The Show House

by Dan Lopez

  “Then tell me about being a pharmacist,” Peter says. “Was it something you always knew you wanted to be?”

  She laughs. “God, no! My father was in fashion and everybody figured I’d go that route, but it didn’t appeal to me. When I got to college I realized I had a knack for chemistry, so I went into pharmacology. People think pharmacists are just glorified retail clerks, but there’s more to it than that. There’s a whole side of it that’s about compassion and pain management. That’s what I like about it most. I like working with people.”

  “That’s very interesting.” He tucks a hand into his pocket and seems to study her as if she were part of the show, another of the artist’s intricate creations. “How’s the coffee? Did I get it right?”

  “It’s perfect. Thanks.” She takes a sip and this time she doesn’t burn herself. “What about you? What made you want to open a gallery?”

  “Oh, that’s a boring story. I got into it by accident. I’m really a reporter, but I know a little bit about art so here we are. We’ll see how long it lasts.”

  “Wow, and I thought I worked too hard. Reporter and gallery owner—that’s ambitious!”

  He shrugs. “It’s not as hard as it sounds. They’re both really just about talking to people. I manage to get home at a decent hour,” he adds with a grin. “I wouldn’t do it otherwise.”

  She finds herself on the verge of confessing that between work and life, she always chooses the pharmacy. But her stepmother’s voice is in the back of her head. You don’t know this man. Don’t be telling him your business. As much as she hates to admit it, Esther is right. Confiding in strange men—that’s how you get yourself into trouble. She should tell Alex that. Just because he’s a guy doesn’t mean he doesn’t have to watch out around men.

  She lowers her eyes to the coffee and says, “That’s admirable.”

  Just then her phone rings; its synthetic chirping shatters the calm of the gallery and startles her. Apologizing, she scrambles to fish it out of her purse. It’s probably Alex calling her back. If she misses his call, God only knows when she’ll be able to get a hold of him again.

  But it’s not Alex calling. It’s Bill, the pharmacy’s regional manager.

  “Shit. I should—”

  “Absolutely.” Peter raises his hands and retreats.

  She waits for him to return to the desk before taking the call.

  “Hey, Laila,” Bill says. “Got a minute?” The incessantly cheerful cadence of an ad for store-brand pain reliever playing in the background quickens her pulse. Whether out of fear or excitement, or a mix of the two, remains unclear.

  “What’s up?”

  “I know you just went through inventory last night, but—”

  He doesn’t even need to finish the sentence. “Which store?” she asks.

  “Sanjay’s in Apopka,” he says, the words rushing out in a sigh of relief. He won’t even have to ask; she’s volunteering.

  “Apopka?”

  “Sorry, I know it’s not ideal, but his wife is on call and they don’t have anybody at home with the kids because of the hurricane. I’d ask somebody else, but I need somebody that can jump right in and you’re the best.”

  She sighs into the phone. Like always, she’ll agree. She hates how quickly she relents, but it also fills her with pride that the district manager thinks of her when he’s in a pinch. What is it with this pathological need to please? Is it daddy issues? Something else to discuss over drinks with the girls. At some point.

  “It’s going to take me a while. I’m out.” Living my life, she wants to add, but she doesn’t.

  “That’s fine. He’s at the store now and can stick around until you get there.”

  “All right, fine, but you’re going to owe me.”

  “You’re a rock star! How long till you can get there?”

  She checks her watch and calculates the drive time. “Give me an hour.”

  “We can work with that. Thank you.”

  She drops the phone into her purse and snorts.

  Peter circles back hesitantly. “Is everything okay?”

  “I don’t know if you have kids or not, but if you’re on the fence you should do it. Apparently, they’re a get-out-of-jail-free card.”

  He folds his arms and grins. “I hope that’s not the only reason to have them.”

  “Sometimes I wonder.” She runs her hand through her hair and considers the show catalog. “You know what? I really like that sculpture, so I’ll make you a deal. I have to run right now, but if it’s still here on my next day off, I’ll buy it.”

  “All right, it’s a deal.” They shake on it. “It was really nice meeting you, Laila. Stay safe out there today.”

  “You, too.”

