My Last Innocent Year(46)

“Some high-rise, with a Duane Reade.”

“Fancy.”

“All these yuppies need somewhere to buy toothpaste.”

“I’m not sure they call them yuppies anymore.”

“You ever meet with that woman from Career Services?”

He switched topics so quickly, it took me a second to catch up. “Oh. Yeah.”

“Anything good?”

“No. The only jobs they have listed there are corporate jobs.”

“So, what’s wrong with jobs like that?” Abe asked as the kettle whistled. “Isabel, you pooh-pooh this stuff, but those are good jobs with benefits.” I watched him unwrap the tea bags, place them in the mugs, pour the boiling water over them. My mother used to complain that Abe could never sit still, a criticism that always felt harsh to me—when had he ever been given the chance to relax?—but now his puttering annoyed me. “You’re the one who wanted to be an English major. Now you have to figure out how to make a living.” He placed the mug in front of me and pushed a sugar bowl my way.

“I know,” I said. “Actually, my writing teacher thinks I have talent.”

“You’re a talented girl.”

“He thinks I should pursue writing. As a career.”

“What? A PhD?”

“No. I mean, he thinks I could be a writer.”

“You can be whatever you want.”

“This teacher…” I paused. It felt strange to conjure Connelly here, in this room. “He thinks I should take some time and just write. See what I can come up with. He thinks if I could sell a few stories, I might be able to get an agent.”

“Do you get paid for that?”

“Not much. Not right away. That’s why I was thinking of staying in New Hampshire. It’s not as expensive there.” Abe was chewing on his bottom lip, working it in and out of his mouth. “Or I could come home, live here for a while.”

“You know you’re always welcome, but what would you do? I can’t give you any more money.”

“I know that. I could do SAT tutoring, or work in the store. I won’t need much.”

Abe shook his head. “I don’t want you working in the store.”

“Why not?”

“I didn’t send you to college so you could work in the store.”

“Benji went to college.”

“Benji is not my child.”

“Then I’ll stay in New Hampshire.”

“And do what, Isabel?”

“I told you. Write.”

“‘Writing’ is not an option.”

“Why not?”

“Because you need a job.” He picked up a sponge and started wiping down the counter. “You sound just like your mother, talking about your art, thinking everything will work out. But you won’t have me downstairs working to pay for everything. I can’t do that anymore.” He threw the sponge in the sink. “I thought you were more sensible than that. You saw how it worked out for her.”

“What does that mean? Mom sold her paintings.”

“Sure. A couple hundred bucks every once in a while that she’d go spend on some silly thing. Your mother was not a practical woman, Isabel. She should have done more to help us, to help you.”

I looked down at the pile of crumbs on my plate, remembered my mother’s words. Find a man who understands you. I’d never understood what held my parents’ marriage together. If you’d drawn a Venn diagram of them, the only thing you would find in the space where the two circles met would be me.

Abe was standing by the sink, his back to me. I could see his shoulders shaking.

“Dad, what is it?”

“Nothing.” He sat back down. There was a tremor by his jaw.

“Why did you ask me to come home?” I said. My hands were cold. “What is this all about? Are you sick?”

“No. Bubeleh, no. I’m fine. But the money your mother left, it didn’t cover as much as we thought it would.” The money your mother left—it sounded like he was talking about an inheritance, but he was talking about her life insurance, the bulk of which had been used to pay for my education, or so I thought. “Wilder was expensive, and I had to borrow a little to get you through. Most of it in my name, but some of it in yours.”

I felt something enter the room, something slithering and pale. I could feel it, winding around my ankles and shins, pinning me to the chair, forcing me to pay attention. This, it whispered. This is happening.

“How much?”

“In your name? Maybe twenty-five thousand dollars.”

“Maybe?”

“That’s how much. Twenty-five thousand dollars. No more.”

“When were you going to tell me? Wait—how long have you known?”

Abe paused. “A year or two.”

“A year or two?” I walked over to the refrigerator, placed a hand on the door. I didn’t have to open it to know what was inside: a container of skim milk, a stick of butter, a carton of eggs. Nothing extra, nothing decadent. “You said this was the one thing you wanted to give me. All those years of depriving ourselves, saying no to things, it was all for this, so I wouldn’t have debt. So I would be free.”