It's. Nice. Outside. (18 page)

Sitting next to me at the crowded Marriot bar, in her blouse that showed off her toned arms, jeans that fit just so, hair pulled back to reveal her wonderful and slightly bemused brown eyes, I felt that age-old attraction, and hoped, despite the circumstances, despite everything, she did too.

“Okay,” I said, “I won't say ‘vacation' anymore.”

We had spent the last few minutes tying up loose ends from the wedding, who we had heard from, what they had to say, who we still owed, who we didn't, while eating unsalted peanuts from a red plastic bowl. An hour earlier Mary had surprised me with a call asking to meet for a drink. Reading too much into her offer, I immediately abandoned my plans to walk on the beach, threw on a new polo shirt, brushed my teeth, and obliged.

“I still can't believe that whole thing happened. Or didn't happen,” I said.

Mary shook her head.

“How's she doing?”

Mary reached for a peanut. “You know her. Toughest girl alive.”

“She doesn't look good. So pale.”

“She's hurting, but she'll be okay. I think she had doubts about him all along.”

Once again I wanted to call Roger a bastard, but I was under certain pot-calling-the-kettle-black constraints. Instead I said, “I'm disappointed in Roger.”

“He's a bastard.”

I nodded. “Are they coming down for dinner?”

She reached for her wine. “Oh, they're coming. They want to talk about the home.”

“The home.” I drank some of my wine. “I have to admit, I'm a little surprised by their reaction. I didn't think they would respond like this. They don't see him that much anymore.”

“He's their baby brother. Always will be. So be ready—they have a lot of questions. We all do.”

“Be ready?”

“We'll have a little talk at dinner. The whole family.”

“A little talk?” The prospect of being gang-tackled by the Nichols women gave me pause. I took a longer sip of my wine and cracked another peanut shell. “Well, let's start now. What do you need to know?”

“The timing, for one thing. We're supposed to leave him for a while. I remember something about that. They mentioned that on the phone too.”

I sat up on my stool. “Yes, right, there's no contact for the first month. No calls, no visits, nothing. He has to get used to his new routine. No contact with him.”

She turned away, toward the lobby. “So we just up and leave him and go home?”

“Yes, I know that will be hard, but yes.”

She turned back to me. “Do you really think you'll be able to leave him? You get frantic when you don't see him for a day. Remember when he went to that camp? You called twice a day.”

She was referring to a respite camp Ethan had gone to two years before. It was up in Wisconsin, and she was right; I had been frantic with worry and called constantly to check on him.

“I didn't call twice a day.”

“More like three times.” She sipped her wine. “So, we leave him for a month?”

“Those are the rules. I'll come back after the month is up. I'll drive back and stay a few days before school starts.”

“Well, so would I. Why would you drive though? Why wouldn't you just fly back? A lot faster.”

I stalled, glancing up at the Red Sox game on the TV behind the bar, then proceeded to fill her in on a small and admittedly sketchy part of my Overall Plan. “I was thinking of taking a trip around the country for the month. By car. Just, you know, driving, killing time. Probably head West.”

“West.”

“Yes. I've never been past the Mississippi. Just, you know, take some time off, explore.” In addition to sketchy, this part of my plan suddenly sounded selfish, though I wasn't exactly sure why; I had to do
something
for a month.

Mary nodded. “Just drive around out West?”

“You know, thinking about it.”

A little more nodding.

“Maybe do a some writing, or try to, I don't know. Just take a break.”

Mary stopped with the nodding, firmly affixing her now no-trace-of-bemusement eyes on me. “This trip, you going alone?”

I responded too quickly. “Yes, of course, of course. Who would come with me?”

She didn't answer.

“I'm going alone,” I said.

She digested this, took another sip of wine. “How long before you retire again, quit teaching?”

“Five years. I have five years, and then I'll get my full pension. I need to finish because I need the money. I need the full pension, the benefits, so I can help pay for the home.”

“It's expensive,” Mary said.

“It is. But I have that money from my parents, the inheritance. Wasn't all that much, but I never touched it, so that will help.”

