Page 17

17

Ben Stirling

Luca is having a sad day today. He didn’t sleep well last night, and he’s not himself. He’s been quick to anger all afternoon, and he was listless this morning. I took him to a skate shop right after breakfast to try to cheer him up. It meant we missed coffee with Jeremiah again. He had an early yoga class to teach yesterday, and in retrospect, two days without seeing him has probably hurt Luca’s mood more than the new skates helped. I’ve tried encouraging him to talk about how he’s feeling, but that hasn’t done much good either. I’m trying really hard to make sure he knows it’s okay to talk about Liz, cry, and show his pain any way he needs to, especially as I know all too well the damage it does to bottle it up, but I don’t know if I’m getting it right.

Maybe today is one of those days where the unrelenting nature of grief has got on top of him, and much as I wish it was different, nothing I can say or do helps. It’s a parent’s worst nightmare to see your child in pain and not be able to take it away. Everyone’s always saying talk about this feeling and talk about that feeling , but honestly, I get where Luca is coming from. Sometimes I just want to yell, “Fuck off! Talking doesn’t do shit.”

If Luca had that kind of vocabulary, I suspect that’s what he’d like to say to me right about now.

I’m almost at the point of putting the TV on and letting him watch it for as long as he likes, even though history has taught me that runs the risk of causing his mood to plummet until he has to be carried kicking and screaming to bed. So before I resort to that, I make a last attempt at distraction.

“Hey, bud,” I say. “You know what I was thinking.” He gives me a look I’ve previously seen on teenagers who think their parents are idiots. “I was thinking it might be fun to set the table and eat in the dining room instead of in the kitchen. What do you say? Do you still remember where everything goes?” Before Liz died, she’d started asking Luca to set the table for dinner on nights when I was home. It was nice. It gave our meals a different vibe. Not formal, but purposeful. Present. Being at a table set with placemats, proper cutlery settings, and our good napkins made our meals feel like an occasion.

I haven’t thought to do it since it’s been just the two of us, but tonight, it might be just the thing that saves the day.

“Forks on the left and knives on the right,” I remind him.

Fortunately, it works. “Yeah, yeah, yeah, I remember,” he says, getting up off the sofa. “I used to get them mixed up sometimes, but that won’t happen anymore because Mrs. Vernon taught me this.” He extends his forefingers and straightens his thumbs, making a perfect L with his left hand and one that’s the wrong way around with his right. “It’s easy. This is left, this is right.”

“Okay, let’s do this!” I’m way, way more excited about this than I’d ordinarily be, but if we can end today on a positive note, it’s a win I’ll be only too happy to take. “You get the table ready, and I’ll get dinner finished.”

He jogs to the dining room with a little bounce in his step for the first time today. I get the casserole out of the oven, and I’m about to start dishing up when I hear it—a long intake of breath followed by a thin cry.

My heart drops. I know what’s happened before I get there. It’s happened to me too. It happened a lot in the beginning, and even now, if I’m tired or distracted, there’s still a risk.

Three place settings, not two.

Luca is standing in the dining room with two placemats on the table and one in his hand. His face is scrunched up, not in anger, in pain so deep all the names that exist for it barely begin to scratch the surface.

The second I see him like that, I’m there too. I’m in the same awful place as he is, drowning, angry and sad and confused. My own grief is bad, but his amplifies it a hundredfold. He’s just a little boy. My little boy. He doesn’t deserve this.

I try to take the placemat from him, but he holds on to it tightly and starts fighting me, so I scoop him into my arms and hold on to him as he flails.

“We were three people,” he cries. “We were three people, Daddy, and, and I’m still a three-person. I’m a three-person. I don’t want to be two people.” He sobs until his voice grows softer and watery. “I’m a three-person, Daddy. I’m a three-person.”

I cradle his head in the hollow between my neck and shoulder as a solitary thought plays on repeat in my head.

I’m a three-person too. I’m a three-person too.

I’m weak by the time I put him down, shaking inside, kicked in the chest, and cracking at the seams.

I don’t know what to do. I have no idea how you’re supposed to deal with things like this. I didn’t sign up for this. No one fucking prepared me for days like these. No one warned me. No one told me what to do.

Luca is still holding the placemat, clutching it to his chest.

“Put that on the table and get the knives and forks out,” I say, remembering something someone said to me recently.

You’re not alone.

There are major hockey fans all around you.

I dial Jeremiah’s number, praying fervently that he answers.

He picks up immediately.

“Sorry to do this,” I say, talking quietly while walking out of the room toward the kitchen so Luca doesn’t hear the conversation, “but can you come over? Luca’s… We’re having a sad day, and we could really use some company for dinner.”

