Mortal Bonds (32 page)

M
onday—the Kid was dressed all in blue. We waded along, side by side, through security at Penn Station—an experience slightly less onerous than at the airport. I had the Kid plugged into my iPod—he was obsessing his way through the early Beatles years. The music tuned out the unintelligible overhead announcements and allowed him to focus on placing one foot in front of the other through the line and onto the escalator.

We made it to the platform level without incident, but the gap between platform and train loomed just ahead. I steeled myself for the tantrum and played my wild card.

“Whoa!” I said looking up. “Did you see that?”

The Kid looked up but refused to acknowledge me. I could hear “Love Me Do” leaking from out of the earbuds.

“You missed it?” I said.

We stepped over the gap and into the train. The Kid scowled at me and removed the little white speakers.

“What?”

“The dweebus? I can’t believe you missed it. They’re very rare, you know.”

He turned away and walked down the aisle ahead of me.

I found two empty seats, stopped him, and let him take the window. He took a book out of his backpack, flipped down the tray like an experienced rail commuter, and dropped the book on it. It was one of his old ones.
Ten Automobiles That Challenged Detroit.
He scowled again.

“What’s a”—he paused as though wary of the word—“a dweebus?”

“A bird. It’s rainbow-colored. Very easy to identify. They live in train stations, but like I said, they’re rare.”

He knew I was making it up, but he couldn’t figure out why, so he merely scowled some more. I could handle scowls. Scowls were cake compared with screams.

“When we get out in Washington, you keep your eyes peeled.”

He gave a look of great distaste.

“Sorry. Don’t peel your eyes. Watch for dweebuses. Actually, dweebi. One dweebus. Two dweebi. Look for them when we get out in Washington. There are always more dweebi in Washington.”

He began flipping pages, losing interest. “Why?”

“That’s a very good question for Skeli. You may ask her when we get there.”

He plugged back into the music. “P.S. I Love You.” The train pulled out.

•   •   •

LATE THE NIGHT BEFORE,
Tino had finally returned my calls. He was flying up Thursday to pick up the body. I offered him a bed for the night, but he wasn’t staying over. There was to be a wake Friday night at the Benoit Funeral Home in Beauville and a Mass the next morning. I was not invited.

“Mamma has taken this hard and I’m afraid she needs someone to blame,” Tino said.

Life is neither fair nor logical.

“I understand. I’ll send flowers.”

“You will be vilified for doing so, but of course, you would be vilified if you did not. On balance, I believe sending an impressive display is the wiser course. Victor’s here in Lafayette do a nice job and they know me.”

“I’d like to bring the Kid down for a visit sometime. He lost a mother; I’d hate for him to lose a grandmother, too.”

“Give her time. She’ll come around. Loving is the one thing she has always been good at.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

•   •   •

THE KID AND I
would have two days in D.C. with Skeli. Not a lot of time, but I was ready to make every minute count.

I reminded myself to call Heather, wondering how the Kid and I could possibly survive if she would not come back.

I closed my eyes and tried to remember everything else that I was sure I had forgotten. Clothes for the next few days. In all appropriate colors. Cars? Plenty. Toothbrush? Yes. It was always a problem, breaking in a new toothbrush. The Kid had to see me take it out of the plastic wrapper and immediately douse it with mouthwash—a substance, I had managed to convince him, which would kill any germ. He often requested a splash on his cuts and scrapes. Had I forgotten lunch? I bent over and checked my bag. Lunch was there. Two sandwiches. American cheese on white bread, and smoked turkey, roasted pepper, and mustard on seeded rye. We would each think the other was devouring an abomination.

The Kid was reading out loud, this time in my father’s voice. He was reading loud enough to hear himself over John Lennon screaming “Twist and Shout.”
A tie-less, blue-suited Washington corridor commuter, obviously trying to read something on his e-reader, gave me an annoyed look over his wire spectacles. I smiled back. Let him complain. I had intentionally chosen a train car that was not a “quiet car” on the likely chance that the Kid would not make the three-hour trip in monk-like silence.

The Kid turned the page and his voice changed.

“The Tucker 48 Sedan, initially called the Torpedo, was a car well ahead of its time. Many of the automotive safety innovations of the second half of the twentieth century were designed into the Torpedo.”

It was Angie’s voice.

•   •   •

For a complete list of this author’s books click here or visit
www.penguin.com/searschecklist

An author is often like a single parent, trying to raise and nurture a creation inspired in a moment of great passion. A creation that sometimes behaves in a most ungrateful, nearly spiteful manner, causing endless headaches and feelings of anger, remorse, helplessness, and depression. And sometimes joy.

And like a parent, the author depends upon a network of helpers—mentors, doctors, comforters, and commiserators—to remain relatively sane while completing the task of seeing this child out into the world. I wish to thank all those in my network: Jennifer Belle and the Muses, who make my Wednesdays heaven or hell; my lovely wife, Barbara Segal, aka Ruby, and the Pawley’s readers, whose feedback and support are essential; Richard Fiske, Chris Gaun, Jesse Leo, Effie-Marie Smith, Tim O’Rourke, Melissa Mourges, and Robert LaRussa, all of whom gave invaluable advice and corrected so many of my mistakes (any remaining ones are entirely my own); my incomparable agents, Judith Weber and Nat Sobel, who inspire me to be “even better,” and their team who magically solve all of my problems; Neil Nyren and the whole Putnam crew, without whose guidance I would be floundering in an industry that so rarely makes any sense to me; and to all of my readers, for this act of creation is not complete until the reader has shared in the experience.

Keep the Kid in your hearts.