I guess I do.
Vanessa had wanted a baby so badly, and although we were both young—far too young to have started a family—conceiving didn’t come easy. It wasn’t as simple as shooting sperm through her cervix, but we were never ones to shy away from challenges. A baby stopped being the goal. Making a baby was all we could see. We didn’t do the grueling things our neighbors are doing today, but Vanessa did endure a few rounds of Clomid after getting her fallopian tubes flushed. Determination usurped ambivalence. True achievers, we wanted success.
We got Jonah. He was extraordinary. He was darling, of course, but he would cry and cry and nothing would soothe him in that first month. We were certain it was colic or some gastrointestinal problem, but the pediatrician said, “No, he’s just a baby.”
Babies cry, we learned. Babies, much like puppies, keep owners up all night; they vomit and defecate when it’s inconvenient and urinate where we’re expected to clean it up. In no time, they want chew toys. They break Limoges boxes and shred magazines. They want attention, and when they don’t get it, they whine. They beg for indigestible treats, but we are supposed to feed them very particular foods at regular intervals, or else, because that’s our job, don’t fuck it up. They need vaccines, socialization, discipline, and fresh air, and so we work our asses off to give them all these things and more: education, vacations, culture, comfort. We love them with every atom of ourselves because we have to—because if we allow for even the slightest possibility that we don’t know why we did this, our whole reason for being would collapse. So we tell other parents the same thing they tell us, which is that we wouldn’t trade it for the world. We tell ourselves this because we don’t have a choice, because there’s no trade on the table.
Tutors, training, lessons, braces, a new car, a new computer, the latest software, the latest trend, seven thousand lunches, seven thousand dinners, fifty-odd pairs of shoes, countless tanks of gas, lift tickets, Christmas presents, birthday parties, warmth, and water. We give commands—Sit, Stay—and teach them tricks: multiplication tables, long division, grammar, manners, how to be liked, how to get accepted, how to get ahead in the real world. Before the real world, though, there’s college. Assuming he manages to make it out in four years, Jonah’s undergrad will run me a quarter of a million dollars, and because I’ve worked tirelessly to make all this money to pay for all his stuff, we won’t qualify for desirable scholarships or grants.
The hope, I guess—the expectation, even—is that he will grow up to find something he enjoys doing, and that he’ll do it long enough to find it deeply unsatisfying. His patents won’t get approved. His book won’t fly off the shelves. Awards won’t make him immortal. The grand dreams that carried him from A to B to wherever he is will suddenly look like cardboard cut-outs, so he’ll light them on fire. His great plans will turn to ash. He’ll wonder what the point is, what the hell he’s doing here—and then, maybe, if he’s lucky, he’ll meet someone whose life has lost meaning too, and they’ll fall in love, and for reasons they can’t explain, they’ll decide that making a baby is the most profound thing they can do—or the most creative, or the most spiritual, depending upon where they are in their lives. They’ll decide that the most basic fact of life is actually a miracle, and that their miracle is special, and that this uniqueness will give their lives purpose, finally—and then the work begins. Cue a parade of necessary distractions: vaccines, socialization, discipline, fresh air. Cue the consolation. We see ourselves in little creatures, in our seven-million-dollar pets, and we find comfort in believing we will live forever through them, all the while knowing that when death closes in—because who are we kidding, death always finds us—we can call upon our investments to provide comfort and care.
And if we’ve made mistakes? If we’ve pushed too hard or haven’t pushed hard enough, if a new virus breaks out, if new hard drugs make the rounds, or if it turns out Jonah’s mood swings are bigger than ordinary angst—if he blows his brains out, or blows the library up, or blows the dean and someone sees and takes pictures that get plastered on the internet—then what? If he drives off a cliff late at night and dies—or doesn’t die, but ends up with locked-in syndrome—then what? Will it all have been worth it then?
Of course it would.
There’s no dollar value on the value of a son. No grief could be so big that it could swallow my love for my boy. No good night’s sleep could diminish the joy of fatherhood, which isn’t easy and isn’t always fun but is my greatest achievement by far. Heaven knows I wouldn’t trade it for the world.
