Page 68 of Nobody's Fool

“Maybe you should stay with your dad tonight.”

I feel what remains of my heart plummet in my chest. There is no anger in her tone. I wish there was.

“I don’t want to worry my dad,” I say.

“Then maybe a hotel or a friend. Just for tonight.”

I end up at Craig’s, for once not just to pick up my car. I was going to stay with Marty—Lord knows that would be a more upscale accommodation—but I hadn’t spent much time with Craig recently, and I worry about him being lonely. Craig is excited for my visit. He ran to the supermarket and bought guac and salsa and Tostito chips (“the scoop-shape ones—I remember you like those”) and BlackCherry Coke. Craig always has brandy on hand. He likes to mix it in his Black Cherry Coke. That may sound disgusting to you but that’s only because it is.

Craig had taped a soccer match between Manchester City and Fulham from earlier today, and we watched it. I love watching soccer or football or whatever you want to call it, especially when I have no rooting interest. It’s too stressful when you care, but when you don’t, football has the most Zen quality to it, a gentle wave of back and forth, to and fro, with—and I can’t stress this enough as an American—no time-outs or commercial breaks except at the half. I wish other sports could do that, but hey, I’m not naïve enough to think this isn’t all about money. I’m old enough to remember when betting was against the law—what, ten years ago maybe?—but now there are more TV ads for betting apps than beers.

I would judge this if I cared more.

Craig has one son named Michael. He’s grown and moved to San Francisco. There are a lot of family photos around. Craig’s late wife, Cassie, is in every single one. I don’t know how to say this without seeming unkind, but Cassie was the more ordinary-looking woman in every way, or maybe what I’m saying is kind in the sense that we should all have someone who looks at us and sees us the way Craig saw Cassie.

Craig falls asleep in his recliner. He’s made up the spare bedroom—what used to be Michael’s room—for me. I lie down and stare at the ceiling. I can hear Craig in the next room, still snoring in his recliner.

My phone buzzes at midnight. It’s Molly. I pick up the phone and say, “You okay?”

“I can’t sleep,” she says.

“Me neither.”

“We don’t go to bed angry,” Molly says.

“I’m not angry.”

“Neither am I. Come home, Sami. I want you here with me.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about Spain.”

“I don’t care. I just want you back home with us.”

“Craig is already asleep.”

“Wake him and say you’re coming home. Or just leave a note. Please?”

She doesn’t have to ask me again. Craig understands and falls promptly back to sleep. My app says the train is delayed, so I splurge on an old-school yellow taxi. My father used to drive a cab. He then moved on to investing in taxi medallions. They used to have tremendous value—at their height, they were almost a million dollars a pop. He poured most of his savings into it and did well, and then the ride-share apps came along and now that million is maybe one hundred grand and my dad lost pretty much everything.

It’s the late-night shift so it’s Russian roulette about what kind of driver you’re going to get. My driver is a chatty guy named Dmitri Scull, who is skinny and unshaven and wired. He tells me that he used to be in the advertising business.

“I came up with a great campaign for Verizon,” Dmitri tells me.

I enjoy talking to taxi drivers. I regret that so few speak to you now. They all have their earphones in and are talking for hours on end to someone back home and I often wonder who loves them that much. Like with Cassie. Love is everywhere, if you look for it. “Have I seen the ad?” I ask.

“They didn’t use it. But it was a brilliant idea. Want to hear it?”

“Sure.”

“You know Bruce Springsteen?”

“Not personally.”

“His song ‘The Rising.’” Then Dmitri sings it for me. “‘Come on up for the rising…’”

“I remember it,” I say.

“So you just change one lyric,” he explains. “‘The Rising’ becomes ‘Verizon.’”