Say Never

by Thomas, Janis

  I pull into the assigned guest parking space at the rear of the complex and alight from the Camaro. Cera remains in the passenger seat, glued to her cell phone, in the process of sending a text. I open the back door and withdraw my sleeping nephew, surprised at how heavy he is when he’s unconscious. I stand next to the car tapping my foot impatiently and worried that my right arm is going to fall off.

  “You want to wrap it up? I ask.

  “Just wait,” Cera says. “This is important.”

  “Seriously. You’re eleven. What can be so important?”

  “You wouldn’t understand,” she replies, her eyes never leaving her phone.

  You’re fucking A right, I wouldn’t, I think. “Get out of the car now!”

  She makes a big show of finishing her text, then slowly gets out of the car, stuffing her cell phone in the back pocket of her designer jeans.

  “You’re not too good with kids, are you?” she asks, eyeing me over the roof of the Camaro.

  “I’m great with kids when they behave themselves.” Which is never.

  She looks around without much interest. “Where are we?”

  “My dad’s place,” I answer, then head for the concrete path that cuts through the complex.

  At 27C, I carry my nephew up the small flight of stairs to the front door. Cera shuffles a few feet behind me. I depress the button for the doorbell and I’m instantly greeted by my dad’s hearty bellow.

  “Who’s that at my door?! I’m coming! Just give me a minute, I have to find my pants!”

  “Buddy, it’s Meg.”

  “Woohoo, my baby girl! It’s about damn time,” he shouts from the other side of the door. “Still need my pants though, honey. Just a sec.”

  Two minutes later, the front door opens and my father puts his arms out to me. In the scant few seconds before he envelops me in his traditional bear-hug, I notice that his white hair needs a trim, he hasn’t shaved yet today, and he’s added a few pounds to his already burly frame.

  Tebow is the only thing that saves me from being hugged to within an inch of my life, and even with the toddler in my arms, I feel the air squeezed out of my lungs by arms that haven’t lost their strength. At seventy-seven, my dad can still bench press a Chevy.

  “That’s my girl, my Meggie-weggly.”

  My nephew stirs in my arms. “Buddy, watch out for Tebow.” My dad steps back and chucks Tebow under the chin. Tebow’s expression morphs from sleepy confusion to happy recognition. He squeals delightedly at my father.

  “If it isn’t my grandson! How’re you, my boy. He’s the galdarn spitting image of me, don’t you think, Meggie?” He pats my head then pulls me into him, pressing my face against the corner of his armpit. My nose tells me he’s already showered, and for that I am extremely grateful. “I am so darn happy to see you, girl! It’s been too long since you’ve visited your old man.”

  “It’s good to see you too,” I say out the side of my mouth. I manage to extract myself from his embrace and take a moment to set Tebow down. The boy instantly toddles past his grandfather’s feet and into the condo. “How are you doing, Buddy?”

  “Not how, but who, cupcake! Who am I doing! That’s the question. I got me a little romance going with 43B. Just a doll, just a doll. She’s had some work done, doesn’t look a day over sixty. I tell you, being a man over the age of seventy—with a pulse—really has its perks. Hey! Who’s that fifty cent piece skulking around down there?”

  I follow his gaze down the stairs to Cera. She stands on the concrete path shifting her weight back and forth.

  “That’s Caroline’s daughter, Cera,” I tell him.

  “Whose daughter?” He squints down at her and she returns his gaze with a suspicious look of her own.

  “Caroline? Danny’s wife?”

  He breaks into a grin. “I know who you meant, I was just messing with you!” He rolls his eyes dramatically then pushes me aside and hollers down to Cera as though she is hearing impaired. “Well? What are you doing down there, anyway? Come on up and say hello like a person, for crying out loud!”

  Cera looks around, possibly for an escape route, then grudgingly climbs the stairs. “Are you gonna hug me?” she asks, making it clear she has no intention of letting him.

