sack at the apartment and figure out the weekend from there.”

“Sounds good.”

“I want to talk to you. I want you to talk to me. Let’s talk about everything, and let’s not be afraid of anything, all right? All that exists are tonight, Saturday, and Sunday.”

“What about Monday?”

“For now I say, fuck Monday.”

“Can we talk about your childhood?”

I roll my eyes, try to ignore the fact that my heart is suddenly beating faster than it should. “If you want. Don’t expect to be thrilled, though. It was pretty dull, as childhoods go.”

“I doubt that very much.”

Jake smiles. He’s got beautiful teeth, nicely spaced and white, teeth that didn’t need braces and have cost me little more than cleaning bills all these years. That’s one break I did catch. If Jake had needed braces, I probably would have had to hold up a few bodegas to pay the orthodontist.

Still aglow from believing she’d been recognized, the waitress drops off a check for $12.35, with a smiley face under the total and the words “Thank you!” I slap down a twenty and get up to leave.

“Hell of a tip,” Jake says.

“She deserves it. Maybe it’ll help her realize her dream. I’m all for dreams, especially the ones that don’t come true.”

“You’re weird, Dad.”

“I’ve heard that before.”

The two of us walk out, floating in space like astronauts whose lifelines to the mother ship have snapped.

And just like that a tall, well-dressed black kid steps in front of Jake on the sidewalk, refusing to let him pass. “I’ve got to talk to you, Perez.”

Jake calmly sets his bag on the sidewalk. “The name’s Perez-Sullivan.”

“Well, whatever your name is, we’ve got things to discuss before you disappear.”

The kid speaks beautifully. He’s actor-handsome and slightly taller than Jake, lean and muscular, tense as a tuning fork. I make a move toward them, but without even looking at me, Jake holds out a hand to keep me at bay. Then I notice that the black kid is wearing the school tie, and the whole thing becomes clear. He pokes Jake in the chest with his forefinger.

“See, I’ve got some issues with your essay. Let me ask you something, man. Do I look harmless to you?”

“Not in the least.”

“Then why the hell did you say I was harmless?”

“I didn’t. I said the school handpicked kids like you for their apparent harmlessness. You’ve got to pay attention to the adjective, Luther. It’s vital to that sentence.”

Luther eases back a step. Jake maintains his stance, as if they are still nose to nose. My son does not seem frightened or surprised in the least. This is disconcerting to Luther, who narrows his eyes.

“So what the hell are you saying?”

“I’m saying you fooled them, Luther. You’re smarter than they are. Level with me. How do you feel about the people who run the school?”

Luther licks his lips. “I’m grateful for the opportunities I’ve had.”

“Oh, come on, man! How do you feel about the people who make sure guys like you are always front and center for photo opportunities, whenever big shots come to visit? How do you feel about being trotted out like a show pony?”

Luther’s eyes darken. “I fucking hate it.”

“Well, I can understand that. But I wouldn’t worry about it if I were you, Luther. Believe me, they don’t know how you feel. You got ’em fooled. And I have a feeling you’re going to fool them all the way into whatever college you choose.”

“Hey, whoa, man. You listen to me. I work hard. I bust my ass.”

“I know you do. You’re going to get what you want. You play their game beautifully. I actually admire that, in a way. But I’ve had enough of the game. I just can’t play it anymore.”

Luther nods, purses his lips. “I hear you.”

Jake extends his hand to Luther. “Good luck to you, man. Sorry you misunderstood what I wrote.”

Luther’s lips curl into a smile. He hesitates before shaking Jake’s hand. “Man,” he says, “I was going to punch you in the nose. And here I am now, shaking your hand.”

“For what it’s worth, Luther, I’ve always thought of you as an extremely fearsome individual. And for what it’s worth, I’m not disappearing, I’m getting on with my life.”

Luther laughs out loud, lets go of Jake’s hand, and shakes his head. “Be cool, crazy man,” he says, and then he’s gone, before I can even introduce myself.

