Bad Boy (4 page)

_p. 32
An hour later, Jon pushed his bicycle, careful not to skin the heels of anyone as he followed a crowd of people disembarking the Puget Sound ferry on the city side. Everyone but him seemed coupled up. Sunday morning and arm in arm with their sweeties. Except him. He sighed. He worked all the time
‌
—relentlessly as all the whiz kids. Seattle loomed over the waterfront, with its silly Space Needle and the newer towers gleaming. He mounted the bike, quickly passed the crowd, and pedaled wildly onto Fifteenth Avenue Northwest.

In less than ten minutes, Jon stopped abruptly outside a luxury apartment tower. He checked his watch, took another bouquet out of his basket
‌
—this one all tulips
‌
—and locked his bike against a parking meter. He entered the lobby of the building, an overdone mirrored space he used to visit when his dad took him for weekends. He pressed the elevator button, the door slid open, and he entered, pressing the number 12. Though it was only seconds, it seemed like a long ride.

The elevator stopped and the bell beeped as the door slid open. Jon sighed again, walked out of the elevator, and paused to gather himself. Then he knocked on an apartment door where the name below the brass knocker read
MR. & MRS. J. DELANO,
with the
MR. &
crossed out. A woman
‌
—almost middle-aged but younger and far better preserved than Barbara
‌
—
_p. 33
opened the door. She was dressed (or even overdressed) in what Jon guessed was considered “a smart suit.”

“Jonathan,” the woman cooed as she took the tulips from his hand as if they were expected. “How nice.”

“Happy Mother’s Day, Mother,” Jon said to Janet as he kissed her the way she’d taught him to: carefully on each cheek, being sure not to smudge her beautifully applied makeup.

“You don’t have to call me ‘Mother.’ I’m hardly old enough for that,” Janet replied with a little laugh. There was something about Janet’s voice that had always made him feel uncomfortable. When he was younger, he’d felt that she was gently mocking him. More recently, he’d realized that she was actually flirting. “Let me just put these in water,” she said. She opened the door wider to let him inside. He’d never felt comfortable with Janet.

The apartment was as overdecorated as Janet was herself. She wore way too much gold jewelry and had way too many gold buttons. The apartment had too many gold frames and too much cut glass. When he was twelve years old and had visited his father here, she’d spent most of her time cautioning him not to touch anything.

Nothing had changed since last year except his flowers. It was frozen in time, like Janet’s face or the palace in
Sleeping Beauty.
But no prince was making it up here for Janet’s wake-up call. Jon liked Barbara, but he couldn’t actually feel anything but pity for Janet. Now she
_p. 34
played with the flowers in the little sink of the tiny kitchen. “Have you heard from your dad?” she asked, trying to sound casual.

“No,” Jon said quietly. It was the question he most hated hearing. It made his father’s exes seem vulnerable. Now he felt even more sorry for Janet and he’d have to stay longer.

“No? No surprise,” she said, and her flirty voice changed and became hard. She pushed the last tulip into the vase too hard and broke the stem, though she didn’t notice. “And how’s
your
social life?” she asked, and Jon felt she might already know the answer wasn’t good. She eyed him up and down, taking in his baggy khakis, his old sneakers, his T-shirt. Then she sighed. “Well, where shall we go for brunch?”

Jon’s heart sank. “You know,” he said uncomfortably, “I thought maybe we’d just have coffee here. I mean, I could afford to lose a few pounds . . .”

“You mean
I
could,” Janet said, smiling and using that flirtatious voice again. “I’m always on a diet. But since it’s Mother’s Day, any brunch calories I eat are exempt. Even for a stepmom.”

Jon gave up and gave in. Until he left her, Jon’s dad had always given in to Janet, too.

In less than ten minutes, Jon found himself standing in front of a chic Seattle café. Thank God there was no line yet, but by the time they’d finished and he’d waved good-bye to his second stepmother, more than two dozen people were waiting. Jon consulted his watch,
_p. 35
panicked, and hopped on his bike. He pedaled like a madman, out of downtown, past the park, through the wealthier part of Seattle, and into his old neighborhood.

