“And we won’t be publishing the day after that,” Plimpton said. “It’s with a profound sense of sadness that I tell you the Standard is closing.”
She said some more things. About profitability, and the lack thereof. About the decline in advertising, and classifieds in particular. About a drop in market share, plummeting readership. About not being able to find a sustainable business model.
And a whole lot of other shit.
Some staff started to cry. A tear ran down Plimpton’s cheek, which, to give her the benefit of the doubt, was probably genuine.
I was not crying. I was too fucking angry. I had quit the goddamn Boston Globe. I’d walked away from a decent, well-paying job to come back here. As I went past the stunned managing editor, the man who’d hired me, on my way out of the newsroom, I said, “Good to know you’re in the loop.”
Out on the sidewalk, I got out my cell and called my former editor in Boston. Had the job been filled? Could I return?
“We’re not filling it, David,” he said. “I’m sorry.”
So now here I was, living with my parents.
No wife.
No job.
No prospects.
Loser.
It was seven. Time to get up, have a quick shower, wake up Ethan, and get him ready for school.
I opened the door to his room — it used to be a sewing room for Mom, but she’d cleared her stuff out when we moved in — and said, “Hey, pal. Time to get cracking.”
He was motionless under the covers, which obscured all of him but the topsy-turvy blond hair atop his head.
“Rise and shine!” I said.
He stirred, rolled over, pulled down the bedspread enough to see me. “I don’t feel good,” he whispered. “I don’t think I can go to school.”
I came up alongside the bed, leaned over, and put my hand to his forehead. “You don’t feel hot.”
“I think it’s my stomach,” he said.
“Like the other day?” My son nodded. “That turned out to be nothing,” I reminded him.
“I think this might be different.” Ethan let out a small moan.
“Get up and dressed and we’ll see how you are then.” This had been becoming a pattern the last couple of weeks. Whatever ailment was troubling him, it certainly hadn’t been troubling him on weekends, when he could down four hot dogs in ten minutes, and had more energy than everyone else in this house combined. Ethan didn’t want to go to school, and so far I’d been unable to get him to tell me why.
My parents, who believed sleeping in was staying in bed past five thirty — I’d heard them getting up as I’d stared at that dark ceiling — were already in the kitchen when I made my entrance. They’d have both had breakfast by this time, and Dad, on his fourth coffee by now, was sitting at the kitchen table, still trying to figure out how to read the news on an iPad tablet, which Mom had bought for him after the Standard stopped showing up at their door every morning.
He was stabbing at the device with his index finger hard enough to knock it off its stand.
“For God’s sake, Don,” she said, “you’re not trying to poke its eye out. You just tap it lightly.”
“I hate this thing,” he said. “Everything’s jumping around all over the place.”
Seeing me, Mom adopted the excessively cheerful tone she always used when things were not going well. “Hello!” she said. “Sleep well?”
“Fine,” I lied.
“I just made a fresh pot,” she said. “Want a cup?”
“I can manage.”
“David, did I tell you about that girl at the checkout at the Walgreens? What was her name? It’ll come to me. Anyway, she’s cute as a button and she’s split up with her husband and—”
“Mom, please.”
She was always on the lookout, trying to find someone for me. It was time, she liked to say. Ethan needed a mother. I’d grieved long enough, she was forever reminding me.
I wasn’t grieving.
I’d had six dates in the last five years, with six different women. Slept with one. That was it. Losing Jan, and the circumstances around her death, had made me averse to commitment, and Mom should have understood that.
“I’m just saying,” she persisted, “that I think she’d be pretty receptive if you were to ask her out. Whatever her name is. Next time we’re in there together, I’ll point her out.”
Dad spoke up. “For God’s sake, Arlene, leave him alone. And come on. He’s got a kid and no job. That doesn’t exactly make him a great prospect.”
“Good to have you in my corner, Dad,” I said.
He made a face, went back to poking at his tablet. “I don’t know why the hell I can’t get an honest-to-God goddamn paper to my door. Surely there are still people who want to read an actual paper.”
“They’re all old,” Mom told him.
“Well, old people are entitled to the news,” he said.
I opened the fridge, rooted around until I’d found the yogurt Ethan liked, and a jar of strawberry jam. I set them on the counter and brought down a box of cereal from the cupboard.
“They can’t make money anymore,” Mom told him. “All the classifieds went to craigslist and Kijiji. Isn’t that right, David?”
I said, “Mmm.” I poured some Cheerios into a bowl for Ethan, who I hoped would be down shortly. I’d wait till he showed before pouring on milk and topping it with a dollop of strawberry yogurt. I dropped two slices of white Wonder bread, the only kind my parents had ever bought, into the toaster.
My mother said, “I just put on a fresh pot. Would you like a cup?”
Dad’s head came up.
I said, “You just asked me that.”
Dad said, “No, she didn’t.”
I looked at him. “Yes, she did, five seconds ago.”
“Then” — with real bite in his voice — “maybe you should answer her the first time so she doesn’t have to ask you twice.”
Before I could say anything, Mom laughed it off. “I’d forget my head if it wasn’t screwed on.”
“That’s not true,” Dad said. “I’m the one who lost his goddamn wallet. What a pain in the ass it was getting that all sorted out.”
Mom poured some coffee into a mug and handed it to me with a smile. “Thanks, Mom.” I leaned in and gave her a small kiss on her weathered cheek as Dad went back to stabbing at the tablet.
“I wanted to ask,” she said to me, “what you might have on for this morning.”
“Why? What’s up?”
“I mean, if you have some job interviews lined up, I don’t want to interfere with that at all or—”
“Mom, just tell me what it is you want.”
“I don’t want to impose,” she said. “It’s only if you have time.”
“For God’s sake, Mom, just spit it out.”
“Don’t talk to your mother that way,” Dad said.
“I’d do it myself, but if you were going out, I have some things I wanted to drop off for Marla.”
Marla Pickens. My cousin. Younger than me by a decade. Daughter of Mom’s sister, Agnes.
“Sure, I can do that.”
“I made up a chili, and I had so much left over, I froze some of it, and I know she really likes my chili, so I froze a few single servings in some Glad containers. And I picked her up a few other things. Some Stouffer’s frozen dinners. They won’t be as good as homemade, but still. I don’t think that girl is eating. It’s not for me to comment, but I don’t think Agnes is looking in on her often enough. And the thing is, I think it would be good for her to see you. Instead of us old people always dropping by. She’s always liked you.”
“Sure.”
“Ever since this business with the baby, she just hasn’t been right.”
“I know,” I said. “I’ll do it.” I opened the refrigerator. “You got any bottles of water I can put with Ethan’s lunch?”