Raising Jake Part 7

"I hope not."

"Jake! My G.o.d! G.o.d!"

"Didn't you like it?"

"Why didn't you just tell them you planned to blow up the school?"

"I don't want to blow up the school. It's valuable real estate."

She stares at him in wonder and exasperation, then turns to me. "What do you think of this, Mr. Sullivan?"

I swallow hard, look to Jake for guidance. His face is as blank as I've ever seen it. I don't know how he wants me to play it, so I decide to go with the truth.

I clear my throat. "Actually, I thought it was a h.e.l.l of a good essay."

"You did?!" did?!"

"He made some excellent points, and it's a smooth read."

Sarah looks from me to Jake and back to me, trying to figure whether we've both gone insane, or if it's all a big gag of some kind. We're all going to share a big laugh, and then Jake's dad is going to spring for a nice meal at a tablecloth restaurant of her choice on the Upper East Side. Oh, you guys! You had me going, there!... Oh, you guys! You had me going, there!...

"It wasn't just the essay," Jake adds. "They actually threw me out because I wouldn't apologize."

"Why wouldn't you apologize?"

"I wasn't sorry."

Sarah hands the essay back to Jake, who folds it and sticks it in his hip pocket.

"Jacob Perez-Sullivan. You are such a child." child."

"I think it would have been childish to apologize."

"You realize, of course, that you've just squandered your entire future."

"You think?"

She lets out a shrieky noise, like a cat that's just had its tail stepped on, a noise that makes a few coffee drinkers turn around for a look.

"Come on," on," she says. "Get she says. "Get real. real. Do you know what this means? The Ivy League schools are Do you know what this means? The Ivy League schools are out. out. And the whole second tier is probably out, too. Where are you going to go now, to a And the whole second tier is probably out, too. Where are you going to go now, to a state university!" state university!"

"I can't even think about that stuff, unless I finish high school."

"Unless!"

"Well, yeah. I mean, technically, I'm a dropout."

"Oh my G.o.d, oh my G.o.d. G.o.d."

"Sarah." Jake reaches for her hand, but she pulls it away. "I didn't kill anyone. All I did was write something they didn't like. Can't you see? If I apologize for something 1 believe in, I'm a dead man."

She sits back, puts her hands to her temples. "Everything's ruined, ruined," she says, and the tears in her eyes appear to be real.

"Calm down," Jake says. "n.o.body died."

"Your future future just died!" just died!"

"Sarah-"

"Nantucket's out, out, I'm sure you realize." I'm sure you realize."

"What?"

"I was going to invite you to our place in Nantucket next summer. Mom and Dad will never allow it now."

"Because I'm not in private school anymore?"

"Because you're not serious." serious."

"Sarah. I am dead serious about what I wrote."

"You just had had to do it, didn't you? Not that I'm surprised. Not with your..." She hesitates, thinks about it, and finally finds the right word... to do it, didn't you? Not that I'm surprised. Not with your..." She hesitates, thinks about it, and finally finds the right word...

"...background."

The coffee in my mouth turns to acid. I'm I'm Jake's background, and as Sarah says it she doesn't even bother looking at me. Jake's background, and as Sarah says it she doesn't even bother looking at me.

Jake stares at her with a blend of amus.e.m.e.nt and disappointment. There's a sad grin on his face, the grin of a scientist whose lab rat has just confirmed his theory about how strenuous circ.u.mstances induce dreadful behavior.

But the experiment is not yet over. Calmly as a priest Jake says, "My background? You mean my dad, here?"

"Well, yes. yes." And still still she's not looking at me! "Working for that horrible rag. That's where your self-destructive att.i.tude comes from, in case you wondered." she's not looking at me! "Working for that horrible rag. That's where your self-destructive att.i.tude comes from, in case you wondered."

"I don't work for that horrible rag anymore," I say softly, trying to be helpful. At last she turns to look at me. Her face is now all but crimson with rage, and it highlights a slight b.u.mp on her nose I hadn't noticed before. She's not so perfect after all.

"I'm sorry I said that," she says, not sorry at all. "But I'm glad you don't work there anymore. It's a dreadful, fascist publication that caters to the lowest impulses in human beings."

