The Long Wait for Tomorrow (2 page)

“Then you do it,” Patrick told Kelly, holding out the coin with a conciliatory raise of his eyebrows. “OK? Will that—if you do it, make the wish for me, can we just drop it?”

Kelly took the coin, muttering: “Consider it dropped.”

“I’m sorry.”

“One wish coming up,” Kelly mumbled again, voice already losing its edge. Slipping back into the well of concentration, focusing. “This one’s for Pat.”

Patrick gave a relieved hum of approval. He kept his hands folded in front of him, a diminutive five-eight bodyguard to Kelly’s six-one stature. Watched as Kelly prepared himself; going through the motions as though he’d lived it all before, seen it all before. A tradition stretching so far back, Patrick didn’t even know if it had ever meant anything. Didn’t even know why they had come so close to fighting over a world neither of them even believed in.

Patrick was still wondering, so lost in the fountain’s rush of water that he didn’t notice Jenna approaching.

Neither of them did, probably the only two who hadn’t seen her exit from the main shopping mall at their backs. It was a rare occasion when Jenna didn’t manage to turn every head within sight. Attention wandering, necks craning from text messages and iPods, it was the moon and the tides with her. Even after a full day of school and work, hair tied up in a simple ponytail, black-and-white Foot Locker shirt doing all it could to ignore the subject of her breasts, she could still make the air-conditioning sweat.

Round lips, almond-shaped eyes shimmering despite the lengthy shadows of surrounding buildings, she made her way over the red tile sidewalk and snuck up behind Kelly McDermott.

Patrick caught her in the act, unnecessarily tiptoeing as she inched her hands around Kelly’s head.

Too late, no time to react, and Jenna’s palms swept in, locked themselves over Kelly’s eyes.

Kelly’s mouth turned to a nauseated grimace of astonishment, his arm jerking up in a spastic salute to nothingness. It was a mere split-second reaction, but just enough to send the spirits scampering as the coin went flying, ricocheting with little grace off the bronze eye of a capricious child-statue.

The quarter landed with an unceremonious plunk in a nearby garbage can.

“Damn it!” Kelly barked. He reached up, clamped down hard on Jenna’s wrists, and spun around. “Jenna, what the
hell
? I was in the middle of something, you couldn’t see I was
doing something?”

Jenna backed up two steps, alarmed. “Kelly, what’s wrong with you?”

“I just lost my quarter there.”

“Hell, I’ll get you another one, here—”

“It doesn’t matter!”
Kelly yelled, exasperated. The stares that had followed Jenna over there now promptly retreated to their own business. “It was that one, that’s the one that mattered.”

“What difference does it make?” Jenna sniped, tearing herself from Kelly’s grip.

“It’s never going to be the
same,”
Kelly insisted.
“Goddamn
it, Jenna.”

“Kelly …”

“Never mind,” Kelly said. He leaned back against the rim of the fountain, pinched the bridge of his nose, and shook his head clear. “Just, never mind … You done with work, baby?”

Jenna blinked, unsure if this was the same conversation. “Yeah.”

“Tell you what, we’ll grab a bite to eat, how’s that sound?”

“Yeah, sounds good.”

Kelly turned to his wingman, smiling now. Almost encouraging … “Patrick, you in? Know you love that double cheeseburger, onion, pickles, mayo … 57 Sauce, amigo.”

Patrick hadn’t caught up quite yet, managed a pert nod. “Gotta get my stuff first.”

“Gonna get some money from the ATM.” Kelly bounced himself off the fountain and swooped in to give Jenna a quick kiss on the lips. “It’s good to see you, honey.”

And Kelly was headed across the promenade, stopping
only to pick up a doll for a clumsy five-year-old, who then went on her way without a single thank-you.

Patrick saw Jenna looking after Kelly. Her face was awash with the honest confusion of a misfired prank, unable to give in to her livid instincts. She turned to Patrick, as though expecting an answer from him. Patrick shook his head, as he frequently did when apologizing for Kelly.

These were times Patrick wished he had it in him to act.

Put Kelly in his place.

But neither Patrick nor Jenna was entirely certain where that place was.

There were times, it seemed, when Kelly McDermott was simply eternal.

They left Jenna in the car, out on the street.

