This Might Hurt(49)

He nodded. “I want to learn the ropes as best I can.”

What was the responsible action here: give him a leg up or dissuade him from a life of rejection and setbacks? I recognized the fire in Gabe. Had Evie ever once tried to extinguish mine?

When he sensed my vacillation, he said, “B- . . . b-but I’m not asking for charity.”

I wrinkled my nose. “I’m not the philanthropic sort.”

One “yes.” That was all he wanted. How long had I been saying I wanted to help others, to pass on all I had learned about the art of fearlessness? I had ambitions of effecting change on a grander scale, but perhaps I was putting the proverbial cart before the horse. I could practice with Gabe, loosen fear’s grip on him. I was far too intelligent to believe in chimerical concepts such as destiny, but I allowed for the occasional stroke of serendipity. What more fitting first pupil could I ask for than a boy under the thumb of his father?

“I’d work you to the bone. Your university classes would look like child’s play.”

He bobbed his head again. I watched him for a time, searching for a sign this was a mistake. I found him slightly annoying, a bootlicker, too cheerful and fawning. He was ignorant of social decorum. Possibly he would expect us to be friends or to share our feelings occasionally.

I strode to my purse on the makeup counter and pulled a business card from it anyway. When I turned around, standing in the doorway behind Gabe was my sister.

I started. She was wearing too much makeup in all the wrong places, leaving the resultant impression that she had recently returned from a hard day’s work in a coal mine. A grin stretched sloppily across her face.

“Sir left,” I said. Gabe turned to see whom I was addressing.

“I know,” Jack said. “I’m here to see you.”

I collected myself and handed Gabe my card. “Call me first thing Monday.”

He pumped my hand with the exuberance of a first-term politician. “You w- . . . w-won’t regret this. I promise.”

Oh, but I would. In my entire life I would never regret anything more.





19





Kit


JULY 2019


I SCANNED THE cafeteria. I had thirty minutes before my second one-on-one with Rebecca, but April and Georgina were both on cleaning duty.

At the farthest table I spotted Jeremiah. He was hunched over a booklet with a pencil in hand, whistling to himself. I approached tentatively, not wanting to be a bother. He was working on a crossword.

“Is it okay if I sit here?” I asked.

He glanced up. “Only if you help me with this puzzle.”

I grimaced, taking a seat across from him. “I’m hopeless at crosswords. Not smart enough.”

“I bet you’re smarter than you think.” He stuck the pencil behind his ear.

“Yeah? Would a genius almost burn down the cafeteria while using the microwave?” I reddened at the memory.

Jeremiah winced. “Good point. Maybe you’re not that bright.”

I laughed.

He twisted his crossword book so we could both see. Half the puzzle was filled in. “Seventeen down: Chicago-style prohibited condiment.”

I thought for a second. “Ketchup.”

He counted the squares, then grabbed his pencil. “Bingo. Twenty-three across: popular nineties shopping board game.”

“Mall Madness. You’re giving me the easy ones.”

He raised an eyebrow, gestured at his thick beard and bear-shaped physique. “Do I look like the target consumer for Mall Madness?” I laughed again. “I’ve never even heard of it. Like I said, you might be smarter than you give yourself credit for.”

I shrugged.

He consulted his puzzle. “Forty-two down: surname of Dwight Schrute’s nemesis.”

“Oh, come on. You’re telling me you’ve never watched The Office? H-a-l-p-e-r-t.”

“I was spelling it wrong.” He filled in the letters. “And of course I did. Don’t tell me Jim is your favorite or I’ll have to ask you to sit elsewhere.” He put a hand to his chest. “Or Pam, heaven forbid.”

I made a face. “Obviously it’s Michael. But can we talk about how seriously underrated seasons three through five Andy Bernard is?”

“Only if we first discuss that Creed is the actual hero of the show. Minute for minute he adds more humor than any other player.”

We smiled at each other.

Jeremiah twirled the pencil between his fingers and stared at the puzzle. “My brother used to help me with these when we were younger. I took care of history and politics. He knew all the art and Hollywood ones. He loved old movies.” A far-off gaze crossed his face. “One summer he made me watch all of the Oscar winners. I whined through every single black-and-white film—Why couldn’t we watch Superman for the fiftieth time like the other kids? He ignored me, naturally.”

He leaned back in his chair, stroking his throat. “Now every year on his birthday I rent the latest Best Picture winner. I get popcorn for me, Junior Mints for him—which I always end up throwing out. What kind of ghoul likes Junior Mints?”

I held up my hands to say Not me.

“Only my dumb brother.” Jeremiah drew stars in the margins of the crossword page. “We were a good team.”