The Pursuit of Other Interests: A Novel (12 page)

“Very.”

“Where are you?”

“I’m at the outplacement place. Rogers & Newman.”

“Shiver me timbers. I have a hard time picturing you there.”

“I have a hard time picturing me here. Listen, I was hoping we might get together for lunch. Or breakfast.”

There was a deep pause. Asking for a personal audience with the Wizard was a very forward move. Preston was an elusive target, somehow managing to be both high-profile and reclusive. During the course of their twenty-year relationship, Charlie had never seen, much less met, him. Rumor had it that he did not have an actual, physical form; he was simply a voice, or, at the most, a floating head.

“I’m jammed up, jelly-tight right now, but we can talk,” Preston said. “Always happy to talk.”

“Well, I think I need to get things moving. Get my name out there.”

“Oh, your name is out there.”

Charlie wasn’t sure how to interpret that, so he chose not to try. “I think I want to move over to the client side. I mean, if the right agency thing came along I’d consider it, sure, but I want to try the other side. Give it a serious look.”

“Client side? Charlie Baker work for a corporation? I find that hard to believe.”

“I’ve been thinking about it. I’m sick of the agency life. All that bullshit. I’m getting too old for it.”

“Speaking of bullshit, which I assume this is, which I hope this is, I heard a story about you,” the Wizard said. “A tall tale.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Something about a gumball machine and Frank Marken’s head. Apparently, you have to work on your aim, chief.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Heard it from a good friend.”

“You heard wrong, whatever the hell you heard.” Charlie’s anger flashed. “You know, that’s just my point. That’s why I want out of the agency thing. It’s full of bullshit and slander. It’s like high school.”

The Wizard was quiet again. Charlie half expected him to say he had to go—conversations with him were nothing if not brief—but instead Preston said, “Are you really serious about going corporate?”

“Yes.”

There was a pause.

“Preston? Are you still there?”

“Well, things are still on the tight side, but we’ll make some calls, poke around a bit. Why don’t you shoot me a résumé?”

“A résumé, come on, Preston! You’re kidding me, right? Everyone knows me, knows my work.”

“Sorry, Charlie, gotta have one. Think of it as your passport to exotic places. New lands.”

Charlie sighed, and thought of the messy, rambling tome that was his first draft. “I’ll get you one. Do you think you have anything? Anything come to mind?”

“We’ll talk,” Preston said. “Have to run.”

“Give me a few names. What’s out there?”

“We’ll be in touch.”

“All right,” Charlie said. “Look forward to hearing back.”

When Charlie got home, he found Kyle and a friend, an extremely tall boy with a crew cut, in the family room, spying at the house behind theirs with his telescope. The tall boy was wearing Charlie’s red and green Bagel Man cape, which was seriously wrinkled.

“Hi,” Kyle said.

“What are you doing?” Charlie asked.

Kyle shrugged, glanced sideways at the tall boy in the cape, and shrugged again. “Nothing.”

“I can see that.” Charlie walked over to the telescope and inspected it for damage. Despite the fact that he had never once looked out of it, Charlie was growing possessive of it.

“This stuff was by the front door,” Kyle said. “In a box.”

“And you opened the box?”

“Yeah.”

“Without asking me. Just like that? You opened the box.”

“Yeah. Exactly.” Kyle said this sincerely. “There were two boxes. One of them had a picture of Abraham Lincoln.”

“Didn’t the boxes have my name on them?”

“No. I mean, I don’t know.”

“Where are they, the boxes?” Charlie asked.

“I put them in the basement. The guy left them outside and they said it was going to rain.”

Charlie nodded, then turned his attention to the tall boy. He had a prominent chin and large, curious eyes that reminded Charlie of Ned Meyer. Charlie took an immediate disliking to him. “Give me the cape. Now.”

The boy quickly took it off and handed it to Charlie.

“Thank you.” Charlie returned his gaze to Kyle. “You really shouldn’t touch my things.”

Kyle stared at the ground. “Matt wanted to see your cape.”

“Did Brett Favre wear that cape?” Matt asked.

“Yes.” Charlie carefully folded the cape like a Marine color guard would fold an American flag, and tucked it under one arm. With his free hand, he picked up the telescope. “What were you guys looking at?” he asked, although he suspected he knew. Gloria Wilcott, an attractive, middle-age divorcée who lived behind them, occasionally forgot to close her shades while getting undressed. Charlie had experienced this event himself once, months before. He glanced out the window now and saw, through the swaying trees, that her house was dark and that there would be no show this night.

“The planets,” Matt said.

“Yeah, we were looking at the planets,” Kyle said. “We were looking for Jupiter. And Uranus.”

“You mean her anus,” Matt said. Kyle stifled a laugh.

“Excuse me?” Charlie asked.

Matt hung his head.

Charlie walked into the kitchen, clutching his things. “Is your mother at home?”

“She’s upstairs.”

