Ben
I don’t mean to be dramatic, but right now, I can’t think of one fucking thing I’d like to be doing less than having lunch with my mother.
I’m at the Crestwood, Barden’s oldest and most revered hotel, and home to my mom’s favorite restaurant. It’s the hottest it’s been since I arrived in town, but of course you can’t wear a fucking t-shirt to the Crestwood, so I had to walk three blocks from my street parking space in suit pants and a dress shirt, and I can feel sweat rolling down my spine. I rushed to get here, because Dad’s PT session for his arm today was running behind, and I had to drop him back at the yard with Sharon before I ran home to change. This afternoon, I’m supposed to meet a contractor at the yard who’s trying to replace every single sink and tub in the three houses he’s working on, and I doubt we have the inventory.
And—and—I fucked up, again, with Kit.
I clench my teeth, take a drink of water, willing myself to relax. It’s not easy—since yesterday, the week’s really been going to shit, though if I’m honest, things were getting stressful even before that. Dad’s PT is really ramping up, and so my days—shuttling him back and forth, coordinating schedules with Sharon and now River too—are more complicated. Even though it’s good to see Dad making progress, he can be difficult and antagonistic, especially when the pain is getting to him. Usually he takes this out on me, which is okay, but on Wednesday he’d snapped at the therapist, frustrated by the restrictions she insisted on about his weight-bearing limitations. He’d apologized—I can tell he knows this is unlike him, the frustration, the temper—but I’d felt so bad that I’d sent the office two dozen cupcakes. I have a new appreciation for caretakers of all kinds after only a couple of weeks here.
Plus, there’s River, who’s almost as unpredictable as my dad. Sometimes, like yesterday when I was trying to help him with his homework, it seemed as if the kid was warming up to me. Other times, like when I told him he needed to head home for the night, it became a polar-vortex freeze out, just complete silence and disinterest. It’s not my problem—it shouldn’t be my problem—but the kid’s got trouble, and hell if I’m any good at ignoring it.
The worst of it, though, is Kit. Or the job. Whatever the fuck it is. Yesterday, I’d stepped directly in it. And I hadn’t meant to—when she’d said she’d had a bad day, I hadn’t been thinking about the job at all. Honestly, I’d been thinking, thank God it’s not just me. I’d been looking for a little of that harmless commiseration friends do over their shitty days. But despite Monday, and Tuesday, when she’d come to the yard and stayed for the evening, I guess we’re not really friends. We can’t be, and that’s down to me, not her. I’m the one who’s put the job between us, and I can hardly admit to myself how many times I’ve wished over the last few days that that wasn’t the case. I wish she’d come into the yard one day while I was working. I wish she didn’t know me as a recruiter at all.
But there was no point in thinking that way, so after I’d gotten Dad settled last night I’d sent an email to Jasper, updating him on what I’d learned about Kit so far, letting him know that since the materials I’d sent hadn’t seemed to sway her yet, I was planning on digging in to some research on the funding sources Kit’s department had more generally. Sometimes this could be a good way to negotiate recruiting deals, to have Beaumont fund some of a university’s project agendas. I’d had trouble sleeping afterward, which is why I’m probably taking this lunch break with a little more annoyance than I might otherwise.
“Benjamin!” my mom calls out from behind me, and in my defense I’d probably find that annoying on any day, not just this one.
But I’ve still got manners, so I rise from my seat to face her, leaning down to brush a kiss on her cheek. “Hi, Mom.”
“I’m sorry I’m late,” she says, settling into her chair. “My blowout ran over.”
I’m not so dumb that I don’t know my mom is a beautiful woman, the kind that still turns heads. She’s tall and rail-thin with thick blond hair that she has professionally washed and styled twice a week. She was always pretty careful about her appearance. The morning after she’d moved out I’d gone into the bathroom and stared in confusion at the vanity, wondering when my dad had managed to replace it. But it wasn’t a new vanity, it was the old one, shorn of all the products she’d kept on the counter. Since she married Richard, though, she’s got the means to invest fully, and for her, looking good is part of the gig she has with him, being on his arm, fitting in with his life, his crowd.
“That’s all right,” I say, picking up my menu, a little earlier than is probably well-mannered. But I already want out of this. I feel the same way I always have around my mom, twitchy and restless.
She orders a chardonnay, arranges her napkin carefully in her lap. “How’s Henry?” Even this annoys me. Why can’t she just say, how’s your dad? It’s like she doesn’t even want to acknowledge that we’re family.
“Dad’s okay,” I say, trying not to be pointed about it. “I don’t have long. I need to get back to the yard after this.”
“Well!” Her tone is still light. Nothing fazes her, at least not now. “I’d better pick something in a hurry, then.” She gets a salad, light on the cheese, no dressing, no bread on the side, no croutons, two lemon slices that she’ll squeeze on top. I could’ve ordered it for her. Despite the fact that I only see her once a year now, and only once a week before that, I know this part about her well.