Clearly, she's quoting one of her parents from a Park Avenue dinner table rant. "Anyway," she adds, "I think it's good that you quit."

"I didn't quit. They fired me today. Jake's out of school, and I'm out of work."

This is more than Sarah can take. Her family's idea of drama is when somebody parks the car on the street instead of tucking it into a nice safe garage. She's just found out that her boyfriend and his father are a pair of b.u.ms. She jumps to her feet as if a fire alarm has just sounded.

"I'm sorry, Jake." She shuts her eyes, holds up her hands. "I just...it's more than I can deal with. I'm sorry, but we're through."

Jake nods, but remains seated. "We are are through, Sarah. You're right. But not because of this. We're through because last weekend you f.u.c.ked Pete Hogan." through, Sarah. You're right. But not because of this. We're through because last weekend you f.u.c.ked Pete Hogan."

My stomach is in free fall. Sarah's mouth literally drops open. She covers it with her hands as Jake continues speaking, calmly and slowly.

"Pete bragged about it. Didn't you think he would? Don't you know what he is? is? I go away one weekend, and look what happens." I go away one weekend, and look what happens."

"Jake. Please listen. Somebody put something in my drink. I never-"

"If you wanted to f.u.c.k Pete Hogan, all you had to do was tell me you wanted to f.u.c.k Pete Hogan. I'd have understood. h.e.l.l, his parents have a house on Martha's Vineyard. That's just a ferry ride from Nantucket, isn't it?"

"Jake, please let me-"

"Don't bother, Sarah. No point in trying to explain something so complicated to someone with my background. I'd never understand it."

He makes a shooing motion with his hand, as if to chase away a lazy fly. "Just go, Sarah. Leave."

Sarah knocks over what's left of her latte as she hurries away. Jake waits until she's nearly at the door, then yells her name. She stops where she is and turns to face him.

"Your father spends his life finding loopholes in the environmental laws so the companies that pay him can keep dumping their toxins in the rivers!" he shouts, loudly enough for every coffee drinker to hear. "That's father spends his life finding loopholes in the environmental laws so the companies that pay him can keep dumping their toxins in the rivers!" he shouts, loudly enough for every coffee drinker to hear. "That's your your background, baby! Live with it! I'll take my background over yours any day!" background, baby! Live with it! I'll take my background over yours any day!"

Sarah all but sprints out of Starbucks. I grab a wad of paper napkins and start soaking up what Sarah has spilled, amazed that it's still warm, that everything that's just happened took place in less time than it takes for a three-dollar latte to lose its heat.

Jake sits back and sips his latte, like a weary a.s.sa.s.sin after a successful but dull hit. "I'm glad that's out of the way," he says. "That's been bothering me all week."

"Who's Pete Hogan?"

"n.o.body you need to know. Just some a.s.shole. Thanks for being here, Dad."

"Jake, I'm sorry you've been hurt."

"I was was hurt. Then I got over it. Then I got mad." hurt. Then I got over it. Then I got mad."

"I noticed. But you don't have to be over it. What I mean is, it's okay if you're still hurting."

Jake thinks it over for a second. "The h.e.l.l with her," he says, but his eyes glisten with tears and his voice quakes as he says, "There's no loyalty, Dad. Why isn't anybody loyal?" loyal?"

I don't know what to say, so I say nothing. I reach over to squeeze his shoulder, and he doesn't pull away. In fact, he startles me by turning to bury his face in my chest and hug me, hard and long. His sobs are silent, but he's sobbing, all right.

I shouldn't let the beard fool me. He's still just a boy, my my boy, I say to myself as I hold him close and stroke his hair. It's been a long time since he's allowed me to do that, and I don't mind doing it. What I boy, I say to myself as I hold him close and stroke his hair. It's been a long time since he's allowed me to do that, and I don't mind doing it. What I do do mind is the way all those highly caffeinated people are staring at us. mind is the way all those highly caffeinated people are staring at us.

"What the h.e.l.l are you people looking at?" I all but bellow. "Go back to your overpriced beverages!"