  “Well, kid, I thought I’d start with a handshake.” He puts his beefy paw out to her, smiling openly. Tentatively, she places her hand in his, probably afraid he’ll crush every bone in her fingers. He pumps her arm up and down a few times. “I guess it’s about time we met, huh? What did you say your name was?”

  “I didn’t,” she corrects him, then jerks her head in my direction. “She did. But it’s Cera. With a C.”

  “Well, Cera with a C, don’t let’s all just stand out here on my nonexistent porch. Come on in for a minute.”

  He turns and walks inside, and I notice how he still favors his right side from the mild stroke he had five years ago, which was the reason for my last visit. My dad claims the stroke gave him new perspective on life and inspired him to start a bucket list; a list which includes having as much sex as possible before they put him in the ground. The idea of my dad having sex might gross me out if I thought about it for too long, but I’m pretty sure he never had sex with anyone after Melanie, so I figure he has a lot of catching up to do. Plus, I never let myself think about it. Ever.

  His condo is a small one bedroom with a living room/dining room combo and a u-shaped kitchen with an eat-in counter. The space is minimal, but bright and cheerful. There are many decorative touches that I know have been donated by his legion of female admirers—he tells me about them every time we talk on the phone. I recognize the sunny yellow curtains on the sliding glass door (Mona Kappleman), the hand-stitched floral pillows on the couch (Dodi French), a row of Hummel figurines (Audrey Van-Something), the Tiffany lamp on the side table (Miriam Ziff), the lace doilies on the coffee table (Mary or Meryl—can’t remember which— Nussbaum), and paintings of pastoral scenes done in watercolor which adorn the walls (Jeanne Bartholomew). I don’t know what his current squeeze has added to the place, but I’m sure I’ll find out soon enough.

  Tebow waddles over to me and tugs on my pant leg. “Baba?” he says, giving me a plaintive look. Crap. I left the ‘baba’ in the car.

  “Be right back,” I say to no one in particular. I hurry to the car and grab the diaper bag, then practically run back to my dad’s condo. I’m not sure why I’m so worried about leaving him alone with Cera.

  Maybe because she has the personality of a serial killer? Yeah, that could be it.

  But when I reach the living room, I see that they are seated across from each other, Cera on the couch and Buddy in his recliner, talking easily. I feel something stir in my chest at the sight of them.

  Tebow sits on the floor next to Buddy’s toy chest, rifling through the Caroline-approved toys within. When he sees the bottle in my hand, his eyes light up and he stands and rushes at me like a linebacker heading for the goal line. I hand him the bottle and he returns to his spot on the floor.

  “My new girl Bettina made me a linguini with clams and an arrabiata sauce to die for,” Buddy tells Cera. “I got leftovers in the fridge if you’re hungry. She’s an actual chef, you know.”

  “Really?” Cera answers, and I can’t tell if she’s sincerely interested or putting on an act for my dad.

  “Oh, yessiree!” he says, leaning back in his chair. “She had her own cooking show a while back. Bettina’s Basting, Braising, and Baking. You might remember it. I think it was on in the late 80s, early 90s.”

  “I wasn’t even born yet.”

  “What?!!” my dad cries. “Are you serious? I thought you were at least thirty, thirty one!” His joke gets a genuine laugh out of Cera and I’m surprised by the sound. She hasn’t laughed once in my presence. Her features are relaxed and she looks like any other child her age, not the spawn of Satan I thought her to be.

  “So tell me, what grade are you in?”

  “Seventh,” she an
nounces. “And I’m only eleven, at least till Sunday. That’s early for my grade. My dad says I’m smart beyond my years, but he says it like it’s a bad thing.”

  “Oh, no, no,” Buddy says, shaking his head. “It isn’t a bad thing. Being smart is like having a super power. The important thing is to use your power for good and not for evil. So, what’s your favorite subject?”

  Cera thinks for a moment, biting her lower lip in the process. “I like reading. And creative writing. My Halloween story got posted on the school blog.”

