The Good Life (23 page)

“Doing whatever flight attendants do, I guess.”

“Ring for her, will you?” said Ann. “I want a drink.”

“I thought you weren’t drinking today.”

“Oh Mike, that was hours ago,” said Ann, looking out her window. “You’re not going to hold me to that, are you?”

“No,” said Mike, putting his BlackBerry back into his pocket. “I won’t hold you to that. I will, however, hold you to your bet.”

“What bet?”

“You know very well what bet.”

The blow job. Oh God, she had forgotten all about the blow job.

“Well?” asked Mike.

It would take five minutes, Ann told herself. “I’ll have some pinot,” she said.

Mike smiled at her. “Coming right up.”

C
HAPTER
12

N
ate opened his swollen eyes and rolled over to look at the clock. It was five in the afternoon and the pain in his head from that morning showed little sign of diminishing. He sat on the edge of his bed and rubbed his face. When he felt ready to stand, he lifted himself off the mattress, slowly walked into his bathroom, and took three Advil from the bottle on the counter. This was his third trip to the bottle that day, but the ibuprofen had still not delivered on its promise. In fact, Nate knew from experience that nothing would help except heavy, greasy food and the passing of time. Tomorrow morning—he told himself as he swallowed the medication—it would be as if the party never happened.

He walked down the stairs and into the kitchen, where he found his grandmother stirring something on the stove. He winked at her, even though she had woken him at nine o’clock that morning to clean out the garage. After that, she sent him to the grocery store with a long list of items, and after that, she told him he needed to spend a couple of hours with his grandfather. Cleaning out the garage, she told him, was penance for throwing up all over the front hall. That had been the most disagreeable thing she’d had to clean up in years. Going to the grocery store was a favor. As she had cleaned up after him, he would do something nice for her. And visiting with his grandfather was an act of kindness. It was important, she told Nate, to think beyond oneself. The people who dictated the morals and ethics of today’s society didn’t do enough of that.

Nate complied with his grandmother’s wishes, mostly because he really did feel bad about barfing all over everything and then passing out. He still couldn’t figure out why he puked. He drank five, maybe six beers. And while that was a good amount, it certainly wasn’t enough to blindside him. He couldn’t even remember how he got home. Jenny must have driven him because she was with him when he got sick, but he had no idea how he got from Steve’s basement to his front hall.

Cleaning the garage was a piece of cake because his dad was compulsive about keeping things in order. The bright red Lamborghini sat under a protective cover in the third bay, and the Aston Martin followed suit in bay four. Why his father owned two incredibly cool and expensive cars mystified Nate. Mike took them out only three or four times a year. The rest of the time, they just sat there. Occasionally, his father took a male party guest into the garage for a cigar and a peek at them, but that was that. Still, nothing could be close to them—no bikes, no skateboards, no power scooters, no flower baskets, nothing. To that end, Mike had painted lines on the floor, between which four unused bikes leaned on their kickstands. He had also installed shelves, which he numbered, that held everything else, from the gardener’s tools to the outdoor Christmas lights. Nate simply checked the master list on the garage wall to see that everything was in its place—which it was, as usual—then picked up the broom and pushed a thin layer of dust and dirt out the second bay door.

His trip to the grocery store turned out to be more enjoyable than he thought. He walked a cart up and down the aisles at a leisurely pace, checking out the products that lined the shelves like brightly colored paper box soldiers. Everything looked so good. The background music was a little lame, but the atmosphere was relaxed, soothing even. No one seemed rushed, except a couple of mothers with young, crying children. They scurried through the aisles like they were in a reality show race, throwing cans and boxes into their carts and shoving fish-shaped crackers into their toddlers’ pudgy hands. When he heard them coming, Nate simply wheeled his cart to one side, letting them roar past him. And then it was peaceful again. After he bought everything on his grandmother’s list, he bought a few things with his own money—chocolate-covered pretzels, Smartfood popcorn, and a six-pack of orange pop—which he decided to store in his bedroom for his occasional nocturnal hunger attacks.

When he had unpacked and put away the groceries and his treats, his grandmother thanked him, and reminded him of his final obligation: a visit with his grandfather. Selma, Eileen said, had been with him all weekend and could most likely use a little fresh air. Eileen didn’t care what Nate and Sam did—they could watch TV, have a snack, read the newspaper—but she expected Nate to spend two hours with him. After that, Eileen said Nate could take a nap. Selma, who had been filled in on the plan, grabbed her coat from the closet when Nate knocked on the guesthouse door. She put her finger to her lips. “He’s sleeping,” she whispered as she opened the door.

“Perfect,” said Nate, who thought he might get his nap early.

