Raising Jake. Charlie CarilloЧитать онлайн книгу.
the words “Thank you!” I slap down a twenty and get up to leave.
“Hell of a tip,” Jake says.
“She deserves it. Maybe it’ll help her realize her dream. I’m all for dreams, especially the ones that don’t come true.”
“You’re weird, Dad.”
“I’ve heard that before.”
The two of us walk out, floating in space like astronauts whose lifelines to the mother ship have snapped.
And just like that a tall, well-dressed black kid steps in front of Jake on the sidewalk, refusing to let him pass. “I’ve got to talk to you, Perez.”
Jake calmly sets his bag on the sidewalk. “The name’s Perez-Sullivan.”
“Well, whatever your name is, we’ve got things to discuss before you disappear.”
The kid speaks beautifully. He’s actor-handsome and slightly taller than Jake, lean and muscular, tense as a tuning fork. I make a move toward them, but without even looking at me, Jake holds out a hand to keep me at bay. Then I notice that the black kid is wearing the school tie, and the whole thing becomes clear. He pokes Jake in the chest with his forefinger.
“See, I’ve got some issues with your essay. Let me ask you something, man. Do I look harmless to you?”
“Not in the least.”
“Then why the hell did you say I was harmless?”
“I didn’t. I said the school handpicked kids like you for their apparent harmlessness. You’ve got to pay attention to the adjective, Luther. It’s vital to that sentence.”
Luther eases back a step. Jake maintains his stance, as if they are still nose to nose. My son does not seem frightened or surprised in the least. This is disconcerting to Luther, who narrows his eyes.
“So what the hell are you saying?”
“I’m saying you fooled them, Luther. You’re smarter than they are. Level with me. How do you feel about the people who run the school?”
Luther licks his lips. “I’m grateful for the opportunities I’ve had.”
“Oh, come on, man! How do you feel about the people who make sure guys like you are always front and center for photo opportunities, whenever big shots come to visit? How do you feel about being trotted out like a show pony?”
Luther’s eyes darken. “I fucking hate it.”
“Well, I can understand that. But I wouldn’t worry about it if I were you, Luther. Believe me, they don’t know how you feel. You got ’em fooled. And I have a feeling you’re going to fool them all the way into whatever college you choose.”
“Hey, whoa, man. You listen to me. I work hard. I bust my ass.”
“I know you do. You’re going to get what you want. You play their game beautifully. I actually admire that, in a way. But I’ve had enough of the game. I just can’t play it anymore.”
Luther nods, purses his lips. “I hear you.”
Jake extends his hand to Luther. “Good luck to you, man. Sorry you misunderstood what I wrote.”
Luther’s lips curl into a smile. He hesitates before shaking Jake’s hand. “Man,” he says, “I was going to punch you in the nose. And here I am now, shaking your hand.”
“For what it’s worth, Luther, I’ve always thought of you as an extremely fearsome individual. And for what it’s worth, I’m not disappearing, I’m getting on with my life.”
Luther laughs out loud, lets go of Jake’s hand, and shakes his head. “Be cool, crazy man,” he says, and then he’s gone, before I can even introduce myself.
Jake picks up his bag, hoists it back onto his shoulder. “That was exciting, huh?”
“Jesus Christ, Jake, he was ready to clobber you!”
“Nah. Luther Johnson’s got too much to lose. He’s on a full scholarship, and he’d never do anything to jeopardize that. Not now, with Harvard and Princeton and Yale fighting to get him. He’s a great student and a great athlete. Last thing his pristine record needs is an arrest on assault charges.”
“Think that actually crossed his mind?”
“Of course it did. Believe me, Luther knows all about consequences. His father is serving fifteen years for manslaughter. Can we go home now, Dad?”
We drift along Broadway, heading north, making one stop at a bank so I can deposit Peter Plymouth’s check. Once it clears, the grand total in my checking account will be $7,212.53. It’s the most money I’ve ever had. For the moment, I allow myself to feel like a rich man. The moment will pass, I know, but not just yet. If nothing else, I’m learning how to appreciate The Moment. Not an easy thing for a fallen Catholic like me, trained as I was to believe that this life is really just a rehearsal for the afterlife.
When I come out of the bank Jake hoists his sack back onto his shoulder. “Hey, Dad,” he says, “where’s your stuff?”
“What stuff?”
“From your office. You gotta go back and get it?”
“There’s nothing to take.” I open my jacket to reveal the New York Star notebook jutting from my inside pocket. “Just this little souvenir to show for twenty-nine years on the job.”
He stares at me and says, “You always knew they were going to fire you, didn’t you?”
“Maybe. Maybe not. The one thing I did know is that in this life, endings come abruptly.”
Jake nods. “I learned that one when you and Mom split.”
My heart drops. Jake never, ever talks about this. He doesn’t expect me to comment on it, or respond to it. But I do, and I surprise myself in the way I do it.
“I learned it when my mother died,” I say softly.
“How old were you?”
“Your age.”
Jake stops walking, sets the sack down, and stares at me. “Dad. I’m sorry.”
“What are you sorry about? You knew my mother was dead.”
“Yeah, but I didn’t know you were so young when she died.”
“I was young, all right. So was she. It was tough.”
At last, we are talking about my childhood. It’s a hell of a conversation to be having in broad daylight, in the middle of Broadway. This is the sort of thing people talk about in soft voices in the wee hours of the morning, just before the sun comes up. Jake is practically shouting at me, to be heard over the beeping alerts from a pastry delivery truck that’s backing up.
“What did she die of?”
“Heart attack. I’ve told you this, haven’t I?”
“Never! We’ve never talked about it!”
The beeping stops as the truck settles into a delivery bay. My heart is pounding. On top of everything else that’s happening today, it seems ridiculous to be talking about a woman who died more than thirty years ago, but that’s what we’re doing, and I know that my son won’t let it go.
“I thought you knew about my mother,” I manage to say. Jake shakes his head.
“Dad,” he says, “the truth is, you’ve hardly told me anything about your life. You don’t like to leave many footprints, do you?”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“You travel light. You don’t even have anything to pack up at work. One lousy notebook, after twenty-nine years! Look at all this crap I’m carrying, from just a few weeks in school!”
“Pick