Here I Am by Jonathan Safran Foer(44)
“What?”
“So fun! We could get there early for batting practice. Eat tons of shit.”
“Eat tons of shit?”
“Shitty food.”
“Would it be OK if I just watched this?”
“But I’m having an awesome idea.”
“Are you?”
“Aren’t I?”
“I have soccer, and cello, and bar mitzvah lessons, assuming that’s still on, God forbid.”
“I can get you out of that.”
“My life?”
“I’m afraid I can only bring you into that.”
“And they’re playing in L.A.”
“Right,” Jacob said, and quieter, “I should have realized that.”
That quietness made Sam wonder if maybe he’d hurt his father. He experienced a tremor of a feeling that, despite knowing it was utterly foolish, he would grow to experience more often and more strongly in the coming year: that maybe everything was at least a little bit his fault.
“Finish the chess game?”
“Nah.”
“You’re OK with money?”
“Yeah.”
“And this thing at Hebrew school. It obviously isn’t because of Grandpa, right?”
“Not unless he’s also the grandfather of whoever did it.”
“That’s what I thought. Anyway—”
“Dad, Billie’s black, so how could I be a racist?”
“Billie?”
“The girl I’m in love with.”
“You have a girlfriend?”
“No.”
“I’m confused.”
“She’s the girl I’m in love with.”
“OK. And you said Billie? But a girl, right?”
“Yes. And she’s black. So how could I be racist?”
“I’m not sure that logic quite works.”
“It does.”
“You know who points out that some of his best friends are black? Someone who isn’t comfortable with black people.”
“None of my best friends are black.”
“And for whatever it’s worth, I’m pretty sure African American is the preferred nomenclature.”
“Nomenclature?”
“Terminology.”
“Shouldn’t the guy who’s in love with a black girl be the one establishing the nomenclature?”
“Isn’t that the pot calling the kettle African American?”
“Pot?”
“I’m joking around. It’s an interesting name, that’s all. Not a judgment. You know you were named for a great-great-uncle who perished in Birkenau. With Jews there always has to be some significance attached.”
“Some suffering, you mean.”
“Gentiles pick names that sound nice. Or they just make them up.”
“Billie was named after Billie Holiday.”
“So she’s the exception that proves the rule.”
“Who are you named after?” Sam asked, his interest a small concession in response to the guilt of having forced his dad’s voice into quiet sadness.
“A distant relative named Yakov. Supposedly an amazing, larger-than-life guy. Story goes he crushed a Cossack’s head in his hand.”
“Cool.”
“I’m obviously not strong like that.”
“We don’t even know any Cossacks.”
“And at most, I’m the size of life.”
One of their stomachs grumbled, but neither knew whose.
“Well, bottom line, I think it’s awesome that you have a girlfriend.”
“She’s not my girlfriend.”
“Nomenclature strikes twice. I think it’s awesome that you’re in love.”
“I’m not in love. I love her.”
“Whatever’s going on, this obviously stays between us. You can count on me.”
“I’ve already talked to Mom about it.”
“Really? When?”
“I don’t know. Couple of weeks ago?”
“This is old news?”
“It’s all relative.”
Jacob stared at Sam’s screen. Was this what drew Sam to it? Not the ability to be elsewhere, but to be nowhere?
“What did you tell her?” Jacob asked.
“Who?”
“Your mother?”
“You mean Mom?”
“That’s the one.”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know, as in you don’t feel like talking about it with me right now?”
“As in that.”
“It’s strange, because she’s convinced you wrote those words.”
“I didn’t.”
“OK. I’m becoming annoying. I’ll go.”
“I didn’t say you were annoying.”
Jacob moved to the door to leave, but paused. “Wanna hear a joke?”
“No.”
“It’s dirty.”
“Then definitely no.”
“What’s the difference between a Subaru and an erection?”