The Old Man in the Club (15 page)

“I'm worried about Daniel,” he said. “With Danielle, she's following her brother's lead. She wants us to be right again; she does. But she does not want to be disloyal to Daniel, which I respect.”

“Maybe you should focus on Danielle then,” Lucy said. “I know you think Daniel has a hold over her. But, really, she has the influence
over him that even she doesn't understand. If you won't tell them the truth, then getting Danielle to move on might be the easier route to go. Daniel is stubborn, much like his mother, I admit.”

Then she said something that shocked Elliott. “What if I came over for dinner, too?“

“Excuse me?” he answered.

“Just think about it: If the kids see that we are okay, then that has to make them feel like they should be okay with things, too,” she explained.

“I don't know, Lucy,” Elliott said. “It might make them more upset that we're not together as a family anymore. And that would make things worse.”

That was the fastest logical answer he could create without notice. The additional reason was that he was not sure how he would handle being around Lucy again after so long apart. He wanted them to work out the marriage, to go to counseling and figure out a resolution that could keep the family together. She wanted no part of it. Above all that, he still loved her.

“It was just an idea,” she said.

Elliott moved on to Daniel to minimize the awkwardness. “Have you talked to him? How do I make inroads with him?”

“Talk about you, your life, what you've overcome,” she said. “He needs to know the man you are and not the man he thinks you are. Once that happens, he'll lighten up. He's definitely stubborn, but he's not mean.”

“I don't like talking about that too much, especially to the kids.”

“You asked me and I told you my opinion,” she said. “Up to you how you actually go about it.”

He thanked his ex-wife and ended the call. He then got dressed in some loungewear, turned the radio to WCLK, the Clark
Atlanta University jazz station, and turned up the volume. Then he went into the kitchen to make the cheesecake.

Elliott became a master of prison cell cooking, fashioning tasty offerings of Oodles of Noodles and other meals that required little fanfare because prison was no place for a wide array of food or seasonings. But when he was released, Elliott pursued cooking and became stellar in the kitchen.

When he cooked, he made it an experience and fun, for himself if no one else. His kids loved his theatrics, and he planned to use them when they got to his house. But first came the cheesecake; he wanted it prepared the night before so it would be completely settled and cool for the next day.

So, with nice jazz playing, Elliott took to the kitchen. He pulled the covering off a Keebler graham cracker crust. He unloaded eleven ounces of cream cheese into a mixing bowl and covered that with a half-cup of heavy whipping cream and three-quarters cup of sugar in the raw. He cracked an egg and added it. Finally, he dropped in a splash of vanilla extract.

He turned on the mixing bowl and let the contents come together over less than ten minutes, until it formed into a smooth, fluid mix that he poured neatly into the graham cracker crust. He admired its pristine look while enjoying the remnants that clung to the side of the bowl with his fingers.

That made Elliot smile. He used to let his kids finish off the bowl of cheesecake with their fingers when they were small children. He hoped cooking for the kids while at his house would make them feel nostalgic, too.

As he waited over twenty minutes for the cheesecake to bake, he received a text message response from Tamara. “Facebook” was her reply.

Elliott was confused. He had asked how she knew he was at the
12 Hotel.
What does she mean, Facebook?
he asked himself. Then he recalled that he had set up an account on the popular social media site, but hardly visited it. Tamara was one of his “friends” on Facebook.

Before responding, he fired up his laptop. It took a minute to see that Nikki had “checked in” at the 12 Hotel with the note, “Drinks with Elliott Thomas.”

He was confused. He was not “friends” with Nikki; they hadn't even discussed Facebook. But when he visited her page, he noticed that she was “friends” with Tamara. His mouth flew open.

He had heard younger men who really engaged in the Atlanta social scene talking about how the city “could close in on you.” This was the first case where someone he dated knew someone else he dated—or
tried
to date.

Elliott did not attempt to run from the situation. “How do you know Nikki?” he texted back. “And why are you texting me? I thought you were on a date.”

