You Only Get So Much (11 page)

Chapter 22

Despite my crash and
burn with the kindergartners the first time out, I returned to the class twice
a week for a month. Like bees and dogs, kids can definitely smell fear; so once
I got the hang of managing this little pod of life, it went much smoother for
all of us, even that little turd Connor. I kept my eye on him, but eventually
he melted into the background with the other kids and simply listened to the
stories I was reading.

I enjoyed the experience
more each time I read for them. It became easier each time to read another
person's work to the kids. Had I been reading my own work, well, I don't think
I would have felt the same ease. There's a confidence you can have when voicing
the final version of a solid story—even a kids story—that I don't
have in my own words. It's always draft. Unfinished. Sorely in need of
improvements. So, these little stories about trains, bunnies, princesses or
trees, were safe for me. At the end of each book I felt a tiny sense of
finality. Maybe I'm overstating it, but honestly, I liked it. Liked the
finished—complete—feeling.

My return trips inside
the school meant I was able to see Michelle too, if only in passing. I'd peek
in the classroom and pretend to be checking in on Gracie, which I guess I was,
but I was also trying to get in proximity to her teacher.

I stopped myself more
than once from asking Gracie if her teacher ever mentioned me to her. It seemed
immature and she, as an almost 7-year-old was an ultimately unreliable source
to relay the nuanced statements from her teacher to her uncle. So I avoided
asking. It sucked. I wanted to know if she thought about me. If she was brought
back in time the same way I was the day I saw her at the head of Gracie's
classroom. I wanted to see a note folded in quarters like she used to write when
we were in high school. This whiff of a memory makes me feel younger, back to
an age when I had everything in front of me. Not like today.

So I kept my distance.
It's something I've become good at over the years, just ask my mom. The
difference of course is that I'd like to bridge the distance between Michelle
and me, not avoid her altogether.
 

I know she was reviewing
and grading Gracie's homework papers and maybe that's why I've been spending
every night making sure her homework was completed. In the evenings, after
helping clean up my father with a warm washcloth, I would read with Gracie.
Again feeling the irregular sense of accomplishment on the last page. I'd have
my dad in the room too. I'm certain that he wouldn't give a rip about the kids'
books we were reading, but I think hearing those stories is better than being
parked in front of the television and being fed a steady diet of
Wheel of Fortune
or
Judge Judy
.
I dare not say that to my mother though. She loves those shows.

Dad is getting weaker each
day. His head hangs low more often than not. I got him a new wheelchair that
has a cupped head rest on it. I couldn't bring myself to attach the forehead
strap to the headrest. It seemed like a sign of defeat and I didn't want him to
know or feel that we had resorted to propping him up with a leather strap
rather than giving him the attention he needed. So I angled the back of the
wheelchair so he was slightly reclined, his head resting back just a bit.

His routine of physical
therapy appointments continued, but watching him go through the motions,
knowing that every forced leg bend or ankle rotation would bring him no closer
to relief, was exhausting and frustrating. I wasn't the only one who felt this
way. I could see it in his eyes too.

But there was a change I
could see in him when I talked about Michelle. Maybe it was the thought of a
sexy younger woman that gave him that little twinkle, but it didn't matter. Did
it? Maybe it brought back memories of his own young love. Love? I shouldn't use
that word to describe what I felt for Michelle. Infatuation? That just sounds
creepy. Interest? Yes. Interest is good. I'm interested in Michelle.

And one day she told me
she felt the same.

*
* *

That afternoon, as I was
finishing with my kindergartners, Mrs. Weston quietly excuses herself from the
room, as she often does. But this time she is quickly replaced by
Michelle—or Ms. Dixon, as the kids know her. Mrs. Weston had already told
me that recess would follow story time, so I led the kids outside. Michelle
joins me.

"I thought I would
have scared you off with this reading mentor thing," she says.

"You should have
seen the first day," I say. "It was special, that's for sure. I don't
think I'll be up for any Volunteer of the Year awards any time soon."

"Well, as a
teacher, I'm uniquely qualified to say that kindergartners are a whole new
level of crazy. I love 'em to pieces, but if they weren't so young and short,
they would all be in prison."

She laughs at her own
joke, which makes me smile.

"At least a few of
them, that's guaranteed," I say.

"OK, maybe just a
few of them."

We stand in silence for
a while, watching the kids. The leaves on many of the trees have fallen to the
ground and the kids are tossing them up into the air and running under them.

"Is that why you
decided to join me today?" I ask, "To remind me that my 6-year-olds
are running the asylum and I should watch my back?"
 

"More or less,
yes," she says. "But I heard a few other things too."