We all have things that define us. Characteristics. Behaviors. Morals and beliefs. Here’s the thing about Jeremiah, here’s the thing that makes him, him. Here’s what defines him as a person. When he hears my voice, he doesn’t ask why or what’s wrong. He doesn’t get worked up because I’m upset, and he doesn’t get that weird, almost-excited, too-fast way of talking most people get when they’re exposed to intense emotion in others.

He simply says, “What time should I come over?”

It’s five-thirty in the afternoon. It’s still light, and I know full well childfree people don’t typically eat for hours, but Luca’s hungry, and it’s been a horrible, long day. “Does now work?”

“Now’s perfect.”

I fill him in on what happened so he knows what he’s walking into and hang up. The doorbell rings less than three minutes later.

“Luca,” I call out, “come and see who’s here.”

Luca’s mouth drops, and he starts jumping on the spot when I open the door. “Jelly! Jelly’s here!”

Jeremiah stands on the porch wearing a big smile and a pastel-pink T-shirt with a unicorn shitting a rainbow out of its ass. He has a bottle of wine in one hand and a tub of ice cream in the other. He hands me the wine as he crosses the threshold. Luca hugs his waist for a long time and then immediately attempts to relieve him of the ice cream.

We walk to the kitchen and when we get there, Jeremiah stops dead. He stands still and smiles at the backsplash above the stovetop, and says, “Oooh, I love that tile.”

“Maybe we should start with the ice cream, Dad,” suggests Luca before I’m able to respond to Jeremiah. “You know, so it doesn’t become all runny. It doesn’t taste as good when it’s all milky.”

I chuckle as I uncork the wine, pouring two of the biggest glasses a man can possibly get away with and seem vaguely cultured at the same time. “Hmm, we could do that…or we could pop it in the freezer. I’ve heard that stops ice cream from melting too.”

Luca looks unconvinced, and to my surprise, Jeremiah does too. A pair of brown eyes and a pair of blue blink at me. Luca’s mouth opens to speak, but Jeremiah beats him to it.

“Don’t be mannered on my account, Ben. I live alone. I eat ice cream before dinner all the time.”

“Oh, what the hell,” I say, grabbing bowls from the cabinet and following as Luca shows Jeremiah to the dining room.

“Let’s light candles and call it a party,” cries Luca happily.

I forgot we used to do that. Not forgot, forgot. Forgot, as in, I know we used to do it. I just haven’t thought of it in a long time.

“My mommy used to light candles and then call it a party, Jelly. So, like, if we had pizza and candles, it was a pizza party. If we had dinner and candles, it was a dinner party. One time, we had apple slices and candles, and she called it an apple party.”

“I love that,” says Jeremiah, “and for the record, I’m always up for an ice cream party.”

I find a stock of pillar candles in the sideboard’s cabinet. There are seven or eight of them, and I put all of them on the table. Today isn’t a day for restraint. I let Luca light them, and as he does, I notice how Jeremiah watches him. Closely. He doesn’t rush him or crowd him, but he’s on guard. He’s ready. I can tell he’d get to Luca in under a second if something went wrong.

It’s a strange feeling.

A good feeling. A really good feeling that makes me exhale a breath I’ve been holding for almost a year and a half. There’s another adult in my home. Someone else is watching my child. Not just watching him, watching him with the intention to keep him from harm. Watching him in a way that makes me feel like I can close my eyes for a moment because it’s not all on me. I’m not alone. Someone else has him.

The candles are lit, flickering weakly because of the late afternoon sun flooding the room. It doesn’t matter. It still feels like a party. I raise my glass to Jeremiah, and he does the same. He takes a sip like a person who’s mentally stable. I take mine in a way usually associated with those suffering from severe dehydration. He notices and smiles, raising his chin and quickly taking another sip to catch up with me.

It buoys me immeasurably. This is just what I need, ice cream for an appetizer, candles lit in the afternoon, a truckload of wine, and someone who’s prepared to drink it with me like they mean business.

Luca has cheered up too. He’s watching and offering advice as I scoop healthy servings of ice cream into our bowls. As I do it, Jeremiah tells Luca how much he loves ice cream. Luca is enthralled. I don’t think he’s ever met an adult who likes the stuff half as much as he does.

“So,” says Luca, “are you saying you like ice cream more than candy? All types of candy?”

“Yep, absolutely.”

“What about candy and soda?”

“It’s not even a contest.”

“What about candy and soda and cake?”

They go around and around, listing treats and comparing them, and no matter what Luca offers, Jeremiah prefers ice cream. As they go on, the comparisons become more and more ridiculous, and eventually, Luca is in stitches.