Elizabeth, though—her scales are balanced differently. She’ll take the good night’s sleep. She’s impulsive in a self-preservative way. She’d rather spend her money on a vacation than diapers or dorms. She values serenity. Aside from the drama of our early days, she’s lived a life aimed toward comfort, not complication, and love is nothing if not complicated. I was her glitch, her one messy misstep. She’s not interested in chasing further pain.
“Loving a child is the same as loving heartache,” she’s said more than once. She claims she wouldn’t survive the devastation if tragedy were to befall Jonah, and I believe this feels true for her. I believe that she’s never consciously wanted biological children of her own. I am, however, a man of science, and so it’s difficult for me to believe that a primitive part of her brain hasn’t issued the urge to procreate. She is a woman, after all.
And so I take her up on the offer. I let her get her maternal fix by picking up sandwiches and Cokes and playing bad cop to my lazy son while I head over to the Yacht Club with Nick.
4.
The marina is crowded with chipper families and their friends—friends who feel special because they were chosen as guests. They made the cut on a beautiful day. I walk Nick down Long Wharf, pointing out behemoth yachts and their puffed-out owners, pausing to admire the sleek speedboat I plan to buy when I retire. We circle back to the bait shop, and while waiting on line, I try to pick the boy’s brain, but he seems to abide by the old adage to not speak until spoken to, which is a shame, because I’m running out of questions. Does he know how to tie a slipknot? A clinch? Has he ever been crabbing? Surfing? Mets or Yankees? Jets or Giants? Does he have a five-year plan? Two-year, then? What about school? Does he like it?
“School is okay,” he says. “Fifty-fifty, and each half extreme.”
What in the world does that mean? “What does that mean?”
“You know, the good parts are great: classes, campus, freedom, so much happening. The weird parts are rough, though.”
“Rough how?”
“The social scene can be dark. My advisor gives zero support. Everything is so damn expensive. A lot of obnoxious rich kids.”
Was that a jab? A slip? “What about Jonah? Does he feel the same way?”
Nick shrugs. “I guess. Speaking of . . .” He is suddenly preoccupied with time and the parking lot. “Do you think we should call him again? It’s almost eleven.” He shades his eyes with one hand and searches in all directions. “Maybe he thinks we’re meeting someplace else.”
“He knows where to find us.”
“Hey, didn’t we see those guys at the thing last night?”
I jerk my head toward Nick’s point of view, hunting for familiar faces. “Which guys?”
“Those.” He points toward a forty-foot Belzona two slips away.
Frankie McAlister notices us staring and pointing. “Bobby!” he shouts. The rest of his party waves and calls my name.
“Yeah,” I tell Nick. “They certainly were.” I’m not in the mood to be polite to the McAlisters and their boatload of friends, but it’s too late for anonymity now, so I wave and make my way to them. “Frank,” I say.
He gestures for me to meet him at the end of the slip, turning and shimmying past his wife, stopping at the stern to say, “Check this out,” as he strokes the chrome details on a gleaming Mercury outboard. “What do you think of this baby?” he asks, oozing pride.
“A
fourth engine,” I acknowledge.
“Fourteen hundred horsepower.” He rattles off specs better suited for a cruise ship, and Nick hangs back, introducing himself to Bonnie and the McAlisters’ guests: Lars and Monique Clyborne; some lady named Lisa; Lisa’s husband, Jack; and Luna Parks, who greets Nick like they’re old friends. The ladies throw their heads back and laugh.
When Frank finally takes a breath, I say, “Luna, you look rested. I’m trusting no one disturbed you before ten?” When she stares blankly, I remind her of the red line she instated last night: “No calls before ten?”
“Oh, honey. I wouldn’t dream of calling anyone before ten on a weekend.”
I let it go and say only, “Good rule of thumb.”
“But goodness gracious, aren’t you the lucky ones getting to host this dreamboat.” She winks at Nick. “Wouldn’t I just love to keep you in my pocket.”
Monique says, “Last night was so much fun, Robert.”
“Yeah,” says Lars. “It was a two-aspirin kind of morning.”
I open my mouth to give credit to the Children’s Hospital Fund, but Luna asks, “Is Elizabeth here?”
“No, just the guys today. Jonah’s on his way.”