He put his feet up on the coffee table and waited for a response. It did not come, and he drifted off to sleep and dreamed of the days when he was still married and his family was intact. It felt good to see the four of them smiling and enjoying each other, even if it was in his dream.

The ring of the oven timer interrupted the joyous moment. The cheesecake was ready. Elliott placed it on the granite countertop, where it would reside for a half-hour, at which time he set it in the refrigerator to chill overnight. When he first learned how to make the cheesecake, he was less patient and would place it in the freezer for an hour or so to indulge in right away.

His patience improved through occasional yoga classes and plain effort and discipline. He had been patient in allowing his kids to
drift away from him—too patient, in fact. Elliott thought allowing them to vent and to separate themselves from him would give them the space they needed to see things clearly over time. Instead of them gravitating back to their father, they—especially Daniel—grew to hold strong animosity toward him.

Elliott went to sleep with that on his mind and awoke with it there the next morning, too. And that made him nervous. He was nervous about spending quality time with his kids for the first time in a few years. The occasion seemed like a make-or-break, the more he thought about it. He played the “What if?” game with himself:
What if they are coming here to tell me they hate me? What if they say they will never forgive me? What if I lose my patience and tell them off?

After a breakfast of oatmeal mixed with blueberries and strawberries and a cup of coffee, Elliott went on his walk. It usually served as the antidote to a clogged head. This walk worked, too. He took a different route, up to Peachtree Street, where he turned left toward Midtown instead of toward downtown. When he approached Gladys Knight's & Ron Winan's Chicken & Waffles, he slowed down; there was the usual crowd of people waiting outside to be seated.

To his surprise among the people milling about was Tamara, who gave him a pleasant look at first, but quickly turned it to the evil eye. As soon as he saw her he remembered that she had spoken of that being her Saturday morning breakfast spot. Still, he was amazed that he had run into her for a second time in three days.

Elliott could not tell if she was with the guy standing nearby or the woman to her left. So, he smiled at her and said, “Good morning,” as he kept walking. Tamara stepped out of the crowd, toward Elliott.

“How was your date last night?” she said.

“It wasn't quite a date, but it was good,” he answered, looking over her shoulder to see if the young man was watching. “How do you know Nikki?”

“Don't worry about it.”

“Why would I worry about it? Just asking.”

“So that's your girlfriend?” Tamara asked.

“Don't have a girlfriend,” Elliott answered. “Don't do girlfriends.”

“Really? So what am I? A piece of ass?” she said.

“Is that how I made you feel?” he responded. “Come here for a second.”

He moved farther away from the crowd. “Tamara, you don't have to get crazy with me. You know how I regard you.”

“What I know is that you were out on a date with a friend of mine last night and tonight you have another date,” she answered. “What am I supposed to think about how you regard me?”

Elliott's impatience rose up, but he quieted himself by smiling and taking a deep breath.

“What are you grinning about?” she asked.

“I'm glad to see you,” he said. “I'd love to connect with you tomorrow. I have a spot I want to take you to.”

“I'm busy tomorrow, but free tonight,” she said.

He slowly nodded his head and looked away from her, up Peachtree Street toward prodigious buildings. When he looked back at Tamara, her face held an exasperated expression.

“Well, I understand,” he said. “Let me know when you are available and I would love to see you.”

He leaned in for a hug, but she took a step back. Elliott smiled again, turned and walked away. He did not bother to look back.

E
lliott spent the afternoon writing letters to inmates who had been proven innocent of the crimes they were convicted of and awaiting release from prison. He also reviewed a few cases the Innocence Project was considering. He was indebted to the Innocence Project for its work in gaining his freedom. And so, he was quick to speak at an event or to legislators or anyone who could be inspired by his story.