  “YOUR PARENTS HAVE BEEN WAITING FOR YOU ALL DAY,” Peter says as Steven walks through the door.

  Like Peter, Steven seems to have emerged from the last three years as if from a chrysalis, newly formed. Gone are the T-shirts, basketball shorts, and flip-flops he preferred in his bachelorhood. In their place, he wears a dark blue polo shirt, tan work pants, and a heavy pair of boots. He’s taller and more compact than Thaddeus remembers. Stronger, too. When he lifts his arm to adjust the lay of a backpack across his broad shoulder, his biceps stretches the cuff of his shirtsleeve.

  Steven shrugs. “There were a lot of new intakes.”

  Cheryl swarms the foyer and engulfs him in a hug. Even from his spot on the couch in the family room, Thaddeus can see that the boy is anxious to escape. “Stevie,” he calls, but his words are lost in the din of Cheryl’s effusive greeting.

  “We held dinner,” Peter says.

  “You didn’t need to.”

  “We were fine. We can take care of ourselves,” Cheryl says, brushing back Steven’s hair. That, too, is different. When they last saw each other, his hair was buzzed close to the scalp, but now loose curls cascade off his head like kudzu. Once upon a time, Thaddeus thinks, patting his own shiny scalp.

  Gertie sits cross-legged on the floor playing with her blocks. She ignores Steven when he bends down to kiss the top of her head.

  “She’s still awake, I see.”

  Peter blows out his cheeks. “I tried.”

  With a sense of resignation Steven ambles toward the family room, his weighted steps a mere shuffle across the polished wood. This man is not just his son, Thaddeus thinks. He is an adult with a family and obligations. Thaddeus sympathizes with his exhaustion. After all, not that long ago he, too, worked long hours and wouldn’t return to the house until late. The particulars of all those demanding years are gone, but he remembers the weariness. In many ways he feels it still. He wants to embrace his son and tell him that it’s always difficult at the beginning, but first he has to get up from the couch.

  “Don’t worry about Gertie,” Cheryl says, flitting around Steven like a hummingbird. “She had a long nap. She’ll sleep later.” A worried frown colors her expression. “How are you? Peter said they called you in today because there was a problem with one of the kids—”

  “Yes,” Peter says, “we were all surprised when you weren’t home earlier. Must’ve been some problem.”

  Cheryl ignores the interruption and presses on. “Is everything all right?”

  “He’s fine,” Thaddeus says. Whirling his arms, he catapults his groaning body to its feet. His movements are quick if not graceful. “Stevie,” he says, his voice strained from the effort, “have a seat. I was just getting up.” A joint pops, and his knees feel unsteady. It’s okay. No big deal. “I was keeping it warm.” Just like always the fight will be ignored. No one even remembers the details. It was about nothing.

  Steven lingers near his mother as they make their way into the family room.

  “I don’t want you getting mixed up in other people’s problems,” she says. “You have a family to consider.”

  Her relentless attention annoys Thaddeus. The enthusiasm she ladles on the boy stirs up an uncomfortable mix of jealousy and empathy. C
an’t she see that Stevie just needs some space, a small reprieve before diving into a night at home with the family?

  “Stevie.” He stretches his hand past Cheryl’s head. “Give him some room, woman.”

  But she bats him away with a grunt. “I’m worried about him,” she says.

  “The boy just got home. Let him relax.”

  Steven blinks, and Thaddeus takes it for a sign, a call for help. Emboldened, he retraces his steps and pats the couch cushion invitingly. “Here, Stevie, have a seat.”

  “I just want to know if everything is all right. What’s wrong with that?”

  “I don’t want to get into it,” Steven says. His face is gaunt and hollow around the eyes. His clothes smell of industrial-grade disinfectant.

  “Can’t you see he’s exhausted?” Thaddeus says. “Let him sit down. Here, I kept it warm for you.”

  Cheryl smoothes Steven’s shirt, but he slides away from her touch. “There’s always a problem, Mom; they’re the definition of a problem population. They’re homeless youth.”

  “I know that, but I still worry. I’m your mother. It’s my job to worry.” She kisses him, and he frowns.

