The Pursuit of Other Interests: A Novel (17 page)

“Don’t yell up to him.”

“If you leave your number, I’d be happy to have him call you back when he comes down. I can try to find a pencil. I know we have one. My wife had one just the other day. It’s probably still lying around here somewhere.”

“I’ll try him later,” Charlie said.

“Are you sure? Billy hates missing phone calls. We don’t get many.”

“Good-bye, Mr. Morgan.”

Just then a woman’s voice came on the line. “Who’s this?” she said in a rough New England accent, each word partially strangled. “Who you talking to now?”

“I’m talking on the phone!” Mr. Morgan yelled. “We’re having a nice conversation. He’s a friend of Billy’s.”

“I’m not a friend of Billy’s.”

“Where’s that pencil I saw you with yesterday?” Mr. Morgan asked. “You had it behind your ear, showing off, all fancy-like.”

“Pencil?” the woman asked. “Now, what do you need a pencil for?”

“Here it is!”

“That’s a fork.”

“It’s not a fork.”

“It’s a fork. I put the pencil in a safe place. I’m tired of you losing my pencils all the time! Listen, Billy isn’t here,” she said.

“I know.”

“He’s in Chicago.”

“Where? Chicago?”

“Chicago?” Billy Morgan’s father asked. “I thought he was up in the lighthouse. I just saw him.”

“Who’d you see? You haven’t been out of this house in a month,” the woman said. “Anyway, Billy’s been gone a week. He’ll be back in a few days. Do you want me to give him a message?”

Charlie was confused and tried to think things through. “No,” he said. “No message.”

“Good-bye, then.”

“Good-bye,” Charlie quietly said.

Later that afternoon, when he arrived home, he trudged upstairs, turned the Rain Forest humidifier on high, then flopped face-first down on the bed. He wasn’t sure what was going on. If Bill Morgan wasn’t even in Maine, what exactly was Donna doing there? Was the woman on the phone, presumably Bill Morgan’s mother, lying? Or was Donna lying? Was she even in Maine? For all he knew, she might be in downtown Chicago, shacked up with the guy in some hotel.

He rolled onto his back and listened to the soft hum of the humidifier, the invisible moisture a godsend for his throbbing sinuses. Finally, when the afternoon shadows reached his bed, he dragged himself downstairs for what he suspected would be the first of many bourbon-and-waters. His plans changed however, when he encountered Kyle and his immense friend Matt, the playwright, in the kitchen trying to make bacon and eggs. Matt was sliding a frying pan with several raw egg yolks inside the oven, while Kyle surgically separated strips of still-frozen bacon with a scissors.

“What are you doing?” Charlie directed this first question to Matt because he was so tall.

“What? Oh, hi, Mr. Baker.”

“What are you doing?”

“I was trying to make basted eggs.”

“I told him I know how to make scrambled eggs, but he wanted these other kind,” Kyle said.

Charlie took the frying pan from Matt and placed it in the sink. “Don’t touch that again,” He glanced sideways at Kyle, who was licking his fingers. “Is your mother home?”

“No.”

“Did she call?”

“No.”

“Fine.” He opened the freezer and discovered a package of hamburger patties. His stomach growled. He couldn’t remember the last time he had eaten anything other than a salad or soup. “Why don’t you guys go to the store and get some buns? Get some cheese too. And an onion. Get a yellow onion. And some other stuff too. Potato chips.”

“Why?” Kyle asked.

“Because I’m going to make dinner. I’m going to make cheeseburgers.”

“You’re going to make cheeseburgers?” Kyle asked. He stopped licking his fingers and looked at his father, confused.

Charlie closed the refrigerator door. “Yes, I’ll grill them outside. We still have a grill, right?”

“Yeah, we have one. We never used it, though.”

“Well, we’re going to use it tonight.”

Kyle nodded. “Okay, we’ll go get that stuff. Can I have some money?”

“Oh, yeah, here.” Charlie handed him two twenties. “But I want change,” he said.

It took him a while to find the gas grill. Donna had it covered up and tucked away in a narrow walkway by the side of the garage. After he wheeled it out onto the deck and pulled off the cover, he was surprised by its size. It was a relic from the old house and he had forgotten how small it was. He had been meaning to buy a new one, but since they never grilled, he had never gotten around to it. He opened the gas valve and clicked down hard on the ignition button. Despite its size and age, it started right up.