"Such as?"

"For starters, I
heard that the kids ask about you every morning and let out a collective groan
when Mrs. Weston tells them that you're not coming that day."

"That's news to
me."

"Just wait. I'm not
finished. I have also heard that you are quite the animated character during
story time."

I blush a little at
that, thinking how embarrassed I'd feel if someone, other than a bunch of
little kids, was watching me.
 

"I've got to
perform for my audience," I say.

"I wanted to let
you know that you have been noticed."

"That's nice to
hear."

"I've also noticed
that you are helping Gracie with her homework."

"Is that so?"

"Yes," she
says. "Most of the other parents don't sign each page of homework or
attach descriptive notes to the assignments about which areas their child
struggled."

"I'm new to this. I
thought that was what we were supposed to do," I say.

I knew this was
overkill, but even if it was in the context of grading papers, I wanted
Michelle to think of me when she saw Gracie's papers. It was childish, but it
worked.

"Well, my student
teacher thought it was odd and pointed it out to me."

"Student
teacher?"

"She's a college
student who grades all the homework, so she can earn her teaching
certificate."

Apparently I had my
sights set on the wrong educator. Michelle hadn't noticed my little effort after
all.

"I think it's
cute," she says.

"What's cute,
exactly?"

"The effort you're
obviously putting into Gracie's schoolwork. You're a good uncle."

She might not think that
way if she chatted with Kendall.

"I do what I
can."

"Why did you keep
coming back to be a reading mentor? Mrs. Weston said you offered to come twice
a week."

"It's a nice break
from the house. It's a bit nuts with my parents there."

"More so than a
wild band of 6-year-olds?"

"At times,
yes."

"Terrifying,"
she claims with feigned horror.

We share a laugh.

"I think you're an
interesting character, Billy Redmond," she admits. "I'm not exactly
sure what to make of you, but you're interesting, that's for sure."

"Maybe you need to
do a little more research on me, so I can prove that I am without a doubt the
most boring guy you'll ever meet."

"What do you have
in mind?" she asks.

"Can I take you to
dinner?"

"Hmm, let me think.
Have you improved your ability to walk down stairs without hurting
yourself?" she asks, in reference to the first time I tried to ask her out
years ago.

"It's a struggle,
but I'm working on it."

"Well, then OK,
it's a date."

* * *

After Mrs. Weston joined
us outside, Michelle excused herself to return to her own classroom.

A date?

Holy crap.

Chapter 23

The softball-sized lump
in my throat feels like it might choke me. The shower didn't help. Tonight at
7:30, I'm supposed to pick up Michelle for a date. Unfortunately I still feel
sick to my stomach, not because I'm ill in any way, but because I'm nervous. I
thought cleaning up a bit would do the trick by somehow fooling my sweat glands
to stop drenching me in nervous moisture. No such luck.

I've had three days to
think about it and I don't know what it is, but the excitement of spending time
with a beautiful woman has been overtaken by my fear of letting someone in.
Sure, it could be a playful good time, but I know Michelle. She's not one to
fool around, or insinuate something is there when it's not. Of course I could
be completely wrong on this point too. How much do I really know about her
anyway?

So what does one date
mean? Everything. It means choosing to be vulnerable again. To be put in a
position to lose something. I don't want to be sorry about this.

Sorry.

"
I'm sorry - EMM
."

The words scrawled over
my and Jane's initials in the carving shelter flash in my mind. I'd be lying to
say I haven't thought about it, but what's there to think about anyway? Some
jerk kid ruining what should be a nice piece of my relationship with Jane that
is now over. Why would someone choose to do that? What does it mean? I have no
idea and I'm trying not to think about it. I'm again putting distance between
myself and what could potentially cause me pain. At least I recognize it. I'm
running away, just like I did 12 years ago.

Maybe that's why this
stupid date is weighing so heavily on me. I actually want to do it. I want to
explore a relationship. I'm running toward something. This feels different. I'm
naked and exposed. That's a feeling I don't like. Something I'm not used to.

I examine my face in the
mirror and without giving it a second thought, I pluck several gray hairs out
of my beard. That's a battle I can't win, but one I don't intend on ignoring
either.
 

I'm not sure what the
guy behind the beard actually looks like anymore. For so long the lower portion
of my face has been obscured by my shaggy brown hair. Hidden in plain sight.

I remember the story of
Samson in the Bible who got his power from his hair. I don't feel that sort of
connection, obviously, but it's been a part of me for so long that if it
weren't there, I'm not sure I'd feel the same. I could do what Gracie did and
chop off my hair in a cry for attention, but I don't think anyone would care in
the first place. It's not the same thing.

