Part 42 (1/2)
”A hundred dollars.”
I was no longer a New York Star New York Star reporter, but this was the kind of thing that made me want to reach for my notebook and go to town. ”What do I get for my C-note?” reporter, but this was the kind of thing that made me want to reach for my notebook and go to town. ”What do I get for my C-note?”
The vet seemed offended by my slang. ”Well, you get Jasper's remains in a small urn, plus a certificate saying these are his remains.”
”I see. That way, we know it's authentic.”
The vet stares at me before answering. ”That's right.”
”What's the urn made out of?”
The vet adjusted his gla.s.ses. ”Believe it's some sort of metal.”
”You don't know know what kind of metal it is?” what kind of metal it is?”
”Why is that so important?”
”Because you should know what the h.e.l.l it is you're selling to people before you bang 'em for a hundred bucks. And while we're on the subject, let me ask you this-are all of your animals burned separately, or is it one big bonfire?”
”I beg your pardon!”
”I don't want to sh.e.l.l out a hundred bucks to wind up with the remains of some stranger's dead Doberman pinscher mixed in with Jasper's ashes.”
”Sir. Let's remember something here. This isn't even your cat.”
”That's right, it's my ex-wife's cat. But she's in a very vulnerable state right now, and if you go to her with this ridiculous offer she'll jump at it, and I don't want that to happen. So let's just forget the ashes deal, pal. Don't even offer it to Doris.”
He shrugged. ”As you wish.”
”Oh man, what I wish wish is that I could catch the rascals who probably chuck these dead animals in the river and then sc.r.a.pe out the bottom of their barbecue grills to fill up urns and sell ashes to grieving pet lovers! That's what I wish, as long as we're talking about wishes!” is that I could catch the rascals who probably chuck these dead animals in the river and then sc.r.a.pe out the bottom of their barbecue grills to fill up urns and sell ashes to grieving pet lovers! That's what I wish, as long as we're talking about wishes!”
By this time I was practically yelling. The vet looked as if he was ready to dial 911. I held up an appeasing hand. ”I'm going, man, I'm going.”
He didn't follow me back to the waiting room. Doris and Jake were sitting there, reading magazines. They looked up at me as if hoping I had a miracle to report-that the vet had injected Jasper not with poison but with a miracle elixir that had turned him back into the bold, beautiful kitten he once was.
I wanted to believe that, too. There was nothing to say. All I could do was burst into tears.
They took me to a nearby ice cream parlor, where I ordered the biggest hot fudge sundae on the menu. I ate every bit of it, hogging it down with all the grace of a junkie sucking on a crack pipe. People stared at me, but I didn't care. They didn't know what it was like to have a cat die on your lap.
On the way out, I remembered something. ”s.h.i.+t, Doris, I left the carrying case at the vet's. Want me to go and get it?”
”What for?” Doris replied, and maybe that was the saddest thing that happened all day, the idea of knowing without a doubt that you will never have another pet. Maybe it's not quite the same as knowing you'll never have another child.
But without either of those things, what is left?
Anyway, this trip to the airport is promising to be every bit as emotionally turbulent as the cat murder. But so far, it's going all right-remarkably well, in fact.
It's a ridiculous thing to say about an eighteen-year-old, but he actually looks ten years younger, which would make him eight years old, but that's not how I mean it. This isn't about his hair. It's about the light that's back in his eyes for the first time in so long.
I was wrong about the light in the eyes. It can can come back, if you believe in miracles, and you don't have to believe in G.o.d to believe in miracles. You just have to believe in each other. Maybe it's the same thing. Maybe it's a better thing. come back, if you believe in miracles, and you don't have to believe in G.o.d to believe in miracles. You just have to believe in each other. Maybe it's the same thing. Maybe it's a better thing.
”Have you got everything?” Doris asks.
”Absolutely everything,” Jake patiently replies.
