possible.
“Um . . . yes . . . What?”
“I’m giving you four months from today to pull your life together. You’ll be eighteen in December. A man. After that, unless I see you acting like one – in every way – I’m cutting off your allowance, I’ll no longer pay your health and car insurance, and I’ll transfer your college fund into your sister’s.”
Not as though there was ever a welcome mat under me, but whatever the fuck was there has been yanked out and I’m slammed down hard on my ass.
Wait . . . what?
A man by December. Like, poof, snap, shazam. Like there’s some expiration date on . . . where I am now.
“But –” I start.
He checks his Seiko, hitting a button, maybe starting the countdown. “Today is August twenty-fourth. That gives you until just before Christmas.”
“But –”
He holds up his hand, like he’s slapping the off button on my words. It’s ultimatum number two or nothing.
No clue what to say anyway, but it doesn’t matter, because the conversation is over.
We’re done here.
Unfold my legs, yank myself to my feet, and I head for the door on autopilot.
Can’t get out of the room fast enough.
For either of us, apparently.
Ho, ho, ho to you too, Pop.
“You’re really doing this?”
I’m shoving the last of my clothes into a cardboard box when my ma comes in, without knocking, because she never does. Risky as hell when you have a horny seventeen-year-old son. She hovers in the doorway, wearing a pink shirt and this denim skirt with – what are those? Crabs? – sewn all over it.
“Just following orders, Ma.” I cram flip-flops into the stuffed box, push down on them hard. “Pop’s wish is my command.”
She takes a step back like I’ve slapped her. I guess it’s my tone. I’ve been sober nearly two months, but I have yet to go cold turkey on assholicism. Ha.
“You had so much I never had, Timothy . . .”
Away we go.
“. . . private school, swimming lessons, tennis camp . . .”
Yep, I’m an alcoholic high school dropout, but check out my backhand!
She shakes out the wrinkles in a blue blazer, one quick motion, flapping it into the air with an abrasive crack. “What are you going to do – keep working at that hardware store? Going to those meetings?”
She says “hardware store” like “strip club” and “going to those meetings” like “making those sex tapes.”
“It’s a good job. And I need those meetings.”
Ma’s hands start smoothing my stack of folded clothes. Blue veins stand out on her freckled, pale arms. “I don’t see what strangers can do for you that your own family can’t.”
I open my mouth to say: “I know you don’t. That’s why I need the strangers.” Or: “Uncle Sean sure could have used those strangers.” But we don’t talk about that, or him.
I shove a pair of possibly too-small loafers in the box and go over to give her a hug.
She pats my back, quick and sharp, and pulls away.
“Cheer up, Ma. Nan’ll definitely get into Columbia. Only one of your children is a fuck-up.”
“Language, Tim.”
“Sorry. My bad. Cock-up.”
“That,” she says, “is even worse.”
Okeydokey. Whatever.
My bedroom door flies open – again no knock.
“Some girl who sounds like she has laryngitis is on the phone for you, Tim,” Nan says, eyeing my packing job. “God, everything’s going to be all wrinkly.”
“I don’t care –” But she’s already dumped the cardboard box onto my bed.
“Where’s your suitcase?” She starts dividing stuff into piles. “The blue plaid one with your monogram?”
“No clue.”
“I’ll check the basement,” Ma says, looking relieved to have a reason to head for the door. “This girl, Timothy? Should I bring you the phone?”
I can’t think of any girl I have a thing to say to. Except Alice Garrett. Who definitely would not be calling me.
“Tell her I’m not home.”
Permanently.
Nan’s folding things rapidly, piling up my shirts in order of style. I reach out to still her hands. “Forget it. Not important.”
She looks up. Shit, she’s crying.
We Masons cry easily. Curse of the Irish (one of ’em). I loop one elbow around her neck, thump her on the back a little too hard. She starts coughing, chokes, gives a weak laugh.
“You can come visit me, Nano. Any time you need to . . . escape . . . or whatever.”
“Please. It won’t be the same,” Nan says, then blows her nose on the hem of my shirt.
It won’t. No more staying up till nearly dawn, watching old Steve McQueen movies because I think he’s badass and Nan thinks he’s hot. No Twizzlers and Twix and shit appearing in my room like magic because Nan knows massive sugar infusions are the only sure cure for drug addiction.
“Lucky for you. No more covering my lame ass when I stay out all night, no more getting creative with excuses when I don’t show for something, no more me bumming money off you constantly.”
Now she’s wiping her eyes with my shirt. I haul it off, hand it to her. “Something to remember me by.”
She actually folds that, then stares at the neat little square, all sad-faced. “Sometimes it’s like I’m missing everyone I ever met. I actually even miss Daniel. I miss Samantha.”
“Daniel was a pompous prickface and a crap boyfriend. Samantha, your actual best friend, is ten blocks and ten minutes away – shorter if you text her.”
She blows that off, hunkers down, pulling knobbly knees to her chest and lowering her forehead so her hair sweeps forward to cover her blotchy face. Nan and I are both ginger, but she got all the freckles, everywhere, while mine are only across my nose. She
