Raising Jake Part 37

"Funny, I was going to say the same thing to you."

But there's no way I can thank him for what he's done for me. I'm out of the cage I've lived in for so long, and the liberty is absolutely intoxicating. Anything seems possible now. Who knows? I might even be able to have a real relations.h.i.+p with a woman. My son put the wings back on my shoulders, and so what if I can't really fly? The trick isn't getting airborne. The trick is dreaming that you can do it. It's good to dream, even when dreams remain nothing but dreams.

At Christopher Street we board the Number 1 local for the ride uptown. Jake cannot wait. He takes out his guitar and begins playing it, his hair hanging over his eyes.

"Go ahead, kid," I tell him. "Just think of it as a cello turned sideways."

I sit across from Jake and watch his fingers introduce themselves to the strings, like the hesitant moves of an infatuated boy holding a girl for the first time.

He gains confidence by the moment. By the time we reach Twenty-eighth Street, he's strumming it with ease. At Columbus Circle, he begins to play "Yesterday." It's a heartfelt rendition, all the more beautiful for its uncertainty. He finishes the song, and a few people actually applaud. The train stops at Seventy-ninth Street, and a man tosses three quarters into the open guitar case on his way out. Jake looks at me in wonder.

"Congratulations, son. You just turned pro."

We are exhausted by the time we get back to the apartment. For the second straight night we flop on top of the bedspreads, fully clothed. Jake gently strums his guitar, which has already become his old friend. In minutes we'll both conk out.

But first, Jake says something I will never forget. "I like Danny," he tells me. "He's a good guy. He's amusing. But you're the better man."

The better man.

I want to ask him what he means by that. I also want to take a last shot at asking him about this plan he's got for tomorrow, but I'm too late. The little cobblestone thief is snoring away.

I wait until his sleep deepens before taking the guitar from his embrace and locking it up in its case. I pull off his boots and cover him with a blanket. His face is smooth and his brow is relaxed. He looks the way he used to look, long before anything bad ever happened to him. Once again, my boy is king of the monkey bars.

"You lied to me again, again, Dad." Dad."

I'm shocked to hear his voice. I thought he was in a deep deep, sleep. His eyes are closed, but he is wide-awake.

"What did I lie about?"

"Your childhood." He smiles, keeping his eyes shut. "You told me you had a dull childhood."

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE.

We have never before had hangovers together. Yet another new experience on this most memorable of weekends.

It's ten-thirty when I awaken, ninety minutes until Zero Hour with Doris. I open my eyes and immediately squint them against the morning light. My tongue is dry and my head is pounding. It's a mild hangover, a beer hangover, and I know what to do to get rid of it.

"Coffee," I say out loud.

"Great idea," Jake moans into his pillow.

I'm a little stiff as I get up to make it. My long-dormant muscles are having a hangover of their own, from the gardening and the cobblestone stealing.

We drink the coffee black and scalding hot. We do not have to discuss the day ahead. We both know that we'll be facing his mother together, showing up at her place shoulder to shoulder, like a pair of hired guns. And at some point, Jake will pull the trigger and unveil the master plan for his future.

Jake's eyes are puffy, but I figure the coffee and a shower should straighten him out. We're a little bit shy with each other, and I guess that makes sense. We know so much more about each other than we did twenty-four hours ago. It's almost as if we've finally been introduced, after nearly eighteen years.

Neither of us is hungry. We're both anxious but eager to get through the task ahead.

"You want to shower first?"

"Whatever you say, Dad."

I happen to have a great shower. The water hits you in a needle spray that's both pleasure and penance for whatever you did the night before. Jake always takes a good long time in my shower, and this time is no different. He comes out with his hair slicked straight back, the ends of it touching his collarbones. "G.o.d, that felt good."

"I think I've got clean underwear here for you."

"I'll find it. You'd better shower, Dad, it's past eleven."

He wants to be there by noon. He doesn't want to put it off for a single minute, and suddenly I realize that I don't, either. Enough already. It's time for Columbia University professor Doris Perez, Ph.D, to find out what everybody else already knows.

I strip down, go to the shower, and take the needle spray full-force in my face, as hot as I can stand it. Then, slowly, I turn the temperature k.n.o.b until the water is warm, then tepid, then cool, then cold. It's my own private hangover remedy, and I recommend it highly to anyone who does not have a heart condition.

Minutes to high noon. We are walking to the apartment on Eighty-first Street. Jake is carrying his bulky blue laundry sack, while I'm carrying his guitar.

"You okay, Jake?"

"Never better."

"Never better, he says. We're about to break some pretty rough news to your mother, and all I can say is that I hope you know CPR."

"She won't need it," Jake says. "This isn't going to kill her."

"She may kill me." me."

"I won't let that happen, either, Dad."

When we get to the building I'm ashamed to feel my knees tremble. I catch Jake by the elbow, just as he's about to climb the stoop. "Maybe you should see if she's home first, before I come in."

"No way she's home yet. We're a little early. And you know that's she's always a little late."

"I feel kind of funny going in there without her...permission."

"I'm giving you my my permission. I live here, too. Come on." permission. I live here, too. Come on."

We climb the four flights to the apartment. Jake gets the door open and says, "After you, Dad."

I have not set foot in this place since Doris and I split. On the rare occasions the three of us have hooked up since then, it was always in a public place, and I never thought I'd be back.

But I'm back. I step over the threshold into the very dwelling where Doris and I began our thing on that drunken night so long ago.

