The Opposite of Music (22 page)

I never thought I would say this. But I have. Fritz showed me the way.

I've made many mistakes in my life so far. This experience with Dad is no exception. When I think of some of the things I've done, I pour a bucket of shame over my own head. Then I writhe in the shame.

But I learned that I have too much of something, and maybe I can take whatever it is that I have too much of, and instead of putting it all on Dad, I could spread it out usefully among many people.

Whatever that thing is, could I productively harness it? Could I distribute it to a different customer each time in a series of scheduled appointments? Could I channel it with a steady, Fritz-like gaze?

This might be a good time, then, to do some homework. Not the kind I usually do, but the regular kind.

Schoolwork. Whatever it is that's been weighing down my satchel.

Mom, you returned the library books and threw away the nutritional supplements. A muscle pulsed in your jaw, like a Morse code of regret. You were wishing for a do-over.

But we were like a family on an island, Mom. When we were on the island, we couldn't tell how big the island was, what its shape was, or how long we would be there. We couldn't know the island until we were in a boat speeding away from it. We can see everything, now that it's too late.
It was just a little island.

Dad, you whistle a tune that sounds like music. You sound the way you did before, when you thought the world could be trusted.

Will we see the island again? If we do, will we all still be together, or will it be Linda or me alone? And who will spot it first? Who will be the one to say, “I've been here before. I remember that rocky beach and that shadow”?

But it's spring, and the sand is gone from the streets of our suburb.

Now fly, Triumph.