“There are some chocolate chip cookies on the counter,” she said, easing her coat over her shoulders. “They’re your grandfather’s favorite.”

“Mine, too,” said Nate, taking off his jacket and hanging it on the hanger that had just held Selma’s.

“You’ll be here for a couple of hours?” she asked, looking at her watch.

“That’s the plan,” said Nate.

“Have fun,” she said on her way out.

When Nate heard the click of the latch, he turned from the door and walked into the living room. “That,” he said, flopping down on the couch and putting a pillow under his head, “should not be a problem.” He took the remote control from the coffee table and clicked through several stations: movie, shopping channel, cooking, weather, movie, movie, Spanish channel. He settled on golf, even though he thought the game was a huge waste of time and nothing close to a real sport like football. What he loved about it was listening to the whispering commentators; they made him sleepier than Mrs. Annon’s English class lectures. He woke with a start to find his grandfather standing over him.

“What are you doing here?” asked Sam.

“I’m here for a visit,” said Nate, sitting up. “I guess I fell asleep.”

“I do a lot of that,” said Sam.

“I’m still tired,” said Nate, yawning and looking up at Sam. “Do you want to sleep some more?”

“I’d love to,” said Sam, shuffling back toward the bedroom, “but there’s no time for that. We have to be at the airport in an hour.”

Oh shit,
thought Nate. “What airport?” he called, getting off the couch and following Sam into the bedroom, where a small canvas suitcase with leather trim was sitting on the bed. The only things in it were a toothbrush, three pairs of black socks, and a book about space travel.

“The airport we always go to,” said Sam. “I’m almost packed. How about you?”

Nate looked at Sam and knew he was serious. “It won’t take me long to pack. I just have to confirm the flight first.”

“Good thinking, young man,” said Sam. “Do you have the number?”

“Oh yes,” said Nate. “It’s in my head.” Nate walked into the kitchen and sat down in the chair next to the phone. He dialed the 800 number of Columbia House and listened to the recording. When prompted, he punched in his membership number and ordered three DVDs. When Sam called, “Is it on time?” from the other room, Nate grabbed a pad and pencil from the counter and wrote down a bogus flight number. He also wrote the words F
LIGHT
C
ANCELLED—
T
ECHNICAL
D
IFFICULTIES,
which he showed to Sam, who had made his way across the living room carpet onto the tile floor in the kitchen and was now standing at his side. Nate hung up the phone.

“Technical difficulties?” asked Sam. “What kind of excuse is that?”

“I guess it’s a pretty good one when it comes to planes,” said Nate. “You wouldn’t want to get on a faulty airliner.”

“I don’t think there’s any such thing,” said Sam, batting the air with one hand. “It’s a conspiracy, son. The government is so concerned now with the comings and goings of normal citizens that, I think, it randomly cancels commercial airline flights.”

“I had no idea,” said Nate.

“Most people don’t,” said Sam. “It’s a well-kept secret. Did they say when the next flight was scheduled to go?”

“No,” said Nate, jerking his head to the side to move his bangs off his face. “They said nothing about that.”

“It figures,” said Sam dejectedly. “The inconvenience to John Q. Public means nothing whatsoever to the United States of America.”

“How about a cookie?” asked Nate.

“I’d love one,” said Sam, “but first I’m going to call that airline and give them a piece of my mind.”

“You can do that,” said Nate. “But if the U.S. government is the culprit, aren’t you simply shooting the messenger?”

“Good point,” said Sam. “I’ll call the White House.”

“I think it’s closed on Sunday,” said Nate.

“Isn’t that just perfect,” said Sam sarcastically. “What if there was a national emergency on a Sunday, another Pearl Harbor?”

Nate shrugged, then crossed the kitchen and grabbed the plate of cookies Selma had left for them on the counter. He brought them back to the table, where Sam was leafing through the yellow pages of the Michigan phone book. “Let’s have some cookies,” he said, holding out the plate to his grandfather. “Do you want milk?”

“Absolutely,” said Sam, showing the first smile Nate had seen that afternoon. “A nice, tall, cold glass of milk would hit the spot right about now.”

“Coming right up,” said Nate, walking to the fridge for the half-gallon jug.

“Wow,” said Sam, biting into a cookie. “That’s the best cookie I’ve ever had.”

“That’s good news,” said Nate, bringing the glasses of milk to the table. “I could use a good cookie right now.”

Sam chuckled. “That’s very funny,” he said.

“Well, thank you,” said Nate, chewing.

Sam took another cookie and put the whole thing in his mouth. After he finished chewing, he sat back in his chair. “So,” he said, “what are we going to do about this trip?”