“Did she see this stuff? The telescope?”

“No…I don’t know. Maybe. I don’t think so. She just got home.”

“How’s she doing?” Charlie asked this innocently, as if he were inquiring after an old friend.

“I don’t know,” Kyle said. “Okay.”

“Did she say anything to you today?”

“About what?”

“I don’t know. About anything? The boxes?”

“No.”

“Where is she?”

“She’s getting ready to leave,” Kyle said.

Charlie jumped at this comment. “What do you mean, leave?”

“She’s going to visit Uncle Aaron. She’s packing. I think she said she’s leaving tonight.”

Charlie relaxed. “Oh, yeah. Aaron.” Then he asked, “You mean, she’s leaving tonight? Now?” He set the cape on the island with its large red
B
facing upward, and put the telescope on the floor next to it, making sure the spindly legs of its tripod were balanced and secure. “Don’t touch my stuff again, okay?”

“Okay.”

“How old are you?” Charlie asked him.

“Sixteen.”

“When I was sixteen, I was working,” Charlie said. “I had a job. I pumped gas at Gas City. My parents didn’t have a lot of money. They were teachers. We lived in a bungalow. You know what a bungalow is?”

“A what?” Matt asked.

Charlie ignored this question and instead asked, “Do you have a job?”

“No,” Matt said. He stopped laughing.

“Maybe you should.”

“What’s a bungalow?” Kyle said.

“It’s a small, crappy house with one bathroom and a shower that leaked.” Charlie studied them. Both looked floppy, their shorts long and hanging, their shoes untied. They seemed entirely too happy and carefree and he found all of this floppiness, this happiness, intolerable. “Kyle was thinking of getting a part-time job,” he said.

“I was?”

“I think it would do you good. I think it’s important to make some money, don’t you?” Charlie asked.

Kyle put his hands in the front pockets of his jeans. “Yeah, I guess,” he said. “Where would I work?”

Charlie thought about this. “Gas City.”

“Gas City. You mean, like a gas station?”

“Yes. I worked there twenty hours a week when I was your age.”

“What would I do there?”

“Pump gas.”

“Gas is a subject Kyle is extremely well versed in,” Matt said. He waved his hand in front of his nose. They both exploded into snickers and snorts.

Charlie watched them snicker and snort while the back of his neck grew warm. “I’m glad you guys are having a good time, I really am. It’s important to have a good time when you’re sixteen years old and you have absolutely no responsibilities and you completely rely on your parents for financial support and don’t live in a bungalow in Mount Greenwood with one bathroom and work at Gas City with John Morrissey.”

“Who’s John Morrissey?” Kyle asked.

John Morrissey had been president of Charlie’s high school class, a hardworking all-American boy. “A drug addict,” Charlie said.

He stopped and waited for this to sink in. Both boys examined the floor.

“That’s what my life was like,” Charlie said. “Gas City and drug addicts. Plus, I had a hernia. When I was twelve.”

“A what?” Kyle asked.

“Never mind. Forget it.”

The two boys grew quiet again, then Kyle looked up. “Hey, Dad, I forgot to tell you. We tried out for basketball. We both did. I think we’re going to make it.”

“Yeah,” Matt said. He stood up straighter. He had to be at least six-six.

“Congratulations.” Charlie pointed at Kyle. “But I hope it doesn’t interfere with your job. Because work is important.” With that, he patted the cape once on the
B
and headed upstairs to see Donna.

He found her leaning over the bed, trying to cram a gray sweatshirt into her already overflowing travel bag. Her concept of packing—stuff as many things as possible into suitcases without any sense of order—never failed to amaze and alarm Charlie. Her packing skills had been a bone of contention for years. He watched her struggle with the sweatshirt before finally giving up. She tossed it at a chair but missed.

He walked over, picked up the sweatshirt, and made a point of folding it neatly.

“Are you really leaving tonight?”

Donna was surprised to see him, her cheeks flushing. It took a moment for her to activate her protective, robotlike gaze.

“Yes.” She brushed away some hair from her face, then went back to assaulting her bag.

“Are you going to wear those on the plane?” He pointed at her feet. She was wearing pink flip-flops, her usual footwear regardless of the season.

She looked down. “Yes, I am. Is that okay with you?”

“You shouldn’t wear flip-flops on an airplane. It’s almost October.”

“My feet will be fine.”

“Maybe you should wear some socks. It’s cool out. There’s a breeze.”

“I’m not planning on sticking my feet out of the window of the plane, okay?”

“I’m just saying that maybe you should wear different shoes. You’re going to Minneapolis.”

Donna yanked on the zipper of the bag. “I know you hate flip-flops, I know you hate to look at people’s feet. I know you think they’re the ugliest part of the human body. But they’re comfortable and I’m going to wear them, okay?”

“Fine. They’re your feet. Go barefoot, I don’t care.” He re-folded the sweatshirt. “Why are you going to Minneapolis again? You were just there a month ago.”