“Well, isn’t that sweet,” Luna says. “Every man needs guy time sometimes, don’t you think? And we ladies need our girl time. Will you please tell Elizabeth to give us a call? I don’t know why we never see each other. It’s such a shame.”
“She ought to come to one of our Garden Club luncheons,” says Bonnie. “Elizabeth would fit right in.”
“Oh God, not Garden Club,” says Luna. “What she really needs to do is help us reboot our ancient book club. Literature is her thing. Tell her we need her, won’t you, Robert?”
“Sure,” I say.
“Promise?”
“Absolutely. She’ll appreciate the invitation.”
“Do you think so? I never can tell with her.”
“She’ll love it,” I lie. “All right. We need to intercept Jonah before he steals the boat for himself.”
“Now there’s an idea,” Frank says as they push off. “Hand her over and treat yourself to an upgrade.”
“Never,” I vow.
“Have you been out on his boat, son?” Frank asks Nick.
“Not yet,” Nick replies.
“Crying shame what Bobby does to the damn thing. Steal her if you get the chance.”
“Okay, that’s enough,” I say, and everyone laughs, although it wasn’t a joke. “Nice seeing you all. Great motors, Frank.”
Luna and Monique wave good-bye, but the rest of their party is already busy cracking coolers and smearing sunscreen on shoulders and noses. Enough of us.
Enough of them. “What a piece of work,” I say to myself, and I’m glad Nick doesn’t ask who or why, because they all are sometimes. Frank, Mo, Luna, the whole lot.
Jonah is still missing in action, so I drag Nick to our slip and put him to work unsnapping one side of the Bimini. We roll back the cover, and My Lucia dazzles in the sunlight. I ask, “Ever been in one of these?”
“No,” he says. “But it sure is beautiful.”
“Lapstrake construction. If it’s good enough for the Vikings . . .”
“Wow.”
“Nineteen-sixty-one Lyman,” I tell him. “Twenty feet. It’s the first thing my dad bought when he came into some money. He was just twenty years old. Can you imagine? Must have been nice, right? Bought her brand-new.”
Nick admires the glossy teak and mahogany woodwork, the shiny fixtures and sleek trolling motor. “Unbelievable she still looks so good.”
“She’s had plenty of work done. Believe that.”
“Yeah,” he says. “Well, it shows.”
I thank him and genuinely appreciate the admiration, because respect isn’t always the reaction My Lucia gets. Nobody around here can stand it that I use my boat for its intended purpose—that I actually bring bait on board and let saltwater in—despite my attention to detail. Every year she is treated, sealed, varnished, and stored in ideal conditions, and every few years she gets some heavy-duty rework that wasn’t in my budget but can’t wait: a new engine or fuel valve, better bumpers or an upgraded GPS system or horn. Every bit of hardware, every windowpane, all of it gets the once-over and over again.
If I bought her at auction, it’s quite possible that I’d take a different approach. If I’d hunted her down as an antique and entered her in shows and won blue ribbons, I’m sure I’d ban fish blood and guts, too. We have history, though, me and My Lucia. I spent my childhood fishing over her side on the opposite shore with my father, and although I mostly take her out for joyrides these days, I won’t apologize for my utilitarian relationship with her. Father would either be proud or appalled at the love and maintenance I give his prized possession, but not the guys at this marina. They think I’m nuts. It may actually pain them to watch me load my rods and nets—which, truth be told, might be part of why I find it so satisfying. I do everything else a man is expected to do around here. Blue ribbons or casual judgments won’t change this one thing.
Nick is finding places to stash my tackle box, cooler, fishing rods, and sundry crap: towels, sunscreen, hats, extra bottles of water that wouldn’t fit in the cooler, extra snacks. I’m just about to ask what he’s majoring in when he speaks first.
“So, your dad. He doesn’t use the boat anymore, then?” A passive way of asking whether or not my father is still alive.
“No,” I say. “My father died twenty years ago.”
“Oh. I’m sorry.” He doesn’t know what to do with the bags of potato chips and pretzels in his hands until I point to the hutch up front. “My dad died when I was fourteen,” he offers.
“Is that right?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. Too young.”
Over our shoulders, Jonah shouts, “Too young for what?” He looks rested, of course, and not at all bothered by his selfishness.