Standing on their deck, grilling the meat, drinking a bourbon, he wondered how much longer he could continue to do what he was doing with his life, which was essentially nothing. He had been out of work for more than a month and other than a half-finished résumé and
The Charlie Update!
, which still hadn’t elicited any responses, he didn’t have much to show by way of efforts. To be sure, there were extenuating circumstances that were hurting his focus—he had lost a wife and a body part—but still his lack of progress puzzled him. Clearly, something was missing: direction, a sense of urgency, if not panic. He had a long history of throwing himself into projects, but he seemed unable to get moving now. Everything was an effort. The résumé, the phone calls, walking, breathing. He wondered if he was simply burned out, then wondered exactly what that meant.

He flipped the burgers, and considered options. There were alternatives to getting another high-paying job. For example, he could get a low-paying job. They could truly embrace The New Frugality and downsize, sell the house, sell one of the cars, cancel the membership at the country club, which they never went to anyway, and eat all their meals at home.

He flipped the burgers again.

They could embrace a simple life. They could move to the country near a resort town with some culture, decent restaurants, a Starbucks, but cheap housing. They could start a vegetable garden, drink tap water, and buy a hen for eggs. Donna always loved the country. He had no idea how he could make a living in the country—maybe own the Starbucks—but the idea, inspired in part by the quiet of the cool fall night and his bourbon, appealed to him. He should keep his options open, not rush headlong back into the rat race. He sipped his drink and inhaled the smoke of the cooking meat. He should take his time with things.

The idea that they would soon be homeless and living above a heating grate was a concern, however. He had run the numbers several times and knew that things soon would be coming to a head. Still, standing outside, drink in hand, cooking meat, he felt a calmness, which he found refreshing. It had been a long time since he had had a peaceful moment like this, and he enjoyed it. He made a private vow to be more reflective in the future; ponder things. He took another swallow of bourbon. He had never been much of a ponderer, but suspected he might be good at it.

When Kyle returned with the cheese, Charlie immediately placed a slice on each burger. Then they both silently watched in awe as it melted over the meat.

“Pretty amazing,” Charlie said.

Kyle agreed. “Yeah.”

“Want to flip one?” Charlie held out the spatula.

“No.”

“Have you ever grilled before?”

“Yeah. At the old house. We used to do it sometimes when I was little.”

Charlie paused, remembering: Kyle, a little boy, waving smoke away from his face, laughing and coughing on the patio. Kyle, a little boy, in his white underpants and a cowboy hat, shooting the smoke with a six-shooter.

Charlie finished his bourbon. “That doesn’t seem that long ago,” he said. “Man, it goes fast, it goes fast.”

“What does?”

“Everything.” Charlie inched a burger over a flame, then held out the spatula again. “Sure you don’t want to try? Recreate the magic?”

“No, it’s all right. I don’t want to smear the cheese on top. We probably shouldn’t flip them anymore. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

Charlie looked at his son with renewed respect. “You’re right, Kyle,” he said. “You’re absolutely right.”

When they returned to the kitchen, they found Matt standing by the island, holding an immense pineapple and an even larger butcher knife. Charlie had more or less forgotten about him.

“What’s he doing?” he asked Kyle.

“He’s cutting up a pineapple.”

“Why did you let him buy a pineapple?”

“You said buy something else,” Kyle said.

“I was thinking more along the lines of potato chips or french fries.”

Matt decided to interrupt. “Pineapples are great,” he said. “Can I cut it?”

Charlie considered Matt, wondering if he could trust him with a butcher’s knife. “How tall are you?” he asked. “I’ve been meaning to ask you this.”

“I’m six-seven.”

“Jesus, six-seven,” Charlie said. “Okay.” He pointed at the knife. “Do you know what you’re doing with that thing?”

“Absolutely. I’m very adept with knives, Mr. Baker.”

Charlie motioned for him to proceed, then took a step back and watched as Matt placed the pineapple on a cutting board and expertly sliced into it, bringing the knife down hard right through the middle. Juice sputtered and dripped out. Charlie stepped closer to inspect the cut.

“Good work,” he said.

Matt nodded. “This is an excellent knife.”

Since it was so nice outside, they decided to eat on the deck, something Charlie had never done during his time in Wilton. The night had turned still and breezeless: a few surviving crickets serenaded and a blurry hook of a moon hung low over the hedges of the yard.