She tells me about how she’s redecorating her living room, how she’s going to serve as secretary for the board of the symphony, how my Aunt Christine in Alabama has started wearing a mask at night that’s supposed to make her jawline tighter. I nod politely, asking questions where I should, keeping my responses to hers light, neutral. I resist the urge to look at my watch.
“You’re tapping,” she says, and though she’s smiling, I hear a fine trace of annoyance under it. I still my leg—I hadn’t realized it, but I’d been bouncing it under the table. I clear my throat, embarrassed. Moving this way—repetitive shaking of my leg, gently thumping my fist against my thigh, knocking my index finger against a table edge—all of it, my mom used to call “tapping.” I don’t do it anymore, ever, except for on those rare occasions when I’m around my mother.
When I was eight, my mom had taken me to the pediatrician about it, had told him, through clenched teeth, that she couldn’t stand it, that I was always moving, that I fought her at bedtime, that I ran everywhere, that I couldn’t settle down. We’d come home with a prescription—and my parents had their first fight in front of me. After that, Dad had started picking me up from school, taking me to the salvage yard with him every day. Later—much, much later, when my dad sat across from me in an orange plastic chair with a guard watching our every move—he’d apologized for this choice, said he shouldn’t have fought her, or the doctor, said he’d do it differently, if he could have.
I don’t know who was right, between the two of them. The only thing I know is that my dad stuck, and my mom left.
“Sorry,” I say, and her face softens. She almost looks apologetic. I’d meant what I said last weekend, at Kit’s house. My mother is not a bad person—she can be a little severe, a little superficial, but there’s a kindness to her. She picks up feral cats and pays for them to get fixed, finds them homes. She volunteers at a hospice facility, often staying late into the night with lonely patients. She sends an email to everyone in our family—still including my dad—with updated birthdays and contact information, so we can all stay in touch. She’s a good person. I hate that I have trouble remembering it sometimes.
“Now, Ben,” she says, and the corner of my mouth hitches up, appreciating that she’s stopped with the Benjamin shit. “I know you’re busy while you’re in town.”
Well, this can’t be good.
She holds her chardonnay by the stem, twirls it. “It’s Richard’s thirtieth anniversary with his firm, and I’m having a party for him in a few weeks. Here, actually.”
“That’s nice,” I say, hoping against hope this is not an invitation, just a non-sequitur.
“Obviously I’d love for you to be there.”
“Mom, things are pretty hectic, on account of me running the yard, and Dad’s care.”
“Of course Henry’s invited too. He and Richard are friends!” I resist the instinct to snort. But then again, what right do I have? I guess they kind of are friends. At my college graduation dinner, Richard and my dad got drunk and Richard told a joke about a carpenter and a turtle that had my dad laughing so hard he’d cried.
“I’ll see, Mom.”
She purses her lips, looks up at me. “Ben. You know you owe Richard a great deal.”
And there it is. There it fucking is. I swallow the urge to snap at her, to say, It was the least he could fucking do since he blew up our family. But that’s not even true, not really. And anyways, I’m not usually so sensitive about this shit. I’m—I don’t know what. I’m hot, I’m tired, it’s been a bad couple of days. “If I can’t make it to the party, I’ll make sure I get in touch with him, okay?” I say, trying to keep my voice calm.
She plucks the napkin from her lap, folds it twice and rests it next to her plate, lifts a hand to smooth her hair. “All right. I’ll send you all the information,” she says, her voice wounded. I don’t know if I should apologize. I don’t know what she wants from me. I never have.
We settle up, say our final pleasantries as I walk her out to her car, then head the opposite way toward the truck. It’s four blocks I’ve got to go now, and the back of my shirt is sticking to me uncomfortably. These streets are still so familiar to me, even all these years later. When I got old enough, Dad would let me take the bus from the salvage yard to the historic part of downtown to do light deliveries, and afterward, I’d walk and walk, mapping the city with my feet, burning off the energy that never seemed to leave me. A thought comes to me, unbidden: If I take a left here, walk a mile and a half, cut across the fountain quad that’s lined with crepe myrtles, I’d be right across from the building where Kit works.
Instead, I get in my truck and go back to the yard.
* * * *
When I get in, Sharon and Dad are behind the front display cases, and she’s helping him get settled in his chair. I pause by the door, waiting to go all the way in, because this is the part where Dad usually gets a little cranky, and I may be the world’s biggest chickenshit, but I’m inclined to spare myself the abuse right now. But Dad’s quiet, and I catch him looking at Sharon as she lifts his booted leg into the chair’s sling. What I see there—I turn my face away, look down at my shoes. Whatever that expression is, it’s not part of my understanding of Dad and Sharon together. I know them as bickering, almost sibling-like friends.
I don’t have time to think much about it because the door opens behind me and River comes in, nearly running into my back.
“Hey,” he mumbles, doing that annoying neck-snap he does, the one that gets the swoop of hair out of his eyes for all of half a second before it falls back again.
“You need a haircut,” I say, sounding so much like my dad that I want to slap myself. “What I mean is,” I clarify, “your hair is always in your face.”