  “Well! Isn’t that something!” Buddy says, slapping his thigh. “I’ve got me a genuine author right here in my living room!” He makes an exaggerated frown. “I wasn’t too good with the writing in school. Lefty.” He waves his left hand. “Couldn’t get the hang of writing forward, ‘cause it felt backward to me. My teacher thought I was writing in code.”

  Cera laughs again and the stirring in my chest blooms into a slight ache. It’s not indigestion or even a myocardial infarction, which I would actually prefer to what it really is, which is jealousy.

  I’m jealous. Not just that Buddy is getting along with the girl far better than I am, which is true, but also because he’s so freaking natural with her. When I was her age, he never seemed comfortable with me. He tried to make jokes and provide fun and he dutifully asked me about school and my life, but these ministrations always seemed forced, as though he were playing a role for which he was grossly ill-suited. Sure, he had a lot of important stuff on his plate, what with my mother abandoning us and then subsequently getting herself killed. But still.

  As if reading my mind, he turns to me and claps his palms together. “And how’s my girl doing?”

  “I’m doing well, Buddy. The show’s good. We’re doing pretty good in the ratings.”

  “You have a show?” Cera asks, allowing a tiny spark of interest to show.

  “A radio show. In New York.”

  Buddy shakes his head. “Sure wish I could get it on my radio. Then I could hear my daughter’s voice every day!”

  “You could if you got satellite,” I tell him for the thousandth time.

  “Satellite, shmatellite,” he says. “I got me good old-fashioned cable for the idiot box and a darned antenna for my radio.”

  “What about internet?” Cera asks him.

  “Well, now, I’m not one for computers, Cera with a C. Bettina ‘n me watch some stuff on her Mac…” He blushes and I can only guess what that means. “But, you know, the WWW isn’t for old farts like me.”

  “It’s not hard. I could show you some time.” Cera sounds uncertain, as though she’s embarrassed by her own act of kindness. “You could probably get Meg’s show online.” She looks to me and I nod.

  “Podcasts,” I confirm.

  Buddy shrugs his shoulders. “I suppose I could give it a try. With the right teacher.” He gives me a covert wink, then turns back to Cera. “You going to be around for a while?”

  “I think through Thanksgiving weekend. I brought my laptop.”

  “Fancy.” Buddy looks at me. “Meggie, what’re you doing standing there like that? Why don’t you take a seat and relax for a minute?”

  “Actually, Buddy, we can’t stay.”

  My dad’s smile fades.

  “We have another stop to make,” I explain quickly, trying to ignore the sudden rush of guilt I feel. “And I have to be at the school for McKenna at two-thirty sharp. I cannot be late.”

  Buddy pushes himself up from his seat, trying to regain his good mood. “I understand, doll. It’s for the best anyway. I got a date this afternoon.” He grins down at Cera. “Takes a lot longer to beautify myself these days.”

  “I think you look fine,” Cera says, almost shyly.

  My dad puffs up with pride. “I ain’t been complimented by anyone under the age of fifty in a long time, kid. Thanks for that.”

  Cera smiles wide, looking truly happy. “You’re welcome.”

  I roll my eyes at their mutual admiration society, then cross to Tebow and hastily clean up the array of toys from the floor.

  “Hrumaph!” he cries, not at all pleased at the interruption.

  “Come on, Tebow. Say goodbye to Buddy. I mean, Grandpa.”

  “I’ll see you for dinner Friday, right?” my dad asks me and I shrug my response. “Danny said family dinner at the house.”

  “That sounds like Danny,” I say with false cheer. “See you then, Buddy. Have fun with Bettina.”

  With Cera and Tebow in tow, I leave my father to get ready for his date, absently wondering if there’s such a thing as septuagenarian porn.

  Thirteen

  Meg: When I get old, I just want to be stuck in a home somewhere and forgotten about. I don’t want people coming to visit me and see me drooling and pooping in my diapers and turning into a human parsnip. Better yet, if and when I turn ninety, just shoot me.

