The Latent Powers of Dylan Fontaine (13 page)

“Whoa, whoa, Angie, it’s all right. Everything’s cool. I understand.”

“You do?” She looks up.

“Yeah, sure. And right now, I need to ask you, my best friend, for a favor. There’s a place I have to go, and I’d like if you’d come with me.”

Fifteen

A
NGIE AND I GRAB JONATHAN
, who’s already lost twenty bucks to the chess hustlers, and the three of us head south toward First and Lafayette. Along the way I think back to the last time I spoke with my mother. It was a few days before my arrest; she was getting ready for her trip to Paris and had called and asked if Randy and I would stop by Philippe’s studio. She wanted to say goodbye and to show us some of her pieces on display.

“You can’t be serious, Mom,” I said. “I mean, you’re the one who walked out on us. And now you’re off to Paris, and you want us to
stop by
Philippe’s studio? Just like that? I don’t think so.”

There was silence on the other end, and after a while a sniffle. She was crying.
Good,
I thought.
Let her cry.
“Dylan? Honey, listen, I know this is hard for you. It is for me, too, but please, try to understand—”

I didn’t let her say one more word. I slammed down the phone and walked away. She didn’t call back.

Now, as we reach First and Lafayette, I stop outside Philippe’s place and peer through the window. It’s a combination studio–art gallery where Philippe works and sells his paintings along with pieces by some other artists in the neighborhood. Inside, customers are milling about and the receptionist is answering questions. I don’t see what I’m looking for, so I continue through a winding passage that leads to a back room filled with more paintings. Angie and Jonathan follow. When I see my mother’s pieces hanging on the wall, I almost fall over.

There are three, and I recognize each image from old family photographs. The first is a watercolor of Randy when he was six or seven. He’s sitting atop my dad’s car and plucking this old, beat-up ukulele with a look of pure determination on his face. The next is a pastel of me strolling through our little garden in the backyard when I was two or three. In one of my hands is a rusty watering can, and in the other a huge yellow rose.

But the one that really gets to me is the third piece. It’s an oil painting of my dad standing outside Jerry’s Ice Cream Parlor in Brooklyn. Randy, a toddler, is pressed up against his leg, slurping down what looks like a root beer float, and I, a baby, am seated on my dad’s hip with my mouth open, ready to take a bite of his cone. The way my mother painted it, you can’t tell where one of us begins and the other ends.

“Excuse me, miss? Please, put away the camera. You’re not allowed to take pictures inside the gallery.” I turn around and see Angie filming my mother’s paintings. She’s in kind of a trance and doesn’t seem to hear the receptionist. “Miss, I said put away the camera.”

I look at Jonathan; he shrugs. Next I hear a familiar voice saying, “No, no, Sarah, it’s all right. I know them.” There are footsteps across the wood floor. I turn and face Philippe. “Dylan? I…thought that was you.”

It’s kind of funny. I spent the past few months trying to hate the dude, but suddenly I remember how much I used to like him. Unlike Jonathan Reed, Philippe is the kind of person who could get away with being pretentious if he wanted to, since he’s this really great artist and a renowned professor and owns this fabulous studio to boot, but the truth is he’s pretty humble and a genuinely nice guy. I look around the room. It’s no wonder my mother left us for him. For this new life in the Village. Given the choice, who wouldn’t? “Yeah, well, I was in the neighborhood,” I say, “so I figured I’d stop by.”

He nods. “I’m glad you did. Your mother was so eager for you to see these pieces before we left. We would have taken them to Paris, but the show was strictly abstract. Anyway, she’ll be right back. She just stepped out for coffee. We’re both a little jet-lagged.” He motions toward the wall. “But tell me, what do you think?”

I look at the paintings and a hot lump wells up in my throat. They’re good—great, even—but I can’t help feeling betrayed. Why should my mother be allowed to paint
us
? Hang our family’s memories on the wall of Philippe’s studio for the whole world to see? It doesn’t seem fair. “Um, I don’t know, I—”

Suddenly I feel a hand on my back. It’s Angie. “Dylan,” she whispers. “Your mom’s here. Why don’t you talk to her? Jonathan and I will wait for you outside.”

I turn and see my mom standing in the hallway. She’s holding a tray with two foam cups. She’s dressed in clothes I’ve never seen before—a multicolored scarf, an alpaca sweater, suede boots with long fringes. No more doctor’s wife. Now it’s my mother, the hippie. She looks happy to see me and frightened at the same time. Angie and Jonathan disappear down the hallway. Philippe goes over and takes the tray from my mom’s hand. Before he leaves, he gives her shoulder a gentle squeeze. Suddenly, we’re alone.