“Not go?” asked Nate.

“That’s a defeatist attitude that I didn’t expect from you.”

“What do you want to do?”

“I think we should go,” said Sam. “I’m all packed. Let’s just get in the car and go.”

“Where, exactly, is it you want to go?”

Sam looked surprised. “To the meeting, of course.”

“Which meeting?”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake, son, the farm insurance meeting in Hartford.”

“Oh, that meeting.”

“Do you want to drive, or shall I?” asked Sam, pushing back from the table.

“I’ll drive,” said Nate. “Let’s get your bag.”

“Now you’re talking,” said Sam, rubbing his hands together. “It will be an adventure. I haven’t taken a road trip in years.”

Nate followed Sam back into the bedroom, where the suitcase lay untouched. Sam closed the top and pushed the brass flipper latches down until they clicked. “Do you have everything you need?” asked Nate.

“I like to travel light,” said Sam.

“We’re off then.”

“What about your bag?” asked Sam.

“It’s up at the big house,” said Nate. “I’ll run and get it and then come back here to get you.” Nate jogged up the path to his parents’ house and into the kitchen, where his grandmother and sister were sitting at the kitchen table playing cards.

“How’s it going?” asked Eileen.

“Fine,” said Nate. “Do you mind if I take him for a drive?”

“No,” said Eileen. “Do you want company?”

“Nope,” said Nate, grabbing his keys from the wicker basket and his backpack from the floor. “We’re going on an adventure.”

“Well, have fun,” said Eileen, smiling.

Nate ran back down the path to the guesthouse, where his grandfather was standing in the front entrance with the suitcase in his hand. Nate held up his backpack. “I’m all set,” he said.

“Let’s go!” Sam said. “Let’s get out of here before we change our minds.”

“Good plan,” said Nate, taking Sam’s suitcase and leading the way to the garage. Halfway there, Nate realized Sam was not beside him. He turned around and discovered his grandfather had made very little progress from the front door. Sam moved slowly even though he looked like he was moving as fast as he could. Stooped with his eyes to the ground, he shambled along the sidewalk, an old man on an urgent trip to nowhere. It would have been hilarious, Nate thought, if it hadn’t been so terribly sad. Nate walked back to meet him. “The first thing we should do,” said Nate, taking his arm, “is fill the tank with gas.”

“Excellent idea,” said Sam, winded. “I always fill up at the beginning of a trip. That way, you can accurately calculate the gas mileage.”

“That’s right,” said Nate, walking at Sam’s pace. “I’ll leave that to you, if you don’t mind.”

“I’d be honored,” said Sam.

They walked the rest of the way to the garage in silence. Finally there, Nate punched the code into the keypad and the large steel door began to rise. Sam ducked, even though they were nowhere near the moving metal, and didn’t straighten up until the gear box lifting the door stopped grinding. They walked inside and split company—Nate moving toward his car and Sam moving toward the Lamborghini. He lifted the protective covering and peeked underneath. “Let’s take this one,” he said.

Nate laughed. “You have good taste, Gramps,” he said. “My father, however, would kill us both.” Nate led Sam instead to his silver BMW and opened the passenger door. Sam ducked his head, but not quite far enough, and bumped it on the car’s cloth hood. After the impact, he reeled backward. Nate dropped the suitcase and caught him, almost falling to the floor himself. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” said Sam, holding his forehead with one hand. “I have no idea why that happened.”

“It happens to lots of people,” said Nate. “Let’s try again.”

Nate put his hand on top of Sam’s head and guided it under the roof of the car like a police officer would a crime suspect. Next, he helped him swing his body around so he could ease himself down to the seat. Once seated, Sam told Nate he was fine. Nate buckled his seat belt, then grabbed Sam’s suitcase and put it and his backpack in the trunk. He hopped into the driver’s side of the car and turned on the engine before he realized his grandfather’s legs were still hanging out the passenger side.
This,
thought Nate,
is where caregivers lose it.
He’d seen the stories on various news shows, depicting the abuse of the elderly. Grown-ups hit, pushed, and slapped their husbands, their wives, their mothers and fathers, or their paid responsibilities, treating them like misbehaving toddlers who couldn’t understand instruction. And, if Nate had had an even larger headache than he did, he might have walked around to the other side of the car and roughly adjusted his grandfather’s legs. But something stopped him. Perhaps it was because they had all the time in the world. They weren’t on their way—late now—to a doctor’s appointment or another scheduled event; they were embarking on a fictitious adventure. What did it matter? When Nate did walk around to the passenger side, he gently lifted Sam’s legs and tucked them into the car. “All set?” he asked, when he was again sitting in the driver’s seat.