The pair trotted across the front yard, stepping nimbly from stone to imbedded stone, the uneven path leading up to Patrick’s house. It was evening now. Just the smallest suggestion of daylight smudged the clouds, purple hues preparing for black skies and starlight. Crickets singing in the bushes, even the occasional bat flapping overhead, punching its time card and getting to work.

Illuminated windows were sent along the house like shrieking eyes.

A quick squint, and Patrick could see his parents in the kitchen.

“You always do this,” Kelly casually informed Patrick.

“Yeah, Kelly, I know.”

“Nobody else in this neighborhood comes in the front way except you,” Kelly marveled. “Hell, nobody in
suburbia
comes in through the front door—not what it’s there for.”

Patrick yanked on the glass storm door, glanced back into the thick twilight.

Up and down the street similar houses all stared each other down. Two-story, slanted roof, aluminum siding colored an off-white in accordance with standard community code. Lawns rolled out like carpeting, all the way to the curb, engulfing what space should have been left for sidewalks. Driveways stretched all the way back to hungry garages and back-porch doorways.

Kelly was right.

Cookie-cutter houses, and everyone made the same cookie-cutter entrances.

Patrick dug into his pocket, procured his keys, and went in.

His parents called him into the kitchen.

All current endeavors ceased as soon as the two of them stepped in. Patrick’s mother, seated at an overused wooden breakfast nook, stacked and filed papers from her office in one fluid motion. She brought her hands up to her mouth, large brown eyes blinking behind ringlets of graying hair. Patrick’s father set down his bottle of Bass Ale and tossed the opener on the counter. His red cheeks, two plum-shaped islands on a round white face, seemed to lift off as a smile turned to a grin, and that grin turned into a laugh….

“Hey-hey-hey!” he announced, pointing with pride. “Mr. Starting Quarterback!”

“We just heard yesterday …” Patrick’s mother pushed out
from the table, almost knocking her chair onto the brown linoleum. Her voice wavered like notes from a musical saw: “ConGRAtuLAtions!”

Patrick’s parents descended on Kelly. Rough hugs, pinches, handshakes, and firm, friendly caresses, it was just the cover their real son was looking for.

“I’m just going to get my stuff,” Patrick said, not expecting an answer.

All expectations proved correct, and he slipped out of the kitchen, upstairs. His bag was already packed, a red and white duffel lying on the bed. He slung it over his shoulder. Took a look around his room, all the years gone by since childhood without a single adjustment to show for it. A white dresser with a couple of plastic toys, pictures of himself and his parents. A couple of just-for-trying trophies, cheap plastic all painted gold. White wallpaper, multicolored animal shapes floating about in confused positions. Even his bookshelves had remained as always, crammed to capacity with the Hardy Boys, Betsy Byars, C. S. Lewis, R. L. Stine, and Beverly Cleary.

Even the bunk beds, still waiting for a second body to come home.

The only thing new under the sun was a poster of Miles Davis at Birdland—half cast in shadows, smoke blurring in a black-and-white backlight. That unique pose, body leaning forward in a slanting stoop, lips lowered to meet the trumpet’s mouthpiece. A foreground table full of empty glasses, and a lone woman, watching, hand pressed close to her neck, because who could ever believe being that close to Miles Davis.

“And we don’t even play the same instrument,” Patrick murmured, turning to the closet.

He opened the door, reached in, and pulled out his saxophone case.

Took another last look around the room that time forgot, a little displeased with himself.

Patrick took the stairs two at a time, relieved to be on the move. His momentum carried him into the kitchen, where he slid to a stop. No need to stop the presses, his parents were still playing bumper pool with Kelly’s attention. Patrick’s father had opened a fresh beer for Kelly while his mother proudly showed off a framed photograph of their first date together at an OSU pep rally. The three of them had already performed this song and dance a few months before, but there seemed to be no end to the cards up Kelly’s sleeve, always something new worth celebrating.

“How many freshmen can say the same thing?” Patrick’s father boomed rhetorically. “How many freshmen can say,
Oh well, I’m not technically at college yet, but I’m already the starting quarterback for a Big Ten school!”

“Just got lucky,” Kelly assured them. Perhaps believing it, perhaps not.

Patrick’s father waved his hand dismissively. “Ah, so the Buckeyes had a little shakedown.”

“It was
you
they chose,” Patrick’s mother insisted. “
Your
talent, so
nuts
to luck.”