Jake picks up his bag, hoists it back onto his shoulder. “That was exciting, huh?”

“Jesus Christ, Jake, he was ready to clobber you!”

“Nah. Luther Johnson’s got too much to lose. He’s on a full scholarship, and he’d never do anything to jeopardize that. Not now, with Harvard and Princeton and Yale fighting to get him. He’s a great student and a great athlete. Last thing his pristine record needs is an arrest on assault charges.”

“Think that actually crossed his mind?”

“Of course it did. Believe me, Luther knows all about consequences. His father is serving fifteen years for manslaughter. Can we go home now, Dad?”

We drift along Broadway, heading north, making one stop at a bank so I can deposit Peter Plymouth’s check. Once it clears, the grand total in my checking account will be $7,212.53. It’s the most money I’ve ever had. For the moment, I allow myself to feel like a rich man. The moment will pass, I know, but not just yet. If nothing else, I’m learning how to appreciate The Moment. Not an easy thing for a fallen Catholic like me, trained as I was to believe that this life is really just a rehearsal for the afterlife.

When I come out of the bank Jake hoists his sack back onto his shoulder. “Hey, Dad,” he says, “where’s your stuff?”

“What stuff?”

“From your office. You gotta go back and get it?”

“There’s nothing to take.” I open my jacket to reveal the New York Star notebook jutting from my inside pocket. “Just this little souvenir to show for twenty-nine years on the job.”

He stares at me and says, “You always knew they were going to fire you, didn’t you?”

“Maybe. Maybe not. The one thing I did know is that in this life, endings come abruptly.”

Jake nods. “I learned that one when you and Mom split.”

My heart drops. Jake never, ever talks about this. He doesn’t expect me to comment on it, or respond to it. But I do, and I surprise myself in the way I do it.

“I learned it when my mother died,” I say softly.

“How old were you?”

“Your age.”

Jake stops walking, sets the sack down, and stares at me. “Dad. I’m sorry.”

“What are you sorry about? You knew my mother was dead.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t know you were so young when she died.”

“I was young, all right. So was she. It was tough.”

At last, we are talking about my childhood. It’s a hell of a conversation to be having in broad daylight, in the middle of Broadway. This is the sort of thing people talk about in soft voices in the wee hours of the morning, just before the sun comes up. Jake is practically shouting at me, to be heard over the beeping alerts from a pastry delivery truck that’s backing up.

“What did she die of?”

“Heart attack. I’ve told you this, haven’t I?”

“Never! We’ve never talked about it!”

The beeping stops as the truck settles into a delivery bay. My heart is pounding. On top of everything else that’s happening today, it seems ridiculous to be talking about a woman who died more than thirty years ago, but that’s what we’re doing, and I know that my son won’t let it go.

“I thought you knew about my mother,” I manage to say. Jake shakes his head.

“Dad,” he says, “the truth is, you’ve hardly told me anything about your life. You don’t like to leave many footprints, do you?”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“You travel light. You don’t even have anything to pack up at work. One lousy notebook, after twenty-nine years! Look at all this crap I’m carrying, from just a few weeks in school!”

“Pick it up and let’s get going.”

This isn’t going to be easy. Jake wants to know things, and I want to know things. Right now we’re both holding our cards close to our chests, but it’s early. Very early. We’ve got a whole weekend to get through, and anything can happen.

He manages to get the sack on his shoulder. It’s obviously heavy and unwieldy.

“You need help with that?”

“I’m fine, Dad.”

“I didn’t mean to snap at you.”

“Forget it. I just thought we were going to talk to each other, for once, and not be afraid of anything.”

“We will, I swear. But let’s get home first, okay?”

Jake doesn’t want to take a cab, and he doesn’t want to take turns carrying the sack. It’s nearly a mile to my place and he carries it every step of the way, including the four rickety flights of stairs to my three-hundred-square-foot studio apartment.