How to Talk to a Widower (29 page)

“What?”

“That T-shirt has a big hole in the armpit. Go put a sweater on. And brush your hair, for fuck's sake, it looks like you slept in it.” He leans in and sniffs me. “You know what, just take a quick shower. I'll wait.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

And then he smiles at me, my crazy, beautiful, fucked-up stepson, and understanding dawns. “She's looking very good today, Doug. I saw her in her office.”

“You're insane.”

“The course of true love is never straight.”

“I can't believe you did this.”

“Why not?” he says. “It's exactly like something I would do.”

I stand there scratching my head like an idiot for a minute, and then I shake my head at him and smile. “Give me five minutes.”

“Make it ten. And wear the blue cable crewneck. It matches your eyes.”

“Okay, now you're just being weird.”

“Sorry.”

         

On the drive over to the school we sing along to The Clash at the top of our lungs with the windows open. We sing the guitar solos note for note, we bang out the drumbeats on the dashboard in perfect time, we harmonize on-key when it's called for. No one can do it like we do. Our instincts are impeccable, our chemistry sublime. Drivers at stoplights stare at us, awestruck, as we play and sing our hearts out.

I'm not expecting anything too dramatic. There will be no impassioned speeches, no falling into arms, no holding up of boom boxes in the rain outside her window, no long, seminal kisses in the hallway while the gathered students cheer. But maybe seeing me will remind her that there was something nice about what we were just starting to have, something easy and real, and seeing her will fill me with the fortitude to try to see her again. Maybe we'll exchange a look, or a laugh, something that will cause the ground beneath us to shift just enough to make me feel okay about leaving her a message the next time I go to the movies alone. And maybe something in my eyes, or in my voice, will let her know that it would be okay for her to come, that I'm a better bet now than I was then. At this point in my life, I'm not looking for any happy endings. I'm just looking to get things started.

The song ends, the DJ jabbers like a windup toy, and Russ flips off the radio. In the sudden quiet, I catch myself thinking that I'll tell Hailey about how funny it is when Russ and I sing in the car. It still happens like that sometimes, even now, like a conditioned reflex that can't be unlearned, and a wave of acute melancholy washes over me. Russ starts to say something but then stops, sensing my change in mood, and we ride in companionable silence the rest of the way. I guess that's how it's going to be now, long stretches of noise punctuated by occasional moments of silence, like the gap between songs. And there's something comforting in knowing that Hailey will be there, waiting for me in the silence, while I'm out here with Russ, living in the noise.

I turn into the school lot and throw the car into park. Then we just sit for a minute.

“You think I'll get suspended?”

“I know you will.”

He shrugs. “It was for a good cause.”

He needs a haircut, but I'm not going to be the one to tell him. Outside, the sky has gone completely gray and a strong wind whips around the car, sending crisp, brittle leaves and crushed cigarette boxes skittering animatedly across the asphalt. It's going to be getting cold soon.

“You know,” I say, sitting back in my seat. “You're allowed to be happy.”

Russ nods thoughtfully, looking straight ahead. “So are you.”

“I know.”

We look at each other for a long moment, and then back outside at the changing weather. The air between us suddenly feels charged, like the last instant of silence before the overture begins. We are young, slim, sad, and beautiful, and anything can happen.

“Okay,” I say. “Let's do this.”

We open our doors simultaneously and step out into the wind.

Also by Jonathan Tropper

THE BOOK OF JOE

EVERYTHING CHANGES

PLAN B

HOW TO TALK TO A WIDOWER
A Delacorte Press Book / July 2007

Published by Bantam Dell
A Division of Random House, Inc.
New York, New York

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved
Copyright © 2007 by Jonathan Tropper

Delacorte Press is a registered trademark of Random House, Inc., and the colophon is a trademark of Random House, Inc.

Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data

Tropper, Jonathan.

How to talk to a widower / Jonathan Tropper.

p. cm.

“A Delacorte Press book”—T.p. verso.

1. Widowers—Fiction. 2. Bereavement—Psychological aspects—Fiction. 3. Stepchildren—Fiction. 4. Family—Fiction. 5. Suburbs—Fiction. 6. Dating (Social customs)—Fiction. 7. Domestic fiction. I. Title.

PS3570.R5885H69 2007

813'.54—dc22 2006028678

www.bantamdell.com

eISBN: 978-0-440-33687-7

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