“I like it there,” he says, and I have to laugh at the way he deadpans it.
“Are you two just going to stand there and chat all afternoon, or can we get to work?” my dad calls.
River follows me in. “We were talking about hairstyles,” I say, nudging River with my elbow. He nudges back, harmless sparring that feels almost cheerfully aggressive. “What I’m saying is, this look doesn’t flatter the kid’s face.”
“Ass,” River says under his breath. But the corners of his mouth are tilted up.
“I think it’s fine,” says Sharon. “Reminds me of that Bieber kid, back before he started buying monkeys and growing inadequate facial hair.”
“What!” exclaims River, and it’s the loudest he’s ever been in any of our presences.
“I’ll take you to get it cut later.” Over his head, I give a thumbs-up to Sharon, who’s already gathering her stuff to leave for the day. I duck into the back to change into the clothes I’ve brought with me, and when I come back out, River’s Windexing the display cases, my dad watching to make sure he doesn’t miss any spots.
“How’s your mother?” he asks.
“Same as always. Having some big party at the Crestwood for Richard in a few weeks. We’re invited.”
“Right by the register,” Dad says to River, in the slightly louder voice he uses when talking to him. “You missed a spot.” He turns back toward me. “A party sounds all right. Do I have to wear a suit?”
“Probably. Why would you even want to go, Dad?”
“Why not? There’s going to be a lot of free food. That’s my favorite kind of party.” I shake my head, pretend to be looking over receipts from the morning. “Ben. We’ve been over this. I got no hard feelings for Richard. Or for your mother.”
“Well, I can’t say the same,” I say.
“Who’s Richard?” River says, and fuck if that kid doesn’t seem to hear only the things you’re hoping he doesn’t.
“Richard is Ben’s stepdad. Nice guy, money coming out of his ass. When Ben was younger, a little bit older than you…”
“Dad.” I don’t think anyone could mistake the warning tone in my voice. “No.”
River looks back and forth between us, holding his bottle of Windex and rag. But just as soon, it’s as though he decides the curiosity isn’t worth it. He turns back, applying himself again to the cleaning. But he’s turned so he’s facing us, I notice—he’s listening, in his way. I can feel Dad’s eyes on me, but I don’t look over. “You get that light up at Kit’s yet?”
My shoulders stiffen even more, impossibly. “No. She’s got an electrician.”
“She could probably do it herself,” says River, and Dad and I both look at him. “She’s really smart.”
“You’re right about that, Smalls. Pretty too,” says Dad, and they smile at each other.
“You guys are assholes,” I say, and leave them to their cleaning.
* * * *
I spend the rest of the afternoon up in the east wing of the second floor, which is basically a graveyard for stuff we don’t know what to do with yet—dump-offs from estate sales we need to sort, mysterious parts that even my dad can’t figure out a whole for. In a salvage yard, you get accustomed pretty quick to chaos, to the fact that you’ve probably got more material than you’re ever going to sell, that you’re going to get more inventory when you don’t want it. If you think too much about it, you’ll get overwhelmed, wondering about all this stuff, how it’ll ever find a place to actually go.
Today, though, it’s a good spot for me to hide out. It’s relaxing, I guess, to be pulling out stuff that I’ll either put into the inventory or take to the dumpster, or out to recycling. When I was a kid, younger than River and pissed off at the world, figuring out this kind of stuff had been a good way to calm me down, to stop the rising tide of anger and frustration I felt everywhere I went, the one that made me want to punch and destroy. You couldn’t be that way when you were pulling out parts of light fixtures or stairwells from different centuries. You couldn’t just hold on to things as tightly as you wanted or toss around the pieces you couldn’t get to fit. You had to notice, pay attention to every little piece, learn how to treat it, figure out whether it belonged somewhere.
About two hours in, when a glint of sun from the skylight winks across the floor, I catch a shock of cobalt blue in a corner, where a stack of old, glassless window frames lean against the wall. At first, I think it’s part of a dismantled window, maybe some stained glass, but when I get over to it, I see it’s the bottom bowl for a chandelier, hand-carved and in improbably perfect condition.
It’s that easy for me to get lost—easier in a practical sense, I guess, than it’d ever been back when I still lived here, because now Google has image search, and for the next hour, that’s what I’m doing. First I take a photo of the bowl itself, and it’s an easy hit to Baltic chandeliers, so I look at about a hundred examples before I start to trawl the room, looking for other pieces that might match the bowl. The good news is that most of the essentials are around—the neck, the arms, the spindle, the main bobeche. But there’s probably thirty pieces I’ll have to hunt down, either elsewhere in the yard or online, and that’s not even counting prisms. I’ve only found—inside an otherwise empty lone dresser drawer on the other side of the room—about half of what a chandelier of this size must take.
By the time my dad calls up to me, telling me it’s time to get going, I feel calmer, more focused, more ready to deal with work, Dad, everything. And if my mind isn’t any more clear about Kit—well. It’s something I’m getting used to, at least.