I say goodbye to Gracie
and my parents who are watching television in the living room. No questions
about where I'm going and for that I'm grateful. I listen outside Kendall's
door before knocking. She's typing on her laptop. I knock and the door pops
open from the pressure. She must not have latched it.

She turns to see me
standing in the doorway, my hand still raised from knocking.

"Have a good
night," I say, expecting her to return to her computer screen without a
word. Something catches my eye. I can't be sure because it's all the way across
the room, but I swear that one of my blue notebooks is sitting open on the desk
next to her. The loose white pages with my messy handwriting are hard to miss.
But I choose to ignore it. I don't want to start an argument or question her.
She places her elbow on the stack, blocking my view.

"Where are you
headed?" she asks.

"Actually I have a
date," I say.

"A date? Do
tell."

She looks excited and
leans forward. I'm shocked she even asked, but I give her a quick summary of
Michelle, our history and how we reconnected.
 
She seems genuinely interested, which surprises me.

"You'd better get
ready then," she says.

"I am ready,"
with a hint of modest indignation.

"Oh, no you're
not," she says. "You actually like this woman, I can tell from your
face. And you're going to wear that?"

I glance down and raise
my palms upward, as if I'm examining my attire for the first time.

"First of
all," she says. "That polo shirt has to go. Nothing says
I'm a tool
more
than a tucked in polo shirt. Especially with those slacks? Come on. It's like
you're not even trying."

She gets up from the
desk.

"Follow me."

I trail behind Kendall
down to the basement where all of Trevor's clothes are boxed in a storage room.

"Don't worry, he
wasn't a snazzy dresser either, so you'll be right at home," she says,
ripping the tape off of a cardboard box.

I don't take offense to
the comment.
 
She hands me a pair
of faded blue jeans and holds up a shirt to my chest. It's a dark gray button
up shirt with silver snaps on the cuffs.

"Put them on,"
she says.

Taking fashion advice
from a teenager dressed in gothic clothes and black eye paint doesn't come
naturally; but I comply, knowing that even in her reduced capacity as a fashion
icon, she knows a great deal more than I do.

She heads to the other
room as I slip on the clothes, which are a little big, but nothing too
noticeable.

"Better," she
says. "But not enough."

She opens up a few more
boxes before finding a dark blue blazer in a faded plaid pattern. It still has
the tag on it.

"Mom bought it for
Dad, but he must not have worn it."

I swallow my pride and
try it on. Remarkably, it looks great. The odd plaid pattern simply ads a
texture.

"Not too bad, Uncle
Billy. Now go get laid."

"That's not what
this is all about."

"No?"

"No."

"Whatever you say,
but your chances are much better now than they were with that tucked-in polo
shirt."

"Well, I appreciate
it regardless."

She pulls the tag off
the sleeve of the blazer.

"You don't want to
look like you're trying too hard," she says. "Now if we could only do
something about that beard, you'd be better off."

"Is it that
bad?"

"Worse," she
says, crinkling her nose. In that moment she looked just like her mom Jennifer,
which makes me happy. Glad to see she is still inside her.

"Well, it's not
going anywhere."

"That's too
bad," she says, as I flip off the lights and head for the stairs.

I'm now running behind,
but I need to ask her about what I saw in her room.
   

"I saw the book in
your room," I say.

"I have a lot of
books in my room."

"You know what I
mean," I say. "The manuscript."

"Oh, that . . .
yeah."

"Which one?"

"You didn't give it
a title, but it's about the bus driver who has a heart attack with a full load
of passengers."

I always wanted to call
that one,
Heart
Stop Requested
. But thought it was much too cheesy.

"It's good, Uncle
Billy. I mean really good. The way you connected all the passengers before and
after. I've never seen that before."

Heart Stop
was actually one of my
strongest draft novels; at least I always thought so. Monique, my agent, didn't
feel the same, and thus it never saw the light of day.

"You shouldn't keep
this one locked up like the others," she said. "People would like
it."

"I think that ship
has already sailed."

"Don't be so
sure," she says.

"How do you
mean?"

As we get to the top of
the stairs, she ignores my question, deciding instead to announce to my mother,
father and Gracie, "Doesn't Uncle Billy look good for his date!?"

Oh, boy.

"Date?" Mom asks,
eyes wide.

Kendall gives me that,
gotcha
look
and smirks.

"I'll explain it,
Grandma, he's going to be late."

Damn, if that kid didn't
just put my ass in a sling one minute, then save me the next.

"Have fun getting
laid," she whispers to me before plopping down on the couch next to
Gracie.