Bobby looked away, eyes down. “I’ve been thinking about taking next year off, really giving the band a full shot.”
Though not a complete surprise, the announcement jolted Locke. A son of his not going straight to college? It was unthinkable. Still, he kept himself calm. React too aggressively and Bobby would just storm away from the table. Give him a chance, Chris reminded himself.
“Got any specific plans?” he managed to ask.
Bobby hedged, seeming almost as if he was looking for support or approval. “I was thinking about going out west. That’s where all the action is — records, I mean.”
“What would you do for money?”
Bobby leaned forward in his chair, looking surprised the conversation had gotten this far. “I got it figured this way, Dad,” he said, and Locke knew at once what was coming. The only time Bobby called him Dad was when he wanted something. “Even with the load Georgetown takes off the tuition, college has gotta cost you five thou easy. I figured if you advanced me that much, like a loan, I’d have enough to get started.”
“Five thousand wouldn’t even pay the rent out west.”
“I’ll live cheap. Besides, there’s a bunch of us going out together. That’ll really cut the cost.”
“And what happens after a year?”
“We’ll be big by then. Everybody says we got the stuff. Everybody says—”
The slamming kitchen door broke off Bobby’s words. Beth stormed in with Greg trailing behind in his baseball uniform. She glared at Bobby.
“You tell him?” she demanded.
“Tell me what?” Locke asked.
“Tell him!” Beth shouted.
Bobby said nothing. Beth swung toward Locke.
“Our proud firstborn over there was suspended from school today.”
“What?”
“They caught him smoking in the parking lot.”
“I thought cigarettes were allowed.”
“Not cigarettes — pot! Marijuana!”
“Oh, Christ …”
“The assistant principal called me at work. I had to interrupt a meeting with some clients. It was so damn embarrassing. So I take him home and tell him we’ll deal with this later ’cause I’ve got to get back to the office.” Her raging eyes swung back toward Bobby. “And I leave him the car with instructions to do one simple thing: Pick up his brother at baseball practice.”
“Mom,” Greg started, “it was no big deal. I could have walked. Or hitched.”
“Hitched?” Back to Locke now. “You hear that, Chris? You hear that? So of course he doesn’t go pick his brother up like he’s supposed to and I get another call at the office from Greg’s coach telling me that practice is over and nobody’s there to get him. Then I have to borrow Sally’s car and rush to the field and I’m already late for another appointment.” Beth’s finger thrust forward violently enough to make Bobby shrink back. “I have had it with you, young man, just had it! Maybe a prep school’s what you need after all….”
At ten grand a year, thought Locke.
“I’ll tell you, Chris, we’ve got to talk about this. I can just see all the wives whispering at the next faculty lunch.”
Locke almost told her that wouldn’t be a problem anymore.
“I’m really fed up with all his nonsense.” Beth was already starting back for the door. “We’d better talk as soon as I get home. I’ve gotta run now. I’m late for that appointment and Sally needs her car.”
The door closed behind her.
Sighing, Locke turned slowly back toward Bobby, dredging his mind for the right response to his oldest son’s misbehavior. But the boy rushed out of the kitchen and up the stairs before Chris had a chance to say anything. Seconds later the roar of rock music, speakers on full, started pounding the walls, forming a barrier between Bobby and the rest of the world. Chris had never been much good at breaking such barriers down.
“Turn that shit off!” Whitney screamed from somewhere.
Locke sank down at the kitchen table and smothered his face in his hands.
Greg’s hand grasped his shoulder. “You all right, Dad?”
“Tough day, that’s all.”
His youngest son frowned. “Mom’s pretty mad.”
“Yeah.”
“You mad too?”
Locke reached up and touched Greg’s cheek, smoothing his wind-whipped hair, which already showed the first sign of the sun’s bleaching. “Not at you. Hey, it looks like it’s just you and me for dinner.”
Greg returned his father’s gesture, sliding down Chris’s face a small hand dominated by the Little League championship ring he wore proudly even to bed.
“McDonald’s?” he posed hopefully.
“You talked me into it.”
Locke ordered his usual two Quarterpounders with ketchup only and barely finished one, while Greg gobbled up his Big Mac and fries, washing them down with a giant cup of Coke with Ronald McDonald’s smiling face etched all over it. The boy had gotten braces in February and Chris hoped they would stay on forever, for as long as he wore headgear and had to sneak gum, Greg would be a boy and Locke didn’t want to let go of that.
It was Greg’s turn to pay tonight and pay he did, peeling a bunch of worn, rolled-up bills from his jeans, dodging the buttons of his baseball uniform top as he fiddled for the right change, just making it. It was a game they played. Greg liked to pay when they went to McDonald’s as an assertion of his independence. And Locke encouraged him. Later in the night he would sneak into the boy’s room and replenish the sock where Greg hid his funds from all except his father. Maybe the boy was on to the game. Maybe he wasn’t. Chris kept playing either way.
Locke had stowed the station wagon in the garage when he heard the phone ringing, hurried inside and grabbed the receiver, certain the caller had given up.
He hadn’t.
“Chris, it’s Brian Charney….”
Chapter 3
They chose the tombs for lunch, an early one since Tuesday was Locke’s seminar day and he would be tied up all afternoon. Since seating at The Tombs with its prestigious political clientele was difficult after twelve, the eleven-thirty meeting was probably the best thing anyway.
Locke arrived first and was ushered to a table at the very rear of the main floor, away from the chatter of other diners in an area usually reserved for more distinguished patrons. He hadn’t seen Brian Charney in six months and then only briefly at a reception at Georgetown. Their conversation had been strained. There was too much to catch up on and no sense in trying.
Brian Charney stepped into The Tombs, picked Locke out immediately, and started toward him. Chris rose, impressed as always by Charney’s appearance. The years had treated him well, left him with a fine physique and all his hair. There were lines under his eyes to be sure and something alien about those eyes, but for the most part Brian Charney looked a decade younger than his forty-two years.
For himself, Locke had managed a regular three workouts per week at the Georgetown athletic center. It was a constant battle, though, just to stay even and not fall back. His muscles didn’t respond as they used to and ached plenty for the effort.