At Corcoran Street, Jon pulled his bike into the driveway of a brick bungalow. The house was covered in creeper and surrounded by flower beds. He ran past a well-tended bed, which reminded him to double back to the bike for yet another bouquet, the largest one.

He grabbed it and ran up to the door. There under the buzzer, the brass name plate read
J. DELANO.
Before he could knock, the door was thrown open by an attractive dark-haired woman who actually looked a lot like Jon.

“Jonathan!” his mother exclaimed.

“Happy Mother’s Day, Mom!” Jon embraced her warmly, crushing the flowers between them.

“Right on time!” his mother said. She took the flowers and patted his cheek with obvious deep affection. “Oh, honey. Peonies! God, they’re way before season. They must have cost you a fortune.”

“It’s okay, Mom. My allowance is bigger than it used to be.”

She laughed. “But how’s your appendix?” she asked.

“It’s still missing
‌
—but I’m good,” he said. He’d had an emergency appendectomy three years ago and it had frightened the hell out of her. She still asked about it, but it had come to mean his health in general.

_p. 36
“Did you see Rainier today?” she asked.

“Yes. And Mount Baker,” he told her.

They went through the living room and into the kitchen. “You came alone?” she asked.

“Yes. Why?” Jon asked.

“I thought maybe you’d bring Tracie.”

Jon smiled. Though he and Tracie had been close friends from the time they met, his mother still hinted or hoped they were more. Or that he’d bring some other girl
‌
—a real girlfriend
‌
—home. While all of Chuck’s ex-wives focused on who Chuck’s new girlfriend was, his mom focused on who Jon’s girlfriend was. He knew she wanted him to be happy, and that she wanted grandchildren for herself and for him. It wasn’t that Jon wouldn’t love to meet a woman and settle down, it was just that women he met seemed to want to settle down with someone other than him. In his social life he was a disappointment to himself and others. He sighed. He’d have liked to oblige, but . . .

“. . . This holiday’s always hard on her,” his mother was saying as she put the flowers in a vase.

Jon didn’t bother to tell his mom that he’d thought of Tracie
‌
—sometimes he thought he thought of Tracie too much
‌
—but that she was booked up with the latest loser and her old friend from San Bernadino or somewhere.

“She was busy. But I’ll see her tonight. You know, our midnight brunch.”

“Well, give her my love,” she told him.

“Sure,” he agreed as he reached into the
_p. 37
pocket of his jacket and pulled out a small wrapped box. He put it on the counter between them.

“Oh. A present? Jon. It’s not necessary.”

“I know that traditionally on Mother’s Day you’re supposed to steal your mom’s bank card and go on a spree. I just thought this once we’d be untraditional.”

Jon made a lot of money. Well, it was not a lot of money compared to what the four initial founders of his firm made, but it was a lot of money for a guy his age. And he didn’t spend it on much, since he was usually too busy working to have time to shop. Plus, he didn’t want anything. He had all the toys
‌
—stereos and laptops and video equipment
‌
—he could possibly want and very little time to listen, play with, or watch them. When he wasn’t working, he was thinking about work or sleeping. So, for him to spend some bucks on his mother was no big deal. It was deciding what she might like that was difficult. In the end, he had let Tracie pick something out. She was great at shopping.

“You’re so thoughtful. You sure didn’t get that from your father.” There was an uncomfortable pause, just for the tiniest moment. His father was the one subject Jon had asked that they not speak about. His mother laughed and unwrapped the gift. She held up the jade earrings. “Oh, Jonathan! I love them!” And it was clear she really
did.
Tracie always knew stuff like that. His mother went to the hall mirror and held them up, then preened for a moment.
_p. 38
It made Jon happy. “So, are we going to Babbette’s for lunch?” she asked as she at last put the earrings on.

“Don’t we always?” Jonathan responded without hesitation, despite the protests that Barbara’s breakfast and Janet’s brunch were making in his stomach.

“Let’s capture the moment,” his mother said as she grabbed her Polaroid and led Jon outside to the wisteria bush. “All I have to do is figure out the automatic timer and we’re all set.” She took about half an hour doing it, while he waited as patiently as he could. Then she scurried from the camera to him before the timer went off.

And, with a flash, the moment was over.

