Goodnight Beautiful(22)
Annoyed, I slide the rug over the vent and steal out of the room.
“Well, hello, neighbor!” It’s her, the Pigeon, standing on the porch. I wipe my palms on my jeans and open the door. “Did you hear?” she says. “We’re expecting a storm.”
Of course I’ve heard. I’m not Amish, I watch the news. It’s the type of weather event local meteorologists like Irv Weinstein live for, and he’s been yelling about it at six p.m. for the last two evenings. Franklin Sheehy, Chestnut Hill’s trusty and long-employed police chief, was on the news this morning, explaining the importance of staying off the road and stocking up on groceries and bottled water. Storm Gilda, they’re calling it, and only an idiot wouldn’t have printed a list of emergency supplies to have on hand in a Category 2 storm expected to create a lot of mayhem and difficult travel conditions. “A storm in the middle of October,” the Pigeon says. “That’s unheard of.”
“Climate change,” I say, impatient.
“Exactly. I’ve been thinking about organizing a march. You know what Drew said when I told him that? ‘If there’s one thing that’s going to stop climate change, it’s a march of ten stay-at-home moms in Chestnut Hill, New York.’ Idiot. Anyway—” She smiles and holds up a Pyrex dish, like we’re on an episode of Desperate Housewives. “I made too much veggie chili and couldn’t bear to throw it out. You like chili?”
“Are there people who don’t?” I ask, taking it from her. “That was nice, thank you.”
“You’re welcome. And cool eyeglasses,” she says. “Where’d you get those?”
I touch them—the bright blue frames I dug out of one of Agatha Lawrence’s boxes, a perfect match to my prescription. They belonged to the woman who died here, and I liked them. “The city,” I say. “Way back when.”
“They look great,” she says, and then gestures at the two rocking chairs on the porch. “You should bring this all inside. Winds are going to be bad.”
“Good idea. I’ll ask Sam to do it when he’s finished.” I hold up the tray. “Thanks again.”
I go inside and place the dish in the refrigerator. Before heading down the hall to the vent, I pause, and then change my mind and turn toward the stairs. I think I’ve had all I can take of that French girl for one day.
Chapter 13
Sam lies on the bed, his laptop growing warm on his stomach, and rewinds the video again. “Bottom of the fifth, and you know what that means,” a fuzzy version of his dad announces from the screen.
“Why yes I do, Dad,” Sam replies, mouthing the rest along with Ted. “It’s time for trivia with our friends Keyote and Frank Key.” Keyote and Frank Key, the Frederick Keys’ two mascots: a coyote that looks like a regular dog and literally a white guy in colonial attire who someone felt was necessary to bring on a few years ago.
“Okay, James from Columbia, are you ready?” Sam’s father asks as Sam reaches for the beer resting against Annie’s pillow. It’s a broadcast of a game on June 12, 2016, available on YouTube, and Sam has now watched the three minutes and sixteen seconds that his father appears on-screen seventeen times. Annie is visiting his mother at Rushing Waters, and he’s on his third beer; his father is standing on a pitcher’s mound with an oversize microphone and an arm draped around a pudgy guy in stone-washed jeans.
Most serious announcers probably hate being forced to shill, but Sam can see how much Ted relishes this part of the job—emceeing the trivia game after inning five, introducing Tonight’s Special Guest before the first pitch. Of course he does. Gives ol’ Teddy from Freddy the chance to show off his many charms and get a turn in the spotlight, his preferred position in the world. “Get this right, and everyone in section six will go home with a coupon for a large pizza with a topping of their choice from our good friends at Capitol Pizza, where every night is family night. Okay, here we go.” Ted lifts the index card. “Where did Frank Key, our good friend and great mascot, get his name?”
That’s a cinch. Even if Sam hadn’t heard this question seventeen times already, he’d expect people to know it’s Francis Scott Key, golden boy of Frederick, Maryland, who wrote “The Star-Spangled Banner.” But James from Columbia doesn’t know and nobody goes home with a free pizza and Sam closes his laptop, wondering what Annie’s going to say when he tells her about the debt.
He’s going to do it when she gets home, any minute now. He’s been practicing what he’s going to say for the last hour. Easy: the truth. His mom made the whole thing up. His father’s divorce, the two million dollars, the letters on fancy stationery every year, letting Sam know he was loved . . . and oh yeah, guess what, there’s no money! He read the letter again, which he’d filed away in the drawer where he kept all of his “father’s” letters, understanding the depth of his mother’s delusion. I don’t think there’s been a day since I left that I haven’t thought about you, Maggie. I’ll always regret what I did.
Sam will argue that he’s having a hard time deciding who’s more pathetic: Margaret, for pining away for the asshole for twenty-four years, or Sam for falling for it. He’ll explain the holes in his thinking, how he should have taken Annie’s advice and waited for the money to come before financing a shiny new Lexus RX 350 with leather interior and automatic ignition. If he had, maybe he would have realized how unlikely it was that the father who thought to call his son twice a year at most and each time only to talk about himself—“Can you believe it, Sam, you’re talking to a guy with a goddamn wine cellar!”—suddenly gave the family he abandoned $2 million because he cared about their happiness.