“So,” he says, folding another shirt. “Sounds like your dad’s hooked up with a semi-crazy woman.”
“I don’t think there’s any semi about it.”
“Well, I guess that’s about what you can expect when you’re still out there looking for a girlfriend at forty-something years old.”
I figure that comment is aimed at me and my track record with girls, but that’s all right—I deserve it.
He stuffs the T-shirt into the backpack. “But what I can’t believe is that you had me swallowing that whole my-dad’s-a-hotshot-executive-in-the-Chase-building story. I mean, you kept that thing going for years.”
“It’s not my fault you’re gullible. I mean, didn’t you even wonder why you never saw him?”
“Hey, I don’t know any hotshot executives. I just figured he was always wheeling and dealing.”
“Yeah. It was a stupid story. But once you get started with something like that, you’re stuck with it.”
“I guess.”
I can tell he’s pretty disappointed in me, and I don’t blame him. But when you’re a guy you don’t come right out and apologize. You think of some other way to make up for it, so I’m like, “You know, this whole situation with my dad, and with what happened with Aimee and all, has me thinking—you might be right.”
“Dude, I’m always right. You know that.”
“I mean, about the cutting back on drinking thing. It might be more fun if I just do it on the weekends.”
“If you can.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing. I just wonder who has more control over the situation, you or the whisky.”
“Dude, I’m always in control. You know me, I’m the virtuoso musician. Whisky’s just my million-dollar violin.”
“Right.” He zips up the backpack. “Look, I have to head over to Bethany’s. If I don’t see you before we head out, look for a postcard from me. Or maybe I’ll e-mail you a picture of me riding some wild waves.”
And that’s it—he goes his way, and I go mine. Used to, we would’ve broken down that whole story about my dad until we found the very truth of the truth of it, but now it’s just, “So long, I’ll see you later.”
That’s all right, though. I have to get over to Aimee’s pretty soon anyway. We’re going to Marvin’s for dinner this evening. I’ve been postponing it, but there’s no more waiting. Time for the Big Talk.
As it is right now, I’ve been transformed from a semi-villain into a real hero around the Finecky household. Seems Aimee told her mom we had a flat tire on the highway in the rain, and while she was helping me change it, a car swerved off the road and would’ve killed her if I hadn’t risked my life to pull her out of the way. It was just the passenger-side mirror that clipped her, she explained, and she didn’t even think her arm was broken until she woke up in so much pain the next morning.
So it’s weird going over to her house and having everyone, even Randy-the-Walrus, beaming at me like I’m James Bond or somebody. In actuality, I feel like a double agent infiltrating their ranks under false pretenses. Not only because of the hero thing, but because of what I have to tell Aimee.
At Marvin’s nothing has changed—the lights are still dim, the clientele still sparse, and Dean Martin still available on the jukebox. I guess the only thing that’s different is no whisky in the 7UP. Maybe Ricky doesn’t have much faith, but I haven’t had a drink since the trip to Fort Worth, five whole days.
Aimee’s having a great time, even with her arm in this elaborate cast that makes you wonder how she’s even able to put a shirt on. Luckily, she’s right-handed, so at least wielding a fork isn’t too difficult. She just has to make sure not to order anything that requires using a knife.
The first time I saw that cast, I wondered if she’d even be able to move to St. Louis, but she said nothing was going to get in her way now. I asked her if she could still start work at the bookstore, and she said of course she could. All she’d have to do is run the cash register and help customers find what they’re looking for. “Think about it,” she said. “It’ll be a lot easier doing that than trying to fold newspapers.”
“I guess you’re right about that,” I said.
“You bet I am.” She grinned. “I’m spectacularly right.”
Anyway, for Aimee, our trip to Marvin’s makes a nice little ceremony, a good way to say goodbye to our lives in Oklahoma. And it is a ceremony, all right, but for a different kind of goodbye.
That’s not something you jump right into, though. You have to go slow, so I start out with the answer to the question Aimee’s too tactful to ask—has my father called yet to explain what happened?
“He hasn’t called as far as I know. But if he did and got my mom, then I’m sure she wouldn’t even tell me.”
“Maybe he’s embarrassed or feels guilty or something. You could call him.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Did you ever tell your mom or your sister that you went down there?”
“No. Mom would probably shit a Cadillac if she found out I went down there. Holly called me about it, but I told her I had to postpone the trip. I don’t want to hear them say I told you so. It’s bad enough the old man turned out like that. I don’t need to see them gloat about it. I’m sure they already think I’ve got the screwed-up Keely male gene. I just don’t want them to know I know it. Anyway, that’s enough about my so-called family. They’re too depressing.”