A nap from 4:30 p.m. until after 6 p.m. refreshed Elliott. It was too hot to sit outside, but he did endure the heat and humidity for a moment. He sat down and prayed. He knew God received prayers from wherever. But he often went to the balcony to pray when he was especially in need. He said being up there “brings me closer to God. He can hear me better.”

His prayers seldom were for him. This one was. “Dear Lord, you have spared me of so much and brought me back from a living hell. What I need most now is the love and reconnection to my children. They are an extension of me, and yet we are disconnected. Please allow this evening to be the start of our being a close-knit, loving family again.”

Those words settled Elliott, as prayer can do. He went back inside his place and showered and got dressed for the evening. He placed a photo he kept on a dresser in his room in the living room.
It was a studio shot of Elliott and his kids when they were fifteen. The smiles were broad and genuine. A happy time. He hoped seeing it would help advance the evening on his behalf.

Just before 8, Elliott pulled out the items he would be cooking. He cleaned the Cornish hens and chopped up the cheese into small blocks. He pulled out a chilled bottle of Zolo Sauvignon Blanc and opened and decanted a Meiomi Pinot Noir. He lit a candle on the coffee table in the living room and one in the kitchen, near the stove. He was ready.

Then 8 p.m. came…and 8:15 and 8:30…and no sign of his children. His emotions went from concerned to disappointed to angry. And just as he was about to become furious, the doorbell rang. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

Elliott made his way to the door and looked through the peephole. He could see Danielle smiling and Daniel expressionless. He opened it and smiled.

“You had me worried,” he said. Danielle walked into his waiting arms. He hugged his little girl and closed his eyes. Her embrace felt so warm and was so comforting.

“Come on in,” he said, and Danielle cleared the threshold. Elliott hugged his son, but Daniel did not hug him back.

“Good to see you, son,” he said into his ear.

“Yeah, okay,” Daniel said. Elliott let him go and Daniel walked over to his sister. Elliott took his key and locked the deadbolt, in case things got out of hand and they tried to abruptly leave. He was determined to settle things that night.

“Why couldn't you call your old man and tell me you'd be late?”

“I'm sorry, Daddy,” Danielle said. “It was my fault. I went to the mall with Mom and she had me out there too late. I was hurrying up so we could get here when we did.”

“I hope you're hungry; I'm about to throw down,” he said.

“You haven't cooked already?” Daniel asked with frustration in his voice.

“I see someone is hungry,” Elliott replied. “It won't take long; forty-five minutes. Everything is ready to go into the oven. Remember how I used to cook for you all?”

“Eat everything right out of the oven,” Danielle said.

“That's right. How about a glass of wine?” he said.

“I see you still have to make a big production out of cooking,” Danielle said. “Do you know I do the same thing now?”

Daniel gave his sister an angry look. Elliott ignored it.

“Aww, baby, you do?” he said. “That makes me feel good.”

Danielle washed her hands in the kitchen sink and retrieved the wine out of the refrigerator. “Daniel, you like red, right? There's a Pinot over there and the decanter and glasses, too,” Elliott said, pointing. He decided the best way to deal with Daniel was to act as if everything was fine and see where that took him.

With wine in hand, Elliott called them into the kitchen. “You know what comes now.”

Instinctively, they placed their glasses on the counter and held hands. Daniel's grip on his father's hand was limp. Elliott ignored it and prayed.

“Gracious Lord, bless this food that is about to be prepared. And we especially ask that You bless this family and let the love You put into it stay with us and carry us through challenging times. In Jesus' precious name, we pray. Amen.

“Now, let's have a toast,” Elliott added.

“Really?” Daniel said. “Is that really necessary?”

“You don't want to toast, don't toast,” Danielle said. “Daddy, I'll toast with you.”

Elliott stared at his son, who could feel his father's glare. “You do the toast, Danielle,” Elliott said.

Raising her glass, she said, “To a wonderful evening with family.”

Elliott and Danielle tapped glasses. They looked at Daniel. Without looking up, he raised his glass and his father and sister tapped it. Elliott smiled.