“You'll have to fill me in again on my share. If we do this,” she quickly added.

I repeated my mantra—“It's a good place”—and ate some more peanuts while Mary searched through her large red leather bag, an item that was never far from her side and contained, I was sure, an extra phone charger, an extra pair of glasses, an extra bottle of Ethan's medication, an extra pair of sunglasses, and, I suspected, at least one trashy lonely-woman-meets-handsome-man-in-exotic-location novel, which she kept hidden at all costs. While she was rummaging, I noticed she was wearing her lucky half-moon earrings. It had been quite some time since their last appearance. She had bought them in Ireland on our only overseas trip, three years after we were married. I remembered those earrings. They had a story, and I took their sudden appearance as an encouraging sign.

“I wonder how old Father McDonnell is doing,” I asked.

She kept fiddling with her purse, but I saw a smile. Father McDonnell was the priest who had provided a rambling, unsolicited blessing on the earrings in a smoky pub just south of Dingle. “That was the longest blessing,” she said.

“Longer than the Old Testament.”

“And you didn't want to tip him.”

“You don't tip for blessings. Besides, we didn't ask him—he just started doing it.”

“He was drunk.”

“I'm not sure he was even a priest.”

She almost laughed, but caught herself; while smiling was now officially allowed, laughing was still forbidden in my presence. She continued with her rummaging.

“Maybe we'll go back there someday,” I said.

It was a bold statement, but before she could respond, Ethan walked into the bar.

“Mom! Mom! Mom! Hello! Hello! Hello!”

I turned in my seat as he made his grand entrance. Holding on to both his big sisters' hands, his toothy smile stretched wide, eyes shining, he looked as happy as Christmas. Having the whole family together was a huge dill pickle for him. Nothing could top it.

Ethan and Mary both reacted like it had been decades since their last meeting. She quickly scooted out of her chair; he broke free of the girls. “Mom! Mom! Mom!”

“Hi, baby.” Mary kissed him on the forehead, held him close. “How's my best guy? How's my best guy?”

“Swimming!”

“Swimming, huh?” Mary closed her eyes, sniffed his hair. “Oh, I can smell the chlorine. You smell so clean! No bath tonight, maybe.”

“Thanks for taking him.” I smiled at Karen, who glanced away.

I turned to Mindy, who was sporting one of her many festive black summer hoodies, and said, “So, what did you do this afternoon? Beach? Spa?”

“Went whale watching.”

I actually believed her. “Really? Wow, that's great. Where?”

Mindy smirked, rolled her eyes.

I snapped my fingers, “Oh, right, sarcasm, right. Forgot how good you are at that. Anyway”—I finished what was left of my wine—“let me settle up so we can go eat.”

I had my back to everyone, trying to flag down the bartender, when I heard Ethan say it.

“Sing.”

I reached for my wallet and began a desperate search for my credit card.

“Sing!”

“What does he want?” Karen asked.

“Sing!”

“Oh, fuck! Not here. Place is packed.”

“Sing!”

“We can't do that now, Ethan, not now,” I heard Mary say. “Come on, let's go sit down. We'll sing at the table.”

“Sing. Now! Sing! Now! Sing. Now!” Ethan began yelling this.

“Excuse me!” I called to the bartender. “Excuse me!”

“Ethan, honey, not now,” Mary said. “Not now.”

“Sing! Sing! Sing!
Siiiiiing!
”

The bartender took in the tempest that was taking shape over my shoulder, and tentatively handed me the check.

I winked at him. “Hold on a sec.” I turned back around, scanned the bar, saw that Mindy was right—the place was packed—then saw Ethan's expectant, bordering-on-frantic eyes.

“Let's just do this,” I said.

Karen, late to the game, now realized what was taking shape. “Oh, forget it. I'm not doing that, not here,” she said, and attempted to walk away, but Ethan pulled her back.

“Sing!” Ethan yelled as if he were in labor.

People were starting to look at us. I knew all the elements of a bona fide scene were taking shape—an agitated Ethan, a crowded room, the nearest exit a good distance away—and felt a familiar sense of panic rising.

