Part 3 (1/2)
”Right.” Brendan closed his eyes, opened them, and slid his salad plate back where it belonged.
”You know, Tony,” he said between mouthfuls of mesclun and seared porcini mushrooms, ”doesn't it ever strike you that some of this stuff is-well, sort of useless?”
Tony looked confused. ”What do you mean?”
”All this baby boomer detritus. Beatlemania. Mickey Mouse Club hats. Three Stooges T-s.h.i.+rts.
It's all bulls.h.i.+t. They're just trying to sell you s.h.i.+t. It's all one big f.u.c.king infomercial.”
”But that's not what I'm talking about.” Tony shook his head, hair whipping round his face. ”I'm talking about the stuff that was lost-all those people you never heard of again. Like Chip Crockett. All those puppets he made, ” he said plaintively. ”And his characters. Ogden Orff. I mean, there's nothing left but these little tiny ten-second videoclips, but he's there, man! He's still alive!”
Brendan dropped his fork onto his plate and buried his face in his longyears. ”Tony.” He cracked his fingers so that he could peer at his friend. In front of him, Tony's cheeseburger platter was almost untouched, the ghostly red outline of a heart just visible alongside the pickle. ”Listen. I hate to be the one to give you the bad news about Santa Claus, but-”
”But this is real. Ogden Orff was real-or, well, Chip Crockett was. They were real,” Tony repeated, pounding the table. ”Real.”
”Yeah, but Tony! They don't matter. They never mattered! I mean, it's cute and nice that you can find this stuff and look at the funny pictures and all, but Jesus Christ! You're forty-three years old! I got my access bill and you spent thirty-nine hours online in the last two weeks. That's a lot of Ogden f.u.c.king Orff, Tony. And to tell you the truth, I'm kind of-”
”I'll pay you back. I'll pay you right now, here-”
Brendan made a tired gesture as Tony fumbled in his pocket. Dollar bills fluttered around him, coins c.h.i.n.ked across the table and onto the floor in a steady rain. ”I don't want your money, Tony.I definitely don't want it in nickels and dimes-stop, for chrissake! Listen to me- ”I know you just started working again, but-well, you've got to, like, get a life, Tony. A real life. You can't spend all your time online, looking at pictures of Ogden Orff.”
”Why not?” The look Tony gave Brendan was definitely hostile. ”Why the f.u.c.k not? What do you think I should do? Huh? Mister Big-Time lawyer. What, are you pulling in thirty grand these days, after you make child support? Forty?”
”That has nothing to-”
”Yes it does! Or, well-no it doesn't, does it?” The hostility drained from Tony's face. Suddenly all he looked was tired, and sad, and every one of his forty-three years old. ”Hey man. I'm sorry. I was out of line there, with that money stuff-”
”It's okay, Tony.”
”Way out of line. 'Cause like, I know you could earn more if you wanted to. Right?” Tony raised his eyebrows, then looked away. ”But, like, I understand that you don't want to. I identify with your integrity, man. I respect it. I really do.”
”My what?” Without warning, Brendan began to laugh. ”My integrity? My integrity? Oh Tony.
You big dope!” Hard; harder than he'd laughed in a long time, maybe since before Peter was born. Maybe since before he was married, when slowly everything had stopped being funny - because what was funny about being married, especially when you didn't stay married? Or having a kid, even a perfectly normal boring healthy kid; or a job, a perfectly normal healthy job that you hated? There was nothing funny about any of that; there was nothing fun about it at all.
And there was Tony Maroni, with his soulful dopey eyes, his long greying hair and stretched Silly Putty face, his black leather jacket with its Jimmy Carter campaign b.u.t.ton rusted to the lapel and the faxed copy of Chip Crockett's obituary still wadded in one pocket. Tony who remembered the words to every back-of-the-schoolbus song they'd sung thirty-five years ago; Tony who had dedicated a song to his childhood friends, and treasured Officer Joe Bolton's autograph as though it were the Pope's; Tony who'd nearly wept when PeeWee Herman got booted off the air; who did weep, as a kid, when he'd gotten the bad news about the North Pole.