“Let me put it to you like this,” Jeremiah says when Luca’s face is ruddy from laughter. “There are only a handful of things I like more than ice cream, and those things are books, coffee, Coco and Gabe, and a very select group of people.”

“Who are the people?” asks Luca.

“Well, there’s my Aunt Lissa, and my friend Vanessa, and Marcus, a—”

Luca’s eyes are wide, and there’s a trace of hesitation in them. “What about me, Jelly? Do you like me more than ice cream?”

Jeremiah doesn’t skip a beat. “Are you kidding me? I like you more than I like salted caramel, and that’s my all-time favorite flavor.”

The thing is, when he says it, I believe him. He’s completely sincere. I realize, not for the first time, I was right. My initial assessment of him was correct. Jeremiah Blake is a nice person. More than that, he’s a good person.

Luca looks happy in the way only kids do. Over-happy. More than happy. So happy his eyes and cheeks shine and the whole world feels like a brighter place than it did before.

My own eyes start to sting suddenly and with such venom at the sight of him, it takes me by surprise.

Jesus. What the fuck? I rub the corner of one eye hard and take a few quick breaths through my nose. I’ve had this shit bottled up inside me for fucking ages, and now it’s threatening to come out in broad daylight, at the dinner table, with my son and neighbor in attendance?

No, thank you.

I blink a few times and swallow a mouthful of ice cream that tastes salty despite being chocolate chip, not salted caramel. Fortunately, Luca and Jeremiah carry on the conversation and don’t notice anything amiss.

When we finish our ice cream, I top up the wine glasses and serve the casserole. To my surprise, we all eat a good portion, even Luca.

“See, Dad,” he says smugly as he helps me scrape the plates, “dessert before dinner didn’t ruin my appetite. I think it actually made me hungrier for real food.”

“It was a treat, sweetheart,” I say. “Don’t get used to it.”

“But Jelly—”

“Your dad’s right, Luca,” says Jeremiah. “Don’t get used to it. Much as I love ice cream, I love being big and strong more, so I eat my two servings of fruit and three veggies every day. Actually, most days I try for five veggies. When I’m feeling snackish, I squish up a bunch of leafy greens into a tight ball and shove it into my mouth. That’s how much I love it.”

“Really?” I mouth as Luca puts his plate in the dishwasher. Jeremiah shakes his head, checking furtively to make sure Luca isn’t looking and mouths back. “ Bleurgh , no. I’d rather eat arsenic.”

We hang out in the kitchen for a while and then move to the living room. Luca plays at our feet but loses interest in us eventually and starts darting back and forth to the playroom, bringing an armful of toys with him each time. I’ve had two and a half glasses of wine in quick succession, so I don’t mind in the slightest. I’m a chill guy tonight. A cool dad. A mildly tipsy dad but a fun one.

I tell Jeremiah all about my altercation with the sofas a few weeks back, and for good measure, I follow it up with a dramatic reenactment. Jeremiah is also mildly drunk and thus on the same wavelength as me, so he finds it hilarious.

In the blink of an eye, I realize it’s time for Luca to go to bed. Jeremiah and I have opened another bottle of wine, so I say, “Don’t go yet. I won’t be long,” as I take Luca upstairs. “He’s tired. He’ll go out like a light.”

The house is quiet but not empty. It’s nice. I come down the stairs feeling lighter than usual, knowing someone is waiting for me. Jeremiah is on the sofa, legs tucked under himself, cradling his empty glass in one hand. He’s looking up at the stairs and smiles as soon he sees me approaching. It’s a funny smile, almost sheepish but not quite.

“You okay?” I ask.

He doesn’t answer, holding up his glass toward me instead. I top him up generously, and I top myself up generously too. “Want to watch something?” I ask, picking up the remote and handing it to him. “You can choose. What are you in the mood for?”

“Hockey,” he says. “Always hockey!”

I snort and wave him off. “We don’t have to watch hockey.”

“But I love hockey. Why don’t we watch the one where you scored so many goals they all threw their hats onto the—”

“Huh?”

“Or, I mean, no. No, you’re right. Let’s watch whatever’s live.”

The Mounties are playing the Wranglers, and it looks set to be a close game. I’ve been keeping an eye on highlights and scores, but I haven’t watched much hockey recently. I’m in the mood for it tonight though. I think I could take in a game right about now and not feel like I’m dying.

“Ooh, I love this part,” says Jeremiah when the centers face off. “Who do you think’s going to win? Call it quickly, or you have to drink.”

I call Levi Goodwin, the Wranglers’ star player. He calls, “The one that looks easy to draw.”

He loses.

We both drink.