Patrick’s father looked up from the festivities, tilted the bottle in his son’s direction. “You heard anything yet?”

“I’m at school when the mail comes,” Patrick replied, brushing his shirt absently.

“Sometimes they call,” Patrick’s father insisted.

“They do call, sometimes,” Patrick’s mother echoed, making it law.

Patrick knew better than to argue. “Nothing yet.”

His father turned back to Kelly. “You going to take care of our boy next semester?”

“You bet …” Kelly pretended to take a swig of his beer, nodded to accentuate the point.

“Jenna’s in the car,” Patrick announced, wrapping his thumb under the bag strap, as though shouldering it for the first time.

Kelly got the hint, set his beer down. Macheteing his way through continued compliments and congratulations, he made it to Patrick’s side. Said his farewells and began to follow Patrick out of the kitchen.

“Where are you going, Patrick?” his mother asked.

Patrick frowned. “Over to Kelly’s for the week. His parents—”

“I mean, why are you going out the front door?”

Patrick’s father nodded. “Everyone else goes out the back.”

Kelly gave Patrick a quiet smirk, pat on the shoulder.

And in the end, Patrick did as he was told.

Kelly finished off his patty melt on Texas toast.

Patrick took his last morsel of burger, dipped it into a blob of Heinz 57, and followed suit.

“Patrick …”

His head shot up, a common side effect brought on by the sound of Jenna’s voice.

From her seat across the booth, Jenna smiled slightly, head tilted to the side. Only halfway through her waffle, a small triangular piece still stuck on her fork, resting on her plate. Jenna was a slow eater, a slave to her good manners.
Never talk with your mouth full, don’t focus on your next bite until you’re all done with what came before.

Chew slowly
, and Patrick found himself doing just that, right cheek bulging slightly.

“You’ve got something,” Jenna told him, finger brushing lightly against her chin.

Patrick’s eyes widened, and he resumed his chewing, double time. No longer able to relish the last of his mayonnaise-soaked burger, he reached for the napkin dispenser. Pinched a little too tight, came out with twelve or so more napkins than he had intended. Swallowed hard, despite not being done chewing, and haphazardly dragged the napkins across his chin.

“Thanks, Jenna,” Patrick croaked, taking a few more blind swipes. He felt the partly chewed burger making its way haltingly down his esophagus. He lowered his hands slightly, examined the handiwork. “Christ.”

Jenna laughed. “I’ll say.”

Patrick felt himself turn red. “There was, like … onion and half a pickle slice on my chin.”

“Yeah,” Jenna giggled, picking up her fork.

“You want a take-out box for that, Patrick?” Kelly offered,
prompting Jenna to drop the fork back onto her plate with a loud clatter and throw her head back, laughing. Kelly raised his knee, resting his foot on the edge of the seat, arm snaking effortlessly around Jenna’s shoulders.

Patrick watched Jenna lean into him, resting her head against Kelly’s chest.

Laughter ebbing, fine brown hair spilling down the front of his shirt.

They had to be the best-looking couple in that whole joint, no question. Not to say that Waffle House was where supermodels came to hibernate between runway gigs. The majority of regulars, older locals for the most part, would be the first to admit time hadn’t treated them too kindly. Younger clientele might not be ready to admit as much, but their eyes didn’t carry enough interest, anyway. Red and bloodshot, wandering empty stares, either stoned or drunk.

Newports and Pall Malls burning through all hours of the morning.

Patrick hurriedly folded the contents of his napkin, tossed it aside.

Jenna rolled her eyes up at her boyfriend. “I’m going to try and finish my waffle now. That OK with you, Mr. Ohio State?”

“Go right ahead,
Mrs.
Ohio State….”

“Hey now, they still got me wait-listed,” Jenna insisted, picking up her fork. Dipped the waffle piece in some syrup and pointed across the table. “You, Patrick? Anything from the Buckeye State?”

“Nah, nothing,” Patrick said, quickly reaching for his Sprite.

“Mmm …” Jenna was obviously planning to say something else, but there was a mouthful of waffle and proper etiquette to navigate past.

While she chewed, Kelly jumped in: “They accepted me and my SAT. They’ve got to accept you, Pat.”

“You’re going to be their star quarterback.”

Kelly thought about it, blue eyes admitting an easy defeat. “Yeah, that’s also true.”