“I was there six months ago.”

“Then why are you going so late? What’s the big rush? Go tomorrow.”

“It’s not that late. And this is when the plane leaves. I don’t make the flight times. If you have a problem, call United.”

“I can’t believe there aren’t different flights to Minneapolis. They probably leave every hour. Do you want me to check?”

“Listen, I’m all set. I’m going tonight.”

“Fine.”

He walked aimlessly around the room and stopped by the window, fiddled with a shade, then walked over to the bed and fiddled with the Rain Forest humidifier. It looked clean and cheerful, eager for use. If it were a puppy, it would be wagging its tail. He turned it on, turned it off, resisting the urge to pet it.

“What time’s your flight?” he asked.

“Nine. I called a cab.”

“I’ll take you.”

“What?” She popped up on her feet and quickly shook her head. “I already called a cab. It’s on the way. It’ll be here soon.” She seemed nervous, uncertain.

“What’s wrong with you? Are you okay?” he asked.

“I’m fine. I just don’t want to be late.” She patted her hair once, her hands fluttering through her curls. Then, with one last violent tug, she finished zipping the bag and swung it off the bed with both her hands.

He reached over and took it from her. “If you really want to go tonight, fine. But I’m taking you to the airport.”

Traffic was light and they made good time to O’Hare. He kept his eyes firmly on the road while Donna sat scrunched up in a ball by the window, quiet, and millions of miles away.

They were more than halfway to the airport when Charlie said, “I’m a little worried about Kyle.” Donna’s silent withdrawals were common occurrences and he knew that talking about their son sometimes brought her back.

As hoped, she sat up straight. “He’s not sick, is he?”

“He’s not sick. I mean his general attitude and approach to things. I think he has it too easy. I think he should get a job. It would be good for him. He’s clueless.”

“About what?”

“About everything.”

Donna contracted again, scrunching up and sliding over to the door. “He’s fine.”

Charlie switched lanes. “I don’t know. We were watching
Jeopardy
and he didn’t know who Fidel Castro was.”

“Wow, that’s a big concern. Maybe we can arrange a field trip to Cuba. They should really meet.”

“I’m just saying that he doesn’t seem very mature.”

“He’s doing fine. And if you’re so concerned, maybe you could make one of his parent-teacher conferences. Maybe you could help him with his homework. Maybe you could talk to him once in a while. Be a father.”

“Be a father,” Charlie repeated. Despite a resolve to stay cool, he was growing angry. He slowed, then stopped to pay a toll. As he was pulling away from the booth, he asked, “When are you coming back again?”

“I’m not sure.”

“What do you mean?”

“I said, I’m not sure.”

“It might be helpful to know this.”

“Why?”

“We should know when you’re coming back. Kyle and I need to know.”

“You always come and go. I never know where you are.”

They drove for a good ten minutes in silence. When he turned off at the airport exit, she finally said, “I’ll be back soon enough.”

This last comment, said sharply and with intent, finally set him off. He turned toward her. “What is your deal lately, huh? What is this whole act? When are you going to get tired of it, huh? Why do you hate me so much? What have I done that’s so bad? All of a sudden you stop talking to me.”

“I don’t want to talk about this right now,” she said.

“You don’t want to talk about it? Fine, don’t talk about it.”

She shook her head and gave him one of her incredulous I-can’t-believe-this-guy, can-you-believe-this-guy? smiles. “I’ve been trying to talk to you for years. And now you decide to talk on a twenty-minute ride to the airport. That’s when you decide to talk,” she said. “That’s how important I am. Squeeze me in. You know, Charlie, you’ve been squeezing me in for years, now. I’m an inconvenience to you now. Always a second priority. Not even second. Third. Fourth. Last. You’re never at home, don’t even know Kyle anymore. And he’s going to be gone soon, gone!” She stopped yelling and Charlie heard a muffled sob.

“Relax.” They were approaching the terminal and he drove as slowly as he could. “Everything is going to be all right. Try to breathe. Take deep breaths.”

She pounded the side of her seat with her fist. “Don’t tell me when to breathe! You tell me everything else, but do not tell me when to breathe.”

“Fine, don’t breathe. Hold your breath.”

“I’m sick of you always telling me what to do. Sick of you always correcting me when you’re around. I’m not good enough for you anymore. I never went away to college, haven’t been to Singapore, or wherever else you always go. Argentina or…or Texas. I’m just dumb old Donna, wearing my flip-flops. Dumb Donna from the South Side. Dumb Donna who can’t decorate her new, big, stupid, dumb house, who can’t talk to any of her stupid neighbors. I’m just someone to come back to when you have nowhere else to go.”

“That’s not true. That’s not true at all.”

They were at the terminal now, so he stopped. A policeman immediately pointed at them and began blowing his whistle, motioning for them to move on. Donna quickly wiped her eyes with her sleeve and unbuckled her seat belt.