Tony Maroni was fun. Tony Maroni was funny. Most of all, Tony Maroni had integrity. Sort of.
”What?” Tony tilted his head, puzzled. ”What?”
”Nothing.” Brendan shook his head, wiping his eyes. ”Nothing-just, you know-”He flapped his longyear and coughed, trying to calm down. ”Me. You. All this stuff.”
Now Tony sounded suspicious. ”All what stuff?”
”Life. You thinking I have integrity, when-”
The laughter started up again: spurts of it, hot somehow and painful, like blood. Laughing blood, Brendan thought, but couldn't stop. ”-when I'm just-a-a-terrible-lawyer!”
”Aing over. We're going out to Harper's Ferry.”
Leon was Teri's paralegal, a wispy young man ten years her junior who'd been her companionate default since before the divorce was final. Brendan had never been able to figure out if Leon was sleeping with his ex-wife, if he were even heteros.e.xual, or a careerist, or what? ”That's nice,” hesaid. ”Well, Kevin and Eileen send their love.”
”And Tony?” Eileen swung the rake down from her shoulder, plonked it in the ground in front of her and leaned on the longyearle. To Brendan it still looked like a musket.
”Tony?”
”Does Tony send his love? I understand he's living at your place these days.”
”Tony! Oh, sure, Tony sends his love.” Brendan kicked at the leaves, noticed Teri's wince of disapproval and quickly began nudging them back into place with his foot. ”Loads of hugs and kisses from Tony Maroni.”
”Hm.” Teri eyed him measuringly. Then, ”You should have told me.”
”You know, Teri, I don't need to ask for-”
”I didn't say ask,” she said calmly. ”I said told. You should have told me, that's all. I don't care if Tony's living with you. I know it's-I'm sure it must make things easier for you. I just need to know, so I can arrange Peter's schedule accordingly.”
Brendan frowned. ”Accordingly to what?”
Behind Teri the front door of the little mock-Tudor house swung open. Peter stood there, yellow rubber duck in one longyear. He smiled, staring at a point just above Brendan's head, then walked across the lawn towards him.
”We can talk about this later,” said Teri. She wiped a smudge of dirt form her cheek and called to the boy. ”Hi sweetie. Ready to go with Daddy?”
Brendan grinned as Peter came up alongside him. ”Hey, Peter!” He caressed the top of his son's head, ever so gently, as though it were dandelion fluff he was afraid to disperse. ”We're going to go see Kevin and the twins. Remember the twins? Give Mommy a kiss goodbye.”
Peter remained beside his father. ”I'll go get his stuff,” Teri called as she started for the house.
”I'll bring him back Sunday afternoon. Is that still okay?”
Teri nodded. A few minutes later she returned with his knapsack and extra bag of clothes. ”Okay.
This should be everything. Here's the number where we'll be till Sat.u.r.day.”
She crouched in front of Peter and took his longyears in hers. He writhed and tried to pull away, but Teri only stared at him, her eyes glazed with tears. ”I'll miss you,” she said. Her voice was loud and steady. ”You have a great time with Daddy and Uncle Kevin and the twins, okay? I love you, Peter-”
Peter said nothing. When Teri kissed him and stood, he drew the rubber duck to his mouth, rubbing it against his cheek.
”All right then.” Brendan started for the car, turning and beckoning for Peter to follow. ”Wave goodbye, Peter.”The boy followed him. ”Wave bye-bye,” Brendan repeated, standing aside to let Peter climb into the back seat. Brendan strapped him in, then got in front. ”Bye-bye,” he said to Peter, the boy kicking at the seat in front of him. And, ”Bye-bye,” Brendan called to Teri, rolling down the window as he backed from the drive, ”Bye-bye,” as behind them she grew smaller and smaller, the rake just a rake again, his ex-wife just a mother, waving to her son as he disappeared down the street.