“Dylan?” she says, taking a few steps toward me. Already I can smell her. Milled soap with lavender. When I was a kid and I had a fever she’d put a cool washcloth on my forehead that smelled of the same thing. Part of me wants to run over and hug her the way I did when I was little, when she and my dad would return from a long trip, but my feet are pinned to the floor. “I’m so glad you came, honey. I called the house earlier, but—”

“Why’d you do it?” I demand, pointing to the wall. “Why’d you paint
us
? You had no right.”

She stops and opens her mouth, but nothing comes out.

“What do you think, Mom? You can paint a few pictures and pretend like everything’s okay? Like we’re one big happy family?”

“No,” she says, in barely a whisper. “That’s not what I—”

“Face it, Mom. You left. You just picked up and
left
. And now, do you even know what’s going on at home? Do you have
any
clue?”

“I…think I might, but—”

“Well, just in case you don’t, let me fill you in. You see, Dad doesn’t really live with us anymore. He camps out at the hospital. But whenever he does show up, he sits for hours in your studio, petting your mangy three-legged cat and staring into space like a zombie. And then there’s Randy, who gets stoned all the time with his idiotic friends. He doesn’t draw anymore, doesn’t even write his own music. And then of course there’s me, the one who’s left holding it all together.” I can feel the blood pounding in my ears. It’s the most I’ve said to my mother in months, and it feels good.

“Dylan,” she says, taking a few more steps toward me. “I understand that you’re angry, and you have a right to be. I’m concerned about your father and Randy and you. But sometimes life isn’t so simple. People have to make their own decisions. We need to talk, work things out. All of us. I’m planning to come home next weekend. Maybe we can sit down and—”

“Forget it,” I say. “Don’t bother. Just…” I point to the wall. “Talk to your paintings. I’m sure they’ll tell you everything you want to hear.” I walk past her. “Hope you had a
great
time in Paris.” I race through the winding hall and out the front door. I hear my mother calling my name, but I don’t turn around.

As promised, Angie and Jonathan are waiting for me outside. “Let’s go,” I say. “I never want to come back here again.”

Angie doesn’t ask any questions. She just holds my hand on the train ride back to Brooklyn. The three of us get off at Ninety-fifth Street and walk silently along the water. “Call me, Dylan,” Angie says when we reach her house. “I’ll be working on edits tonight, but you’re welcome to come over.”

“Thanks,” I say. “But I don’t think I’d be much company.” I kiss her on the cheek and give Jonathan one of those lame slap-grip handshakes. “Later, dude,” I say. “Thanks for saving my butt inside the Cage.”

He nods. “Again, Dylan, the saying holds true. ‘A man’s errors are his portals of discovery.’”

When I get home I’m greeted by a cacophony of drums, guitars, and heavy-metal screeches thumping through the floorboards of our house. The Sewer Rats are in the basement, and their music is a perfect backdrop for the battle raging inside our kitchen. My dad, still in his scrubs, is pacing the floor and ranting about ungrateful teenagers and their asinine ideas while Randy leans against the refrigerator, arms across his chest. Vanya is waving around a teakettle, yelling, “Dr. Fontaine! Randy! Please, sit down! I’ll make tea!”

When my dad sees me, his eyes grow wild. “Dylan! Tell me right now. Did you know about this?” I don’t think I’ve ever seen him this delirious. He points accusingly at Randy. “Did you know your brother was planning to drop out of school and go on tour with those…those
freaks
in our basement?”

Uh-oh.
Now the shit has really hit the fan. “Um…” I look at Randy, wondering who spilled the beans. Maybe Moser, but probably Headbone in a Heineken-induced stupor. Randy’s eyes meet mine for a second; then he does this fake yawn that really pisses off my dad. I’d like to tell my father that I think Randy is making a huge mistake, but right now I don’t think that will fly. “Well,” I say. “Yeah, I sort of knew. I guess.”

My dad throws up his hands. “You
sort of
knew? I don’t believe this!” He goes back to pacing the floor. “Well, that’s just great. I guess I’m the last one to find out. And now I have to tell your mother.” He stops and glares at Randy. “I must say, Randy, you picked the perfect day to drop the bomb. The day she returns from Paris. Right when she was looking forward to seeing you.”

Randy snorts and mumbles something under his breath. This
really
sets my dad off. “What was that?” he demands. “What did you just say?”