  “We all worry,” Peter says. He’s been mostly silent since Steven came home, but now he calls Steven’s attention to Gertie. “Your father brought Gertie a doll.”

  “Oh?”

  On the floor, Gertie sits Talkin’ Tina among her blocks. Thaddeus chose the doll specifically because it came with four different outfits, ranging from “dinner date” to “lounging by the pool,” and half a dozen accessories to match. He didn’t know what Gertie would like, but there had to be something in there that she’d be drawn to. And if she didn’t like the outfits, she could talk to the doll. It can say thirteen phrases, among them: “I’m boy-crazy!” and “Shopping is fun!”

  Boasting about the doll, Thaddeus says, “I told them only the best would do for my granddaughter.”

  For the first time in three years, Steven makes eye contact with his father. The look is brief and cold, but not unkind. His thin lips stretch like putty into a rehearsed smile. “A doll?” he asks.

  “Yes!” Thaddeus bowls his way into the fold, displacing Cheryl. “The most expensive one they had.”

  Everything else fades away. He and Stevie are finally face-to-face.

  So much about his son has changed in the last three years—and, anyway, he always took after his mother—but Thaddeus recognizes one familiar trait at last, and it’s one they have in common: the bend in the left ear. The Bloom lobe has always dragged against his son’s neck, as it has his own. Though partially obscured now under Stevie’s dense curtain of hair, the genetic heritage endures, and it gives Thaddeus hope that some elemental connection with his son remains intact. And if they have that, he thinks, there’s no reason they can’t have it all back—rebuild the relationship they used to have. Be a real family again.

  The moment passes.

  Steven breaks eye contact, and flicking his wrist at the doll, he says, “She already has a bunch of toys.”

  “We’re family,” Thaddeus says, craning for his son’s gaze. “Don’t worry about the money. It’s nothing. My pleasure.”

  “Still,” Steven insists, flashing a mercurial smile, “Peter and I, we don’t like to encourage materialism.”

  “One gift in three years, Stevie—”

  “Thaddeus.” Cheryl lays a hand on his forearm, and her touch immediately calms him.

  He raises his hands in surrender. “Hey, okay. I get it. My mistake. Cool as a cucumber. We’ll take it back to the store tomorrow. Your mother still has the receipt. We can get her something else. Whatever you like.”

  Cheryl smiles. “Your father’s had a long day.”

  “Nothing personal,” Steven says, looking at Thaddeus. There’s a cordial reciprocity in his eyes that falls far short of intimacy.

  Peter crosses his arms. “Oh, it’s fine, Thaddeus. One more toy won’t matter. And Gertie seems to like it.” At the moment, Gertie has Talkin’ Tina stripped down to a pair of tan slacks worn backward, a tiara perched on her head. “Right, Steven?”

  Steven worries his lip. He shrugs the backpack from his shoulder and places it in the corner. “You’re right. No big deal.” He extends a hand. “I’m sure the doll is lovely.”

  “Oh,” Thaddeus says, surprised at getting a handshake so soon. “You’re welcome.”

  Returning the gesture overcomes him. Stevie possesses a firm handshake. He’d forgotten that. There’s so much about him that he’s forgotten, but it’s all coming back now in fits and starts. Steven further surprises him by reaching in for a kiss on the cheek.

  “It’s good to see you, Pop.”

  Cheryl gasps. “Oh my...”

  With a smile burning his face, Thaddeus firmly grasps his son’s upper arm, feeling the muscles tense under his grip. His eyes mist. Tomorrow will be a breeze. “Come here,” he says. Voice faltering, he drags Steven into his chest. He still has a couple of inches on his son. It’s the first time they’ve touched in more than three years and he doesn’t want to ever let go, except that at a certain point he feels Stevie squirm, so he relents and pulls back.

  Thaddeus grins, playfully wags a finger. “Now don’t go getting any ideas. I know how you guys are.”

  “Thaddeus!”

  “It’s just a joke. He understands.” He claps Steven on the back. “Just a joke, Stevie. You understand. We can joke because we’re family.”

  “For better or worse.”

  “Steven!” Peter says.

  “Just a joke,” Steven says, then he cracks his knuckles.