They ate in silence, absorbed in their food. Charlie had made six burgers and within minutes they were gone, along with a jar of pickles he had found in the back of the refrigerator. After they were done with the meat, Matt went inside and returned with the cut-up pineapple. He carried it on a tray, which he held out carefully in front of him, like a birthday cake lit with candles.

He placed the tray on the table. “Here it is,” he said.

They ate chunks of pineapple with fingers that were soon sticky and sweet. Both boys stuffed several ragged pieces in their mouths, their eyes wide with effort.

“Good pineapple,” Kyle said, swallowing.

“Yeah, it’s pretty good.” Charlie chewed carefully, not wanting to put too much strain on his prosthesis. While he ate, he stared over Kyle’s shoulder, into the house. Even though it was after eight, he still held out hope that Donna would walk in and witness this scene of family togetherness: father, son, and some tall guy whose last name he didn’t know.

“Hey, Matt. What’s your last name?”

“Parker.”

“Matt Parker. Do you live around here?”

“Yeah. I live next door.” Matt shot Kyle a sideways glance.

“That’s right.” Charlie reached over and took another chunk of pineapple. “So, how’s the basketball team doing?”

“I quit the team,” Matt said.

“What? Why’d you do that? You’re huge.”

“I’m trying to defy stereotypes. Just because I’m big doesn’t mean I should play basketball.”

Charlie nodded and tried to determine if he was serious.

“Plus,” Matt said, “my dad won’t let me because of my grades.”

“Oh.”

“I’ll be back next year, though, for sure. But things are going great for Kyle.”

“Shut up,” Kyle said.

“What?” Charlie asked. “What’s going so great for Kyle?”

“Nothing,” Matt said. He turned to Kyle. “I don’t know why you’re so weird about it.”

“What’s he weird about?”

“Nothing,” Kyle said. He tried to kick Matt but missed and instead hit his knee on the underside of the table.

“What’s he so weird about?” Charlie asked again.

“Kyle won the Pat Bogi Award this week. It’s for the guy who hustles the most in practice.”

“Wait! You guys made the team?” Charlie turned toward Kyle. “You made the team?”

“Yeah.” He kept his eyes on his empty plate.

“Well, that’s great. And you already won an award?”

“Yeah,” Kyle said. He didn’t look that happy.

“Well, that’s good, isn’t it?”

“I don’t know,” Kyle said.

“Yeah, it is,” Matt said. “It’s a pretty big deal. Pat Bogi is a legend.”

“That’s great, Kyle. Why is that weird?”

He shrugged and rubbed his knee. “It’s a stupid award,” he mumbled.

“He’s afraid everyone is going to think he’s a hustle dork,” Matt said. “Pat Bogi was this little guy, but he ran all over the place and dove for loose balls and stuff. He was kind of like a crazy little person.”

“He bit a guy once during a game,” Kyle said.

“Yeah, he was pretty psycho,” Matt said.

“I don’t think you have to worry about biting anyone,” Charlie said. “Anyway, I think it’s great. Awards are important in life. I won a lot of awards for my work. They helped me in my career.”

“What kind of awards did you win, Mr. Baker?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Some Clios in the old days, an Effie. I won this award at Cannes. Well, almost won. Should have won. No big deal. Never won the Pat Bogi Award, though.”

“Did you make that commercial with that talking rat?”

“You mean the one with the hamster? No.” Charlie reached for his drink, then remembered that his glass was empty.

Kyle picked up his plate and headed into the kitchen. “I think there’s some Cokes in the garage,” he said. “You want one?”

“Yeah,” Matt said.

“Dad?”

“No, I’m okay. But hustle back, Kyle,” Charlie said.

Matt laughed and hunched forward, his shoulders shaking. “Excellent, Mr. Baker, really rich.”

“Thank you, Matt.”

They sat in silence, the sound of the crickets now gone. Matt stretched his legs out under the table. “Which way do you live?” Charlie asked. “Which house?”

He pointed. “That house.”

Charlie stared over the hedge but couldn’t see the house, just its dark shape. They owned three lots and there was quite a bit of space between the homes. “How long have you lived here?”

“My whole life.” Matt started bopping his head up and down as if he were listening to music.

Charlie glanced to the garage to see where Kyle was. “Can I ask you a question?”