"Must feel weird for you, huh, Dad?"

"Weird isn't even the word for it."

I feel as if I've entered a fortune-teller's parlor. Doris always had a lot of books and paintings and gewgaws, but now it's totally out of control. There's not an inch of shelf s.p.a.ce or wall s.p.a.ce that isn't covered, crammed, packed, or stacked. Most of this stuff looks both fragile and irreplaceable. This has gone beyond collecting, and straight into the realm of storage.

"Christ," I say, "your mother does have a tendency to acc.u.mulate, doesn't she?"

"Yeah, it's in her nature. She surrounds herself with stuff to make her feel safe, I think. But I'm not sure it works."

An ancient gray cat with milky-blind eyes and bald spots on his back limps into the room. Jake squats to stroke him. "Come here, Jasper."

I'm stunned. "That's Jasper? Jasper? He's He's still alive?" still alive?"

"Well, barely. We had Max put to sleep about a year ago, and we should do the same with this guy, but Mom keeps putting it off."

I remember the two cats darting in front of me on my first night with Doris. Now one of them is dead, and the other one's darting days are long past.

"You know, this cat was here..." I shut up, let the sentence dangle.

"The very first night you were with Mom," Jake says matter-of-factly. "Well, that makes sense. He just turned twenty, believe it or not. He's a tough old b.a.s.t.a.r.d."

I squat beside Jake and stroke Jasper's head. He's staring at me, but I'm sure he sees nothing. He yawns in my face, exposing crooked yellow fangs.

"Christ, that breath!" breath!"

"Yeah," Jake chuckles, "it's pretty bad. Like he's rotting from the inside out. He hasn't got long now."

My stomach sinks at the sound of a key in the door. It opens, and in walks Doris, carrying a small black suitcase.

How long has it been since I've seen her? Three years? Five years? I can't even remember. Her hair has gone totally gray, and she's done nothing to color or highlight it, and it still tumbles down her back the way it always has. She wears black boots that make a clacking sound on hardwood floors, black slacks, a black sweater, and what can only be called a cape across her shoulders-black, of course, a silken thing that floats behind her when she walks.

Doris has always been aware of her own sense of drama. When she enters a cla.s.sroom at Columbia the students are intimidated by the sound of the boots and the sight of the cape, as if Zorro has just arrived to teach them advanced Spanish literature. She takes a few steps inside before she notices me squatting on the floor, stroking the cat.

"Oh my G.o.d." G.o.d."

"h.e.l.lo, Doris," I say. "It's good to see you." This isn't quite the truth, but I suspect it'll be the last lie that'll be told today.

Doris is absolutely stunned. For a moment it looks as if she's thinking about calling the cops. Instead, she puts on her gla.s.ses, which I notice are bifocals.

"You got older," she says, examining me through the upper halves.

"Yeah, somehow I couldn't get around it."

"Gained some weight."

"Correct again. Nice to see you've got that same keen eye for detail."

She continues to stare at me as Jake gets up and gives her a kiss on the cheek.

"Hi, Mom. Did you have a good time at the conference?"

"As good a time as one can have in Schenectady," she murmurs, turning at last to look at her son. Her eyes widen in alarm. "My G.o.d! G.o.d! Your Your arms! arms! What happened to your arms?" What happened to your arms?"

Doris grabs Jake by the elbows and turns them to inspect his inner forearms, which are covered with dozens of small red scratches. She obviously thinks he's been shooting heroin, that two nights in my lackadaisical care have turned him into an intravenous drug user.

"It's nothing, Mom. Just a few scratches from barnacles."

"Barnacles!"

And I figure what the f.u.c.k, and dive right into it.

"We were helping my father steal cobblestones from Flus.h.i.+ng Bay at low tide," I explain helpfully. "They were covered in barnacles." I hold out my forearms. "See, I got scratched, too."

Doris looks at me as if I've lost my mind. "Hold on, hold on. You went to see Danny?" Danny?"

"Yes, that was part of the weekend festivities."

"Why?"

"Why not?"

"Because he's not exactly the sort of person Jacob should get to know!"

"I disagree, Doris. I figured it was time he met his grandfather, before it was too late."

"Oh, this is just dreadful!" dreadful!"

"Calm down, Mom," Jake says. "We had a good time."

"Stealing cobblestones? That's your idea of a That's your idea of a good time?" good time?"

Doris is flying now. She shuts her eyes and holds her hands out defensively. "I don't even want to hear the details, but you say you were stealing cobblestones with Danny?"

"Not really stealing," stealing," I say. "They were stuck in the muck. n.o.body even knew they were there. We just took them." I say. "They were stuck in the muck. n.o.body even knew they were there. We just took them."

"Kindly select the correct verb, Sammy. You said you stole stole them. Now you simply them. Now you simply took took them. Which is right?" them. Which is right?"

"We acquired acquired them, Mom," Jake says helpfully. "You happy with that verb?" them, Mom," Jake says helpfully. "You happy with that verb?"

Doris opens her eyes, which are burning bright. She's looking right at Jake. "Do you see now why I've kept you away from that man all this time?"

"Not really, Mom."

"What if you'd been caught? What if you suddenly had a crime on your record?"

Doris turns to me. "Did you think of that, in the midst of your cobblestone frolics? He'll be applying to colleges soon! Do you realize what a criminal record would do to his chances? One stupid little thing like this cobblestone stunt, and the course of his life is changed forever!"