“Dad, come on,” Mindy said. “Let's beat it.”

“Just do it,” I whispered. “What's the big deal? The things you do on TV.”

“That's my job. I get paid to do that.”

“I'll pay you later. Come on.” I suspected the prospect of holding her sister's hand had more to do with her reluctance than anything. “Let's just do this. Come on.” I herded everyone into a small circle. Mustering up as much dignity as I could, I began.

“Family…” I stopped and waited for the others to join. Other than Ethan, no one did.

“Siiiiiiiing!”

“Come on, please. Act drunk if you have to. We're in a bar.” I started again. This time I had accompaniment, though we sounded more like we were chanting than singing. “Family … Family … Family … U … S … Aaaaaa!”

Ethan made us sing this three times, an interminably long time to chant/sing in public. When we were finished, Karen and Mindy bolted into the adjoining restaurant while Ethan screeched, “Party! Party!” then fell on the floor and kicked his legs in the air, a finishing touch he saved for special occasions.

I tried to pull him up, gave up, and, against my better judgment, sheepishly surveyed the room. As expected, a lot of sunburned faces were staring our way. I offered a small wave to our audience—
that's all, folks
—and turned to the bartender, who had enjoyed a front-row seat to the extravaganza.

“Now, where were we?” I asked.

I was figuring out the extra-big tip, thinking our act was over, when I heard it again. This time it was just Mary and Ethan, their voices soft.

“Family … Family…”

I turned and saw that Ethan was safely back on his feet, Mary's arms wrapped around him. They both had their eyes closed as they swayed back and forth, cheek to cheek, on the crowded barroom floor.

I watched them for a moment. “Ready to go?”

“In a second,” she said, holding Ethan tight.

*   *   *

After we sat down at a slightly wobbly table in the far corner, and after I got up and took Ethan to the bathroom, then sat back down, then got back up to take him to the bathroom again; and after Mindy realized she left her phone in her room and she stood up, and after Mary said, “Sit down, you don't need your phone, can't you live without your phone for an hour”; and after Mindy sat down, picked up her menu, and issued a massively aggrieved sigh; and after Mary, trying to ignore sighing Mindy, said there was a draft coming from somewhere; and after Mindy said, “What's with you and drafts; I don't even know what a draft is,” using quote marks with her fingers when she said the word
draft
; and after Karen left to go to the bathroom for a ridiculously long time, then came back and said she was going up to her room and wasn't coming back; and after Mary said, “Sit down, we have to talk,” and Karen asked about what and Mindy said, “What do you think, climate change?”; and after Karen sat down, picked up her menu, and issued a massively, aggrieved sigh; and after the waitress told me they didn't carry Jim Beam; and after Mindy said, “Oh boy, Dad, are you going to get the shakes now or what”; and after I smirked and said, “Yeah, right, the shakes,” then secretly began to worry about getting the shakes, I picked up my glass of ice water and made a kind of toast.

“I want to thank everyone for coming along on this vaca—trip,” I said.

“We're not doing this for you,” Karen said.

“Thank you anyway.”

Karen leaned across the table and spoke hotly. “We don't agree with what you're doing. We think it's wrong.”

I took a deep swallow of my water.
I can handle this,
I told myself. “I'm sorry you feel that way…,” I began. “I know it's going to be hard, but it's the right thing to do.”

“The right thing for you, maybe,” Karen said.

“No. It's the right thing for Ethan. He's going to be very happy there. They have a—”

Karen cut me off. “Tell him what you think, Mindy.”

Mindy finished draining her glass of water. “I don't know, Dad. I mean, you could have waited a few more years. He's only nineteen.”

I switched on my teacher's voice, a combination of patience and condescension. “Unfortunately, Mindy, there's never a perfect time to do this.”

“I can't imagine a worse time though.”

This came from Mary, and it surprised me. Based on our talk at the bar, and the fact she was even in Myrtle Beach with me, I assumed she had moved over to my side.

“Where. Pickle. Be?”

“Pickles are coming,” I said. “Do you have to go to the bathroom?”