Jon was exhausted. He was only twenty-eight, but he wondered how many more Mother’s Days he could survive before they killed him. He had three more stepmothers to get through, despite the three meals distending his gut. But tea, an early dinner, and a late supper were all on the agenda before he could meet Tracie at midnight. Grimly, Jon climbed on his bike and pedaled off into the Seattle rain.

_p. 39
Tracie raised her head, trying to see the clock. She could, but that didn’t help, as it clearly had been unplugged so that Phil could use the one overburdened outlet to plug in his guitar. No wonder he was always late.

Phil’s apartment was a typical poet/musician’s hellhole. He shared the space with two other guys, and it seemed that none of the three of them had heard of power strips, extension cords, vacuums, or the advent of dish-washing liquid. Tracie closed her eyes, turned away from the squalor, and cuddled up against Phil’s warm side. She knew she had to get up, get dressed, and go meet Jon
‌
—as she did every Sunday night
‌
—but this felt so good. And today was Mother’s Day. A quick wave of self-pity washed over her. She told herself she only wanted a few more moments in the gray zone between sexual exhaustion and sleep. She dozed there for a while, then slept again, and when she next awoke, the streetlights had gone on and she knew it was getting late.

She began to untangle herself from the wrinkled sheets, trying not to wake Phil. But as she stood up, Phil, only half-awake, grabbed at her with his long, long legs and pulled her back to the bed. “Come here, you,” he said, and kissed her. He smelled so good
‌
—like sleep and sex and
_p. 40
bread dough
‌
—and she responded; then her mouth guiltily pulled away. “I’ll be right back,” she promised, and Phil mumbled and turned over.

Tracie crept out of bed, slipped into her clothes, and snuck out to get the Sunday paper. It was already quarter past nine! God! No wonder she was ravenous. She’d better pick up some coffee, eggs, and bread for toast. Then she thought of the state of Phil’s kitchen and gave up that idea. Maybe just a couple of cheese Danishes. She’d leave the cooking to Laura. Tracie felt in her jacket pocket for money. She’d only need a few dollars. Most importantly, she wanted to get the Sunday paper and see what the Mother’s Day article looked like in print.

It was funny: She’d been working at the
Times
now for four years, but she still got a thrill seeing her byline. Maybe that’s what kept her a journalist. She knew she could probably earn a lot more money hiring on as a technical writer at Micro/Con or any of the other high-tech companies in Seattle. But she didn’t have an interest in writing manuals or ad copy. There was something magical to her about the immediacy of newspaper work. The gratification of working on an article and seeing it
‌
—with her name at the top
‌
—just a day or two later kept her hooked.

She walked to the deli closest to Phil’s place. It wasn’t clean, and the food wasn’t good, but, as they said about Everest, it was there. Across the door was a hand-lettered sign that
_p. 41
said
HAPPY MOTHER’S DAY.
She ordered a couple of coffees, bought a pint of Tropicana juice, but couldn’t manage to sink to the level of the stale-looking pastries in the smudged case in front of her. She just went for a paper and called it a day. Then, even before she could leave the store, she had to look at the feature. She opened to her section. It wasn’t on the front page. She began to look through it. And kept looking. Not on page two or three. Not even on the following two. Then she found it. On the bottom of six. Truncated. Overedited. Sliced and diced. Trepanned. The thing had been cut up and then stitched back together as badly as Frankenstein’s monster. She actually felt sick to her stomach. Goddamn it! Tracie scanned it again. It couldn’t be as bad as she thought, but it was. It really was.

She threw the rest of the paper on the counter, turned, and walked out with the Sunday section still in her hands. She almost stuffed it into the first garbage pail she saw and did go as far as crumpling it up, but her outrage was so strong, she needed to hold on to it, just to share it with Phil and look at it again. She walked through the spring night, back toward the apartment. Why did Marcus do this to her? Why did he even bother giving her an assignment if he was going to rewrite it? She could swear he did it out of spite. What was the point? She could never use this as a clip. Potential employers would think she was a moron. What was wrong with
_p. 42
Marcus? What was wrong with
her
for putting up with Marcus? Or why did she even bother to struggle over her work? Why not just hand in bad stuff and let him revise it as much as he wanted?