  Barry: I don’t think anyone would do that to you, Meg.

  Meg: You haven’t met my sister-in-law.

  * * *

  “Why do you call him Buddy?”

  I’ve been enjoying a full ten minutes of quiet in the car, save for Tebow’s constant stream of babble, before Cera decides to pipe up with her question.

  “Why don’t you call him Dad, like normal people?”

  “I don’t like normal people,” I retort. “Do you?”

  She shrugs. “I don’t know. But seriously, why?”

  I pull to a stop for a red light and glance over at Caroline’s daughter, trying to decide whether or not she is mocking me. Her expression is one of curiosity but there is no trace of malice. “It’s a long story.”

  “Fine.” She crosses her arms over her chest and glares out the passenger window.

  I take a deep breath, wishing the light would change. It doesn’t.

  “I called him Daddy, until I was about six. But whenever we’d meet somebody new, at school, or at a restaurant, or on the street, he’d say, ‘Call me Buddy! Everyone calls me Buddy!’ And he’d be so enthusiastic, so happy, so lit up. With my brother and me, he was kind of sad, kind of withdrawn sometimes, but with other people, he was the life of the party. I wanted him to be that way with me. So I started calling him Buddy.”

  “Did it work?” She stares at me openly, waiting for my response. The light turns green and I step on the gas. “Guess not,” she says, then turns her attention to the road. “I like him. Your dad. He’s funny. You should have spent more time with him.”

  Like I need advice from an eleven-year-old. Except that she’s right.

  “He’s not going to be around forever, you know. He’s, like, gonna die and you’re gonna regret not spending more time with him. Where’s your mom?”

  “She’s already dead,” I say. “So, I can’t really spend more time with her, now can I?”

  I glance over at her. Her eyes are wide and she looks like she’s trying to swallow a football. “I…I thought…I thought they were divorced. Everyone gets divorced.”

  “Not everyone,” I say. “Some people die instead.”

  “That’s really sad.”

  “Shit happens,” I say, trying hard not to think about my eleven-year-old self standing by my mother’s grave, Danny entwining his fingers with mine as he struggled to keep from crying, and my father’s tear-stained face as they lowered the coffin into the ground. It was the last time I saw Buddy cry.

  “I’m s-s-sorry.” Cera forces the s-word out, as though she hasn’t had much practice saying it.

  “Don’t worry about it.” The finality in my voice tells her that our conversation is over. She takes the hint, pulls out her cell phone, and scrolls through some messages. She giggles at something, but her laughter sounds forced, as though she’s attempting to prove that she could care less about my dead mother and her own faux pas.

  Neither of us says another word until I turn into the parking lot of the rehab facility.

  “What are we doing here?” Cera asks, going rigid in her seat.

&n
bsp; “We’re here to see your mom.”

  “Why?”

  I pull into an available parking space, shut off the engine, and turn to face her. “Because she’s your mom and she probably wants to see you.”

  “She does not,” Cera says, her tone petulant. “She doesn’t give a shit about me.”

  “Watch your language, girlfriend,” I warn her.

  “How come you can say ‘shit’ and I can’t?”

  “Because I’m an adult and you’re a kid.” I glance in the rearview. Tebow is still asleep. “When you’re eighteen, you can curse like a freaking Shriner. But not until then, and not on my watch.”

  “I totally don’t want to see her. You just don’t get it.”

  She shrinks down into the passenger seat, looking miserable.

  “I do get it, Cera. More than you realize, I get it. I didn’t have a mom growing up. But the difference is that my mother died. Yours might have screwed up royally when it comes to you, but she’s here. She’s alive. And from what I’ve heard, she’s trying to make things up to you.” It feels strange to be championing my sister-in-law since I dislike her with white-hot intensity. But I think I might dislike her daughter even more. “Now, get your skinny a—butt moving and get out of this car.”