My stomach tightens.
No, Randy, don’t.

Defiantly, he looks at my dad. “I said, ‘Yeah, right.’ As if Mom really cares. Like she really wants to see us. You know, for once, I wish someone in our screwed-up family would just come out and say the truth. That Mom left us for some hotshot artist in the Village so she could pursue her
career,
whatever that means. And that
you,
Dad, hate being around your own kids, so you hire a maid to cook and clean and make sure the police don’t show up at our front door.”

“Watch your mouth, Randy!” my dad says.

“Oh, no,” Randy goes on. “I’m finished with that. I don’t have to listen to you. Remember? I’m leaving. And now”—he gestures toward me—“you’ll have
one
perfect son. The kid who does everything right. The one who
never
screws up. You think I’m stupid, Dad? You think I don’t know how much you’d
love
to get rid of me?”

My dad is so angry, he’s shaking. An animal noise rises in his throat. He bolts toward Randy and smacks him across the face. “Get out!” he screams. “Get out of here, now!”

Vanya gasps in horror.

“Dad!” I say, pulling him away. “Stop! Don’t!”

It takes Randy a moment to register what’s happened. My father has never hit either one of us before. Randy touches the side of his face and blinks a few times. The room is quiet; all you can hear is the water beginning to simmer in the teakettle. In the basement the music has stopped, and the next thing I hear are feet pounding up the stairs. The door swings open and out walk Moser, Headbone, and Nick, followed by four members of the Sewer Rats decked out in black leather, chains, and thick eyeliner. “Get out, all of you!” my dad yells. “You’re not welcome here!” Quickly they file out the back door.

Randy glares at my father. Randy’s fists are clenched. It looks like he might strike back, but he doesn’t. He grabs his jacket and bolts. The door slams behind him.

My first instinct is to run after Randy, but I don’t because I know he’ll just curse me out and tell me to go home. I look around the room. I feel lost. Vanya pulls out a chair. “Come, Dylan,” she says pleadingly. “Sit down. Talk to your father. We’ll have tea and I’ll warm some strudel.”

I shake my head. “No, Vanya. It’s too late for that.” I look at my dad. There are tears in his eyes, but I don’t feel any pity for him. Not now. Not after what he just did. “Randy’s right, Dad,” I say. “You
don’t
care. You never have. And when Mom left us, you did nothing to stop her.
Nothing.
You just let her go. This whole thing’s
your
fault. And now, in just a few weeks, Randy will be gone, and who knows what’ll happen to him out there? And guess what, Dad? He’s the only person I have left!”

“Dylan, wait, let’s talk!” Dad calls. But it’s too late. A second later I’m out the front door.

I run to the water and walk along the path—all the way to the Sixty-ninth Street pier. It’s getting dark now, but I can still make out the Statue of Liberty, a tiny green speck in the distance. The wind is blowing and I’m cold and tired and sick of being alone with no one to talk to, so I turn around. I stop by Angie’s house on the way home, but when I get there I glance up at her bedroom window and see her sitting at the computer with Jonathan, editing the film. They’re laughing and looking like they’re having a blast, so instead of knocking on her door I head over to Jake’s. I feel this urgent need now to tell Jake about my game inside the Cage—about Mother F and the Grand Pupa and Toulouse-Lautrec and how I actually scored a basket. But when I reach his house, it’s dark and empty. No one’s there.

There’s nothing left to do but go home. Inside our house it’s dark except for a light on in my mom’s studio. My dad’s in there, I’m sure, sitting by my mom’s half-finished portrait, petting Tripod. Dad’s like a monk keeping vigil before some holy shrine. I lock my door and climb into bed, hoping he’ll leave me alone. But a few minutes later he knocks. “Dylan? May I come in?”

“No. Go away.”

“Please, Dylan. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have hit your brother. It was wrong. I was angry, and…well, there’s no excuse. I just wanted to tell you that I feel terrible about it. When Randy comes home I’ll apologize. We’ll work things out. I promise.” He stands there awhile longer, hoping, I guess, that I’ll give in, tell him it’s okay, but I don’t. Soon he shuffles across the hallway. I hear the click of his bedroom door.

There’s a gnawing in my stomach and it dawns on me that I should have eaten dinner, but now the whole day crashes in on me and I’m so tired I can barely move. I curl up into a ball and drift off to sleep. I dream that I’m in Philippe’s studio again, walking through the narrow, winding passage, only this time it goes on and on; I’m like a rat in a maze and I can’t find the back room and my mother’s paintings.