They do just that, turning their faces away from Jake and me. I'm waiting for the manager to come over and ask us to leave, but it never happens. I can sit there at Starbucks and stroke my boy's hair for as long as I f.u.c.king well please.

CHAPTER SEVEN.

I guess you could say that Jake was an accident, but you'd have to take it further than that and go all the way back to a series of circ.u.mstances that toppled like a row of dominoes toward the life we all now struggle through. guess you could say that Jake was an accident, but you'd have to take it further than that and go all the way back to a series of circ.u.mstances that toppled like a row of dominoes toward the life we all now struggle through.

I met Jake's mother at a press event with a little bit of an intellectual crossover. It was the screening of a high-brow, low-budget film about some Puerto Rican poet whose name does not escape me, because I never had it trapped in the first place. Anyway, the Star Star's movie reviewer had no intention of covering the screening, so he offered me his free pa.s.s to the film. I went because nothing better was happening that night. I was tired of chasing waitresses and copygirls, and figured this might be a way to fish in unexplored waters.

I was an awful person, glib and shallow, interested only in drunken good times and uncomplicated s.e.x, if there is any such thing. I'm amazed that any woman had anything to do with me. I'd never really had a relations.h.i.+p before, nor was I interested in one. All I cared about was the next thrill, if only because it led to the thrill after that one. And it wasn't as if I was some kid-by this time, I was well past thirty. If a fortune-teller had told me that I was going to meet my future wife at this event, I'd have laughed in his face and demanded a refund. I wasn't in the market for a wife, then or ever.

The minute I got to the screening, I knew I'd made a mistake. It had drawn an intellectual-looking crowd, a lot of beards and bifocals-but what the h.e.l.l, I was there already, and decided to give the movie a shot.

I fell asleep minutes after the lights went down-subt.i.tles do that to me, I just can't help it-and when the lights came up I figured the night was a bust. I was going to go home but they'd set up a wine and cheese table in the lobby so that everybody could stand around and discuss what we'd just seen, and that's where I first set eyes on Doris Perez.

She had long dark hair that tumbled down her back like a basket of hastily dumped snakes, and she looked both bored and superior, an irresistible combination for a tabloid reporter eager for s.e.x without courts.h.i.+p.

I struck up a conversation with her at the wine table, or maybe she struck it up with me. She was a professor in the Romance Languages Department at Columbia University, and she didn't think much of the film they'd just shown. Then she asked for my opinion of it.

"It was a little slow," I offered.

"That's amazing," Doris replied.

"What's amazing?"

"That you were able to watch it through your eyelids."

Okay, so now I knew she'd had her eye on me before I ever had mine on her.

"I don't know a lot about Puerto Rican poets," I admitted. "That's more like your specialty."

Her face grew dark. "I'm not Puerto Rican. I'm of Spanish descent."

"Have I insulted you?"

"I just want to make things clear."

"Well, let me make things clear, too. I'm not an academic, like the rest of this crowd. I'm a reporter for the New York Star." New York Star."

She lost it. She literally put her head back and howled with laughter. I stood there and took it on the chin, determined that I was going to bed this broad, if only to make her lose control another way. When she stopped laughing she apologized, not meaning it, and went on to say that though she was not a New York Star New York Star reader she couldn't help but be a.s.saulted by its noisy headlines every time she went to buy the reader she couldn't help but be a.s.saulted by its noisy headlines every time she went to buy the New York Times. New York Times.

"I'm sorry," she said, "but that's how I feel about it."

I urged her not to feel bad, that as far as I was concerned the last memorable person to come out of Columbia University was Lou Gehrig.

"Who's Lou Gehrig?" she asked.

It was my turn to laugh. "Are you kidding me?"

"I a.s.sure you, I am not."

"Greatest first baseman ever to play for the Yankees. Dropped out of Columbia to pursue a baseball career. They made a movie about it called The Pride of the Yankees. The Pride of the Yankees. Now, Now, that that was a film. Not like this poet bulls.h.i.+t we just sat through." was a film. Not like this poet bulls.h.i.+t we just sat through."

"Where is this remarkable man now?"

"Long dead. He had a terrible illness. They named the disease after him. He was only thirty-eight years old."