  Cheryl shuttles trays of hors d’oeuvres between the kitchen and the family room while Peter plays horsey with Gertie on the floor. Words volley, some loud, some soft, all too rapidly for Thaddeus to keep up, so he sits back with a cracker and a smear of Brie, grinning blankly at everyone. Before leaving the house this morning, he stashed an emergency cache of weed in the car just in case things with Stevie went south. Part of him wants to sneak out to the driveway now to light up—not because things have gone poorly, but in celebration. Miracles happen! After three years he’s in the same room as Stevie and Gertie, and they’re all getting along. It feels like a dream because he’s dreamed it so many times. He pictured the house differently—maybe a bit smaller, humbler—and the neighborhood exceeds anything he ever imagined, but they’re doing well, and it appears safe for Gertie, and that’s the important thing.

  He reaches for the crudités at the same time as Stevie, and when their fingers brush Stevie acknowledges it with a pleasant nod. He serves himself a cracker and a handful of grapes. They both lean back into their seats, and Thaddeus grins. At last, he thinks, like two friends.

  “They’ll be done with the house by next week,” he says while chewing.

  Steven flexes his hand, bending the fingers in unison at the second knuckle. “That’s quick.”

  “Maybe we can swing by there tomorrow—you and me—and make sure everything’s kosher. Keep those guys on their toes.”

  “Maybe.”

  “No pressure. Think it over and let me know. Whatever you want to do.”

  This newfound intimacy feels fragile and Thaddeus doesn’t want to rush things. They have all sorts of time. Besides, father-son conversations are supposed to be casual, aren’t they? Nothing set in stone.

  Cheryl adds a plate of hummus to the spread. “What are you two talking about?”

  “Just some guy talk,” he says.

  She rolls her eyes but he can tell that she’s pleased. “Don’t ruin your appetite,” she warns, on her way back to the kitchen.

  From the floor, Peter asks if Cheryl needs any help. Gertie pokes him until he neighs, and when he does she laughs and pokes him again. Each time he complies her laughter increases. She claps louder.

  Thaddeus grins. “Women, huh?”

  “She should be in bed,” Steven says.

  “It’s no problem, really,” Peter is insistin
g to Cheryl. “Steven and I cook every night.”

  Cheryl shakes her head. “So do I.” She runs her hands under the tap and pats them dry on a towel. “This is my way of saying thank you—for both of us.”

  Thaddeus raises a nibbled cracker and winks. Crumbs rain down his shirt.

  “You don’t need to thank us,” Peter says. “You guys are always welcome here.”

  “Su casa es mi casa,” Thaddeus says, chuckling to himself as he closes his eyes.

  All around him are the happy murmurs of a family: the splash of water in the sink, the laughter of his granddaughter, the rasp of slacks rubbing against couch cushions, and the porcelain ting of a platter as Stevie reaches for another hor d’oeuvre. The floors creak. They swish with the sound of bare feet against the wood. He opens his eyes to find Gertie propping Talkin’ Tina against the coffee table and issuing orders in a cyclone of gibberish. Blond locks tangled, her dress rumpled, the doll responds, “Math is fun!” or “The beach is hot!” (the exact line dilutes in the running stream that is his memory). Gertie topples her with a smack. Then she laughs and looks at Thaddeus with a wicked little grin.

  “I should’ve never let her sleep so late this afternoon,” Peter says, dropping onto the couch beside Steven. He pinches the bridge of his nose and winces. “We’ll never get her down tonight, and this headache won’t quit.”

  “She’ll calm down after dinner,” Steven says. He selects a grape from the tray, but then places it back. Standing, he turns toward Thaddeus. “Let me show you the yard.”

  Peter massages his temples. “Your father’s already seen it. They were home alone all day.”

  “I had to work,” Steven says. “I don’t know how else to say it.”

  Peter raises a hand. “All right, I know.”

  Steven remains standing for a moment, blinking rapidly. He bites his nails. Finally, he nods and sits back down. He nervously cracks his knuckles. “So you gave yourself the tour?”

  “You have a lovely house,” Thaddeus says. “Must be costing you boys a fortune. The real estate business booming?”