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?”
“Thaddeus,” Cheryl says. “That’s private.”
“We do all right,” Steven says, his face breaking into a puerile grin. “In fact, Peter just opened a new gallery downtown. They’re selling out shows.”
“I’m just helping a friend,” Peter explains. “And there’s a tax abatement.”
“Oh,” Thaddeus says. “Nobody told me.”
Cheryl sighs. “Yes. I did.”
Steven looms over his spread knees, slowly stretching his fingers against his palm. “The gallery premiered a young video artist this summer—”
“She was a sculptor,” Peter corrects, “and a painter, not a video artist.”
“I’m sure you’ve never heard of her,” Steven continues. “Two days later she received an offer for a solo show in Brooklyn.” He flicks his tongue against his teeth and winks. The naked swagger of it dislodges something unpleasant inside Thaddeus.
“It wasn’t two days later.”
It’s as if a mask slipped to reveal something greedy and decayed. Just as quickly whatever Thaddeus glimpsed retreats, and Stevie appears perfectly amiable. But the uneasiness lingers. What if all of this is a waste, if it’s just a game Stevie is playing with him, and in the end there’ll be no reunion, no Gertie, and no family by the pool?
It happens again.
He hears Cheryl give her congratulations about the gallery and watches Peter demur, but its Steven’s unwavering gaze that holds his attention. He’s seen that same lupine eagerness before and it always precedes a fight. Only this time nothing in Steven’s expression betrays anger. The look merely suggests a cold statement of fact. You’re nothing, it seems to say. Thaddeus grows hot with the desire to shout down his son’s smugness. So what if he hasn’t been perfect? He’s sacrificed for this family, for Stevie. As he has countless times over the past three years, Thaddeus asks himself just how much longer must he suffer for something he hardly remembers.
He opens his mouth—prepared to shout—but he holds back at the last minute. Instead, he clears his throat and congratulates Peter on his success. Steven arches an eyebrow. He seems disappointed.
“I guess you boys have done pretty well for yourselves,” Thaddeus continues.
He just has to get past tonight. If he can do that then everything will be smooth sailing.
For a long time he and Steven stare at each other in silence while Cheryl and Peter carry on. Even as he leans back into the couch, Steven’s gaze doesn’t waver.
“Thanks, Pop,” he says at last. “It is wonderful.”
Cheryl returns to the family room and, leaning over, she kisses Steven on the head. “I’m so proud of you.”
Gertie wails and smacks Talkin’ Tina. Gritting her teeth and furrowing her brow, she marches toward Thaddeus, dragging the doll by its blond tresses, nearly losing her balance in the process.
“Poop,” she says, pointing at the doll.
“That’s her new favorite word,” Peter explains.
“Talk about a potty mouth,” Thaddeus says.
Stevie sighs. “That’s a very ugly word, Gertrude.”
“Poop!” This time she follows it with a smile.
“Do you want a time out?”
Knitting her brow again, she glances between the doll and her father, considering her options. Finally, she crosses her arms and plops down onto the floor in a resigned huff.
“She’s got a temper,” Thaddeus says. “Must take after our side of the family.”
Steven smirks. “You have to be firm, but reasonable.”
“Your mother was in charge of that.” He pauses and flits his eyes at Cheryl, giving her the mischievous eyebrow. “She was the disciplinarian. In fact, she still keeps me firm, if you know what I mean.”
Steven winces. “Gross.”
“Hey, man, that’s just nature.”
“Doesn’t mean I want to hear about it.”
Gertie screams and tugs on Thaddeus’s pant leg to get his attention.
“Gertie, please,” Peter says. “Daddy has a headache.”
“All right. No big deal.” Thaddeus turns to Gertie, cooing, “What’s the problem, sweetie?” He leans over to grab her, but she’s skittish and retreats behind the coffee table, clutching her doll. “You don’t quite trust your old grandpa yet, do you, beautiful?”
“She’s developed some stranger anxiety in day care,” Peter explains.
Cheryl walks over to Gertie and picks her up without any problems. “You don’t need day care, do you, princess?” She tickles Gertie’s tummy and Gertie erupts in laughter. “You just tell your daddies to leave you with Grandma when they have to work. Would you like that?”
“She could go swimming,” Thaddeus adds. “It’s just a matter of turning on the heater, then she can swim even in the middle of winter. We have plenty of towels, too. No problem.”
