Nine
Paul stopped doing some online research when he heard the front door open and his son, Josh, shout: “Dad!”
Paul exited his office and headed for the top of the stairs in time to meet his son. He knew better than to expect a huge hug. Josh, backpack slung over his shoulder, gave his father the briefest of embraces and ran to the fridge.
“How was the train?” Paul asked.
Josh found a can of Pepsi, popped it, and said, “It was good. Mom went right down to the platform with me to watch me get on.” He rolled his eyes. “I’m not a kid. I’m almost ten. I’ve taken the train before.”
“She can’t help it. She’s a mom.”
Josh shrugged, then said, “Charlotte got you something. She wouldn’t let me put my bag in the trunk when she picked me up in case I saw it.”
Charlotte had reached the top of the stairs. “No blabbing!”
“I don’t even know what it is,” Josh said, taking a drink.
“Just one of those a day,” Paul said, pointing to the can. “You don’t need all that sugar.”
Josh displayed the can. “It’s diet.”
“Oh,” Paul said, then to Charlotte, “What did you get me? Is this the thing you mentioned the other day?”
She smiled devilishly. “I want you and Josh to take a walk. Go down to the beach. Give me five.”
Paul exchanged glances with Josh. “I guess we’re getting kicked out.”
Paul and Josh descended the steps, went out the front door, and rounded the house to reach the beach. The wind coming in off the sound was crisp and cool, but the midday sun cut the need for a jacket. It was early June, and the temperatures had been below average for this time of year. The water would have to warm up a lot before Josh would want to go in.
“How’s your mom?” Paul asked.
“Fine.”
“And Walter?”
Josh’s stepfather.
Josh looked for a stone to throw into the water. “He’s okay.” He paused. “I like it in the city. There’s tons to do.”
“Okay,” Paul said. It wasn’t that he wanted his son to be miserable in Manhattan with his mother and stepdad. He wanted nothing but happiness for the boy. But it pained him some to think Josh had to endure the boring Connecticut suburbs to spend time with him.
“Walter’s always getting free tickets to stuff, like baseball games and shows and stuff. In fact...”
“In fact what?”
Josh glanced up warily at his father. “Walter got tickets to tomorrow afternoon’s Knicks game.”
“Great. I hope he and your mom have fun.”
“But so, like, they’re going to pick me up tomorrow morning. I’d have taken the train but Walter’s got some client in Darien he wants to see in person before heading back. So I’m just here for one night. Maybe I wasn’t supposed to tell you. Mom talked it over with Charlotte. She’s probably going to tell you after she gives you your surprise.”
“Maybe that’s the surprise,” Paul said grimly. He shook his head slowly, feeling the irritation build. This definitely should have been discussed with him. He was expecting to spend the entire weekend with his son. But he didn’t want to take his anger out on Josh. He patted him on the back and said, “We’ll sort it out.”
“But I can go, right?” Josh asked. “I’ve only been to one other NBA game and I really liked it.”
Paul suddenly felt very tired. He glanced at his watch. “I think it’s been five minutes,” he said.
When they got back to the kitchen, Paul immediately noticed his office door was closed. Charlotte stood before it, a smug look on her face, but it broke when she saw Paul’s expression.
“What?” she asked. “You don’t look happy.”
“Did you know Josh was going back tomorrow?” he asked.
“Hailey mentioned it when she emailed me about when Josh’s train would arrive.”
“You couldn’t have told me?”
She crossed her arms and waited a beat. “Maybe this isn’t a good time.”
Josh’s face fell. “We’re not doing the surprise?”
Charlotte stared at Paul. “It’s your dad’s call.”
Paul looked at Josh, quickly sized up the disappointment in his face, and tamped down the anger he’d been feeling. “Sorry,” he said. “Surprise me.”
“Is it in there?” Josh asked. He looked ready to charge into the small study.
“Stay right there, buster,” Charlotte said. Her look softened as she said to her husband, “I wanted to get something to inspire you as you...” She looked at Josh and decided against getting into all the details. “I wanted to celebrate your moving forward.”
Paul smiled with curiosity. “Okay.”
She aimed her thumb at the door. “Go on in.”
Josh said, “Can I open it?”
“Yeah, okay,” Paul said. To Charlotte: “Should I close my eyes?”
She shook her head.
Josh turned the knob and pushed the door open.
Sitting on the desk, beside the closed laptop and hidden beneath a tea towel adorned with Christmas trees, was something the size of a football helmet, although far less rounded.
“So it’s a Christmas present,” Paul said.
Charlotte shrugged. “It was the biggest dish towel I had, and it was too awkward to wrap properly. Take a guess.”
Paul grinned. “I got nuthin’.”
Josh had squeezed himself in front of his father, wanting to reach out and pull the towel away, but knowing he had to let his dad do it.
“Here goes,” Paul said, grabbing the corner of the towel and flicking it back like a magician whipping out a tablecloth from a fully set dining room table.
Josh said, “What is it?”
“Oh, my God,” Paul said. “It’s amazing.”
“You like it?” Charlotte said, putting her palms together, as though praying, the tips of her fingers touching her chin. “Seriously?”
“I love it.”
For a second time, Josh asked, “What is it?”
“That,” Paul told him, mussing his hair, “is a typewriter.”
“A what?”
“You must have needed a crane to bring it in here,” Paul said, running his fingers along the base of the machine. “It looks like it weighs a ton.”
Charlotte did her best Muscle Beach pose. “Strrrong vooman. Like ox.”
Paul dropped his butt into the computer chair and gave the antique a thorough examination.
“This is so funny,” he said. “I was just thinking about one of these old typewriters.”
“Seriously?” Charlotte asked. “I’m like a mind reader. Why were—”
Paul shook his head to suggest it didn’t matter. Besides, he was too busy inspecting the machine to reply.
It was an Underwood. The name was stenciled onto the black metal just above the keys and, in much bigger letters, across the back shelf that would prop up a sheet of paper, had one been rolled in. The machine was almost entirely black, except for the keypad — Paul wondered if that was strictly a computer term — but anyway, all those keys, marked with letters and numbers and punctuation marks, each one perfectly ringed in silver.
“What does it do?” Josh asked.
Above the keys, a semicircular opening that afforded a view of the — Paul wasn’t even sure what they were called, those perfectly arrayed metal arms that struck paper as one pounded on the keys. But there was a kind of beauty in how they were arranged, like the inside of a very tiny opera house. Those keys were the people, the paper the stage.
“It writes things,” Paul said.
“How?”
“Grab a sheet of paper from the printer.”