It quickly devolves into a complex drinking game. The rules are convoluted, but if you focus and follow them to the letter, it makes for a really good time. Jeremiah drinks whenever he gets a player’s name wrong. I drink whenever I laugh. We both drink when a player from either team touches the puck.

To add to the intricacy of what’s happening on and off screen, I pelt him with questions about hockey. “Okay, I’ve got one.” I’m talking a little louder than usual and my voice sounds different. Deeper. Like I’ve been drinking honey, not wine. “The offside rule.”

“Never heard of her,” says Jeremiah.

“Drink!”

“I’m kidding. Of course I know about the offside rule. You’re making it so easy for me.”

“You haven’t answered.”

“Okay, so it’s when one team has con sistently had the puck.” He breaks the word into distinct, clunky syllables to show the strength of his disapproval. “It’s when they just keep trying and trying to score a goal, and it’s not fair because the other team hasn’t had a turn. And that’s just wrong. It’s offside to be selfish like that.” A rough snort leaves me through my nose as I try not to laugh. I look at him in amazement. “That’s it, isn’t it? No? Are you sure? Am I at least close?”

“Not even a little bit.” I laugh and the buzzer sounds, signaling the end of the first period. The players skate off and no one touches the puck.

We both drink.

When the game resumes, I find myself pouring tequila and rambling about curtains. Jeremiah talks at length about what an awful mope Marcus has been lately. We have completely independent conversations with each other, but somehow, it all makes a lot of sense.

At a certain point, I say, “You’re right, and Marcus is wrong,” with an extreme amount of conviction, and Jeremiah says, “Let’s go to your room and sort out these goddamn curtains once and for all.”

It’s a phenomenal idea. I don’t know why I didn’t think of it myself. Of course I need his advice. Of course I haven’t been able to explain the horror of my curtain situation without showing him. Some things have to be seen to be believed.

We bump our way up the stairs. I lead, and he follows. When I get to the landing, I stop, clench a fist, and hold it up like a Marine on a mission. He freezes instantly and then answers with a hard-to-decipher signal I interpret as: proceed with caution. We tiptoe down the hall like complete fucking idiots, holding on to the wall and each other lest we make the slightest sound that could wake Luca.

When we get to my room, Jeremiah closes my door and flops back against it. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” he exclaims. “You said it was bad, but I had no idea it was this bad. You didn’t say anything about the color. Or the fact that there’s so much pattern. Are those stripes, florals, and stars?”

“’S pretty bad,” I slur.

“You can’t live like this.” His mouth is ajar from shock and his eyes are so overcome with emotion that the cerulean sky looks misty. “You can’t do it. No one should have to, but you not especially. I mean, especially not you.” He scrapes himself off the door, recovering quickly and marching around the room with a businesslike stride. “This has to go…and this has to go…and this too—whatever it is.” As he works his way around the room, I feel a mild sense of trepidation. An unease that’s distant but making itself known. “I think it’s called a pelmet…or a swag, or something like that. Doesn’t matter though. Has to go.” He spins around suddenly, stopping unsteadily and facing me. “You know what you need?”

I wave expansively around the room. “All thish to go?”

“Yes,” he says decisively. “You need that. And then you need electric blackout blinds everywhere. You can have a decorative curtain framing the window. Something soft and paired back to give the room a little warmth, but you need blinds that you can open and close at the touch of a button. You can’t be opening and closing all this every day. It will age you prematurely. You could put one switch at the door, and another one here, next to your be… Holy shit, my bookshelves look so good from here! Look. Aw, aren’t my books gorgeous?”

“Mm, gorgeous,” I say.

“My house looks like a shiny tube of glitter, doesn’t it?”

“Mm, tube of glitter,” I say.

“A tube of glitter with a fairy light stuck up its ass.”

A long while later, the game is over, tequila has been liberally consumed, and we’ve solved several serious global crises that have plagued humanity for centuries.

I see Jeremiah out, standing on the porch and watching as he leaves. He latches the gate behind him without his usual well-practiced ease and turns, giving me a wave that’s half-shoulder shrug, half-wave. He walks the short distance from my gate to the side gate that leads to his cottage. As he goes, I feel an almost overwhelming urge to yell, “Jeremiah, I like you more than pistachio ice cream.”

Fortunately, I manage not to. Instead, I say, “Jeremiah,” and wait until he stops moving and looks at me. His face is honest, open, and sweet. His eyes are so hopeful that I feel it in my belly. “Grateful isn’t the word.”

He shrugs again, less coordinated than last time, and this time, he adds a salute that he punctuates with a wink. “Anytime, Captain.”

As he disappears from view, he stubs his foot on something. He must because I hear him muttering, “Jesus fucking Christ,” in a pained way.