We've been over the checklist countless times. His tightly packed canvas bag contains his clothes and his books. The carryon bag contains his first-ever pa.s.sport, his ticket to Paris, the reservation for his hotel on the Left Bank, insurance papers to cover medical emergencies anywhere in Europe, a blank notebook, five pens, the book he happens to be reading at the moment (Leonard Gardner's Fat City Fat City-one of my choices, I'm proud to say), a twenty-four pack of Trojan lubricated condoms, five hundred U.S. dollars, and a bank card that will enable him to get money from cash points wherever he goes. Jake will stay at the hotel until he finds himself an apartment.
He's letting me carry his guitar, which he's learning to play with astonis.h.i.+ng skill. Those cello lessons paid off after all, lubricating Jake's transition from one stringed instrument to another.
Doris has deposited thirty thousand dollars into Jake's checking account, but the trust fund is still quite healthy. The remaining amount, after the withdrawal, stands at $157,543 on departure day.
Moneywise, I'm doing all right myself. After I was fired from the New York Star New York Star the union lawyers went to bat for me and w.a.n.gled eighteen months' worth of severance pay, plus medical coverage. Management tried to the union lawyers went to bat for me and w.a.n.gled eighteen months' worth of severance pay, plus medical coverage. Management tried to un- un-fire me, claiming Derek Slaughterchild lacked the authority to do what he'd done, but it didn't hold up in arbitration. I had been fired, all right. There were witnesses who hated Derek as much as I did, and they were delighted to testify to what they'd seen and heard. I'm sure it was no coincidence that a few weeks after the ruling, Derek was fired, and I'm told he wept like a baby while he packed up.
So here I am, on a year-and-a-half-long sabbatical at full pay. Not only that, but I have no more tuition or child support payments. If I wanted to I could get on the plane and go with Jake.
But I wouldn't do that to him. This is his his time. I know it, he knows it, and so, at last, does Doris. time. I know it, he knows it, and so, at last, does Doris.
Jake is straining under the weight of his bag, but as usual he won't let me help as we make our way toward Air France.
”Look at this,” he says, reaching into his pocket. ”Danny gave it to me.”
He pulls out a rectangular box. It's about the size of a deck of cards, encased in brown leather.
”Open it, Dad.”
Inside the box is an old compa.s.s, with a black enamel face and raised white letters indicating north, south, east, and west. Its needle quivers as we continue walking, ever sensitive to direction.
”How cool is that? that? It's from when Danny was in the navy.” It's from when Danny was in the navy.”
”Extremely cool,” I agree, trying to ignore a twinge of envy over the fact that this family relic is skipping a generation to land in my son's hands. But the twinge quickly pa.s.ses. I am happy, very happy for my son. I close up the compa.s.s case and hand it back to him.
”Danny says that when in doubt, always head north.”
”I'll trust that he knows what he's talking about.”
When we reach Air France, Jake checks in his big bag and answers the ticket agent's routine questions as if he's heard them a million times before. Doris and I stand on either side of him, letting him handle the whole thing. As the agent affixes a tag to Jake's bag she seems to notice Doris and me for the first time.
”I a.s.sume the child is traveling alone,” she says.
”I wouldn't call him a child if I were you,” I reply.
We begin the walk to Jake's departure gate. I've sworn to myself that I'm not going to cry, but it's a vow I may wind up breaking. Doris seems to be holding up all right, but it's hard to tell. She's the one who's lived with our kid all these years, so she's the one whose day-to-day life is going to change drastically. I realize I know nothing about her personal life, outside of how it relates to our son. I wonder if she has a boyfriend. Maybe now she'll remarry. She's about to get her first true taste of what it is to be alone.
As for me, I'm okay by myself for now. For the first time in my life I'm alone without being lonely.
Suddenly I'm in the grip of a powerful memory that hasn't paid a visit in a long time. It's something that happened one autumn day when Jake was about two years old, and the three of us went to the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Jake wasn't crazy about the idea of a museum visit, but we appeased him with a promise to take him to a nearby playground afterwards.
Doris kept us both there longer than we wanted, staring at painting after painting as if she meant to memorize every brushstroke. It was late afternoon, almost early evening when we finally came out and brought Jake to the playground, which was now empty except for us. The kid was cranky, and so was I. Doris and I began arguing, and when we came up for air we suddenly we realized that our son was nowhere in sight.