Harry lets out a long, low whistle. “Sweet Jesus,” he says, parking his old Jeep next to the sleek machine. “A Carrera 911. You must be moonlighting.”
I laugh and climb out of the Jeep. My day job barely covers the never-ending repairs to the old Thunderbird. I’d have to be moonlighting as a plastic surgeon to imagine a Porsche on my horizon.
“Where the hell did this come from?” Harry gets out of the Jeep too and stands still in the driveway, staring at the Porsche the way he might gaze at an icy case of Heineken if he’d been stranded in the desert for a week.
“It’s Ralph’s,” I tell him. “He brought Luke home from Boston today.”
“Ralph,” Harry repeats. “He’s still here?”
I feel a little bit like a game show hostess, holding my hands out toward the gleaming status symbol. “Apparently he is.”
“You want me to disappear?”
Harry’s question almost makes me laugh. Ralph walked out on Luke and me a dozen years ago, and he largely ignored us for the first ten of them. He came out of the woodwork two years back, after remarrying and redivorcing. Luke was a junior in high school then. And his father had decided it was time to get to know him.
“No,” I tell Harry, shaking my head. “I don’t want you to disappear.”
He drapes his arm around my shoulders and pulls me close as we head for the back steps. “Okay,” he says, kissing my forehead. “I guess I’ve got an appointment with the shrink who needs his head examined.”
Ralph is on his feet when Harry and I come through the kitchen door, his car keys in hand. My heart sinks for a moment when I realize we could have avoided him if we’d arrived just a few minutes later. The old adage is true: Timing is everything.
Danny Boy gallops into the kitchen the instant we’re inside. He almost never runs anywhere anymore, but Luke is home, and now we are too, and Danny Boy can barely contain his joy. He yelps and jumps up on me, his big paws landing on my stomach, and I fall backward against Harry. If he hadn’t pulled the kitchen door shut behind him, we’d both go over like dominoes onto the back deck.
“Luke,” Ralph yells into the living room, “come get the damned dog. He’s out of control.” Ralph doesn’t like Danny Boy, never has. Danny Boy doesn’t lose any sleep over it, though. He doesn’t think much of Ralph, either. And, as far as Danny Boy is concerned, he’s the one with seniority around here. Ralph is the newcomer.
Luke strolls into the kitchen, laughing, but doesn’t bother to restrain the dog. There’s no reason to, of course, except in Ralph’s head. Instead, Luke stoops to give me a kiss. At six feet three, he’s got a solid nine inches on me. He gets his height from his father but most of his other traits—fair skin, dark blue eyes, and black hair—from me. He trades arm punches with Harry. Hard ones.
“Who the hell is he?” Ralph points at Harry, but asks me the question, as if he’s inquiring about a figure in a wax museum.
“Ralph Ellis,” I say, “meet Harry Madigan.”
Harry extends a hand, but Ralph hesitates. After a moment, he shakes it gingerly, as if Harry might detonate on contact.
“Ralph,” Harry says, “how are you?”
Ralph doesn’t answer. Instead he looks Harry up and down, assessing him, and then turns back to me. “What the hell is going on with the truck?”
Here we go. “It needs work,” I tell him, hoping to short-circuit this discussion.
“I know that.” Ralph raises his hands to the heavens, the way he always does when he wants to be sure I know he’s at the end of his rope.
“Dad,” Luke says, “give it a rest. It’s not that big a deal.”
But for Ralph, Luke’s pickup truck is a big deal, even when it’s operational. Ralph purchases nothing but the best. He can. He doesn’t believe in used anything. Why would he? He’s been mad at Luke, and ballistic at me, since we bought a used truck last Christmas. Funny, though, he hasn’t offered to replace it.
“What’s this about Luke working at the goddamned garage?” he demands.
I had been hoping Luke wouldn’t mention that particular plan to his father. One look at Luke tells me he’s sorry he did. “Rematch?” he asks Harry. Luke is feeling the heat and he wants to get out of the kitchen. I don’t blame him. I’d like to get out of here too.
“You’re a glutton for punishment, kiddo,” Harry says, looking a little relieved himself. The two of them escape into the living room, Danny Boy right behind them, to set up the chessboard.
“He’s working at the garage?” Ralph repeats the word as if it’s profane.
“For a day,” I tell him. “He’ll help Peter with the truck on Monday and Peter will cut him some slack on the bill.”
Peter Schaeffer is our mechanic and he’s the only reason my Thunderbird is still on the road. I’m hoping he’ll perform similar miracles on Luke’s truck. Peter and Luke have always gotten along well—they’re both car fanatics. And for some reason, that fact has always irritated Ralph.
“Not just for a day,” he says. “They can’t get it all done in one day. Luke’s working there Tuesday too. Monday and Tuesday. Skipping classes both days.”
Now that’s a portion of the plan I hadn’t heard yet.
“So my son’s not a college student,” Ralph continues. “He’s a grease monkey.”
I can see into the living room over Ralph’s shoulder. Luke jumps up from the couch when he hears his father’s words and dashes to the center of the room. He bends in half and scoots around in circles, alternately scratching his head and armpits, then dragging his knuckles on the floor. Harry falls back against the cushions and stomps his boots on the braided rug. He’s having a laughing fit, not making a sound.
It takes every shred of willpower I can muster to keep a straight face. “A grease monkey,” I repeat. I look back at Ralph with what I hope is a somber expression. Any trace of amusement would send him into a spin. “I guess that’s what he is.”
Ralph shakes his head, disgusted, and points at the kitchen door. “Come outside for a minute,” he says. “I want to talk to you.”
I consider telling him I’m not going anywhere. He can say whatever he has to say right here in the kitchen. But it’s not worth the scene it would cause. “Let me grab a sweater,” I tell him instead, and I head for the living room closet.
Harry and my son the monkey have moved the coffee table into the center of the room. They’re sitting on the floor on opposite sides of it, arranging the chessboard between them. Harry looks up as I pass. “You okay?” he asks in a low voice.
“I’m swell,” I tell him. “But if Fay Wray isn’t back in ten minutes, send King Kong.”
* * *
Ralph and I are having the talk I knew we would have—the one about Luke’s academic endeavors. Ralph, of course, would characterize the discussion differently. He’d say it’s about the lack thereof. We’ve had this debate before. We’ll have it again. And Luke will be ready to retire from the workforce long before we reach an agreement.
Luke has always been a good student—in certain subjects. His grades are consistently strong in English, literature, and philosophy; they’re not so hot in math. He has a knack for foreign languages, but his chemistry teacher described him as downright frightening in the lab. Luke has never been troubled by his weak spots, even telling his high school guidance counselor they’re blessings in disguise, clear indicators of career paths he shouldn’t waste time exploring.
I laughed when the guidance counselor took me aside after a basketball game and shared Luke’s philosophical approach to academia. The counselor confirmed what I already knew: Luke is comfortable with his foibles, at ease with having limits. And I am glad about that.