“Nice of you to join us,” I say.
“You bet.”
He wasn’t raised this way—not by me, anyway—but I’m afraid this might be the real him. Maybe the thing that presented as depression for so long was actually his indifference to the rest of the world. On the upside, he’s more confident and seems happy, which is better than walking around in a fog, I suppose, and boys will be boys.
I start the engine. Jonah unhitches the cleats and climbs aboard just as we pull away from the dock. Nick gets up to help, but his leg is asleep, and he nearly falls down, and I’m pretty sure I’ve wrangled the most useless crew in the bay.
“What prompted this family outing?” Jonah asks.
I adjust my sunglasses and steer out of our slip. “We thought it was a nice day for it. Isn’t that right, Nick?” Nick agrees, I think, as we drift past other boats and other boaters, and everyone waves. Happy families. Lucky friends. Assholes who shit-talk my boat behind my back. Friendly strangers I’ll never see again. They wave as we pass, and I nod or wave back. Once we clear the marina, I hit the gas and relax.
If my old man could see me now.
When we arrive at my most reliable cove, I distribute gear and fix my line and prepare to cast—but the boys are holding their rods like a couple of children playing with sticks, so I say to Jonah, “Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten how to tie a lure.”
He shrugs. “Had to make room in my brain for all of that valuable college crap, Dad.”
“Give it to me.” I hold out my hand, resigned and reluctant, and dig through my tackle box for another bucktail. “We should be able to catch some bluefish. Snapper aren’t biting yet.”
Jonah’s doing something on his phone. Nick is shaking a rock from his shoe.
“You know, when I was a kid, I went fishing with my father every Sunday.”
“Here we go again,” Jonah moans.
“Oh, you’ve heard this before, have you?” I ask and toss him a Coke. His generation finds it cute to tease their fathers. I’d h
ave gotten the belt for smarting off like that to mine.
“A million versions,” he says. “We’re not that weird, Dad. I don’t know too many people our age who are big into fishing.” He snickers.
I say, a bit too eagerly, “Nick fishes.”
Jonah laughs. “No he doesn’t.”
We both look to Nick, who shrugs. “I mean, I’ve fished.”
I force a grin. “Well, you sure did fool me. That pike story was convincing.”
“Oh, I caught it. I did. That was when I was in Canada on this wilderness camp thing.”
“Wilderness camp, huh?” I laugh.
Jonah glares at me.
“What?” I ask, still smiling. “I’m just saying, it’s kind of nerdy. You seem a little old for camp in that photo, Nick.”
“Jesus, Dad.”
“It’s okay,” Nick says. “It’s this, like, outdoor program for grieving teens. My school did a fundraiser and sent me there when I was sixteen. I’ve gone back a couple of times to volunteer. Pass it on, you know? That photo was from last year’s trip: my year of the fish.” He laughs and gives up on his lure. “I hate to be a moron, but I think I may need some help with this, Dr. Hart.”
He’s sitting on his foot like a goddamn yogi again, and when he tries to stand and finds it numb, I lose patience and fetch his rod myself. Jonah is staring at me like I’m the one who killed Nick’s parents. I busy myself tying ball bearings to monofilament.
“Well, that must have been something,” I say. “Good for you.” Having threaded the hook and tied a clinch knot, I dig in the cooler and crack a beer. “Your military school did that? Sent you there?”
Nick nods. “Mm-hm.”
I return to my knots. When the lines are all prepped, we cast and wait. The water is calm and clear. Once or twice I think I feel a bite, but it’s only the current. Only wishful thinking. Simply sitting here, though, watching my line pierce the water’s surface and fade to black, I’m calmed. Connected. This is in my blood. I didn’t come from a family of fishermen or oyster farmers like a lot of my friends did growing up. My father worked the assembly line at Grumman building bomber planes, and then he got lucky with a freak promotion when his manager was crushed by heavy machinery. My father became a supervisor overnight. He became somebody, and he demanded I do the same. He’d take me out on his boat every Sunday and talk to me about work ethic and the value of a dollar. He made me tie my own lines. He made me a man. For this, I’m forever indebted to him.
Man of the Year Page 4
