he retraces his steps and pats the couch cushion invitingly. “Here, Stevie, have a seat.”
“I just want to know if everything is all right. What’s wrong with that?”
“I don’t want to get into it,” Steven says. His face is gaunt and hollow around the eyes. His clothes smell of industrial-grade disinfectant.
“Can’t you see he’s exhausted?” Thaddeus says. “Let him sit down. Here, I kept it warm for you.”
Cheryl smoothes Steven’s shirt, but he slides away from her touch. “There’s always a problem, Mom; they’re the definition of a problem population. They’re homeless youth.”
“I know that, but I still worry. I’m your mother. It’s my job to worry.” She kisses him, and he frowns.
“We all worry,” Peter says. He’s been mostly silent since Steven came home, but now he calls Steven’s attention to Gertie. “Your father brought Gertie a doll.”
“Oh?”
On the floor, Gertie sits Talkin’ Tina among her blocks. Thaddeus chose the doll specifically because it came with four different outfits, ranging from “dinner date” to “lounging by the pool,” and half a dozen accessories to match. He didn’t know what Gertie would like, but there had to be something in there that she’d be drawn to. And if she didn’t like the outfits, she could talk to the doll. It can say thirteen phrases, among them: “I’m boy-crazy!” and “Shopping is fun!”
Boasting about the doll, Thaddeus says, “I told them only the best would do for my granddaughter.”
For the first time in three years, Steven makes eye contact with his father. The look is brief and cold, but not unkind. His thin lips stretch like putty into a rehearsed smile. “A doll?” he asks.
“Yes!” Thaddeus bowls his way into the fold, displacing Cheryl. “The most expensive one they had.”
Everything else fades away. He and Stevie are finally face-to-face.
So much about his son has changed in the last three years—and, anyway, he always took after his mother—but Thaddeus recognizes one familiar trait at last, and it’s one they have in common: the bend in the left ear. The Bloom lobe has always dragged against his son’s neck, as it has his own. Though partially obscured now under Stevie’s dense curtain of hair, the genetic heritage endures, and it gives Thaddeus hope that some elemental connection with his son remains intact. And if they have that, he thinks, there’s no reason they can’t have it all back—rebuild the relationship they used to have. Be a real family again.
The moment passes.
Steven breaks eye contact, and flicking his wrist at the doll, he says, “She already has a bunch of toys.”
“We’re family,” Thaddeus says, craning for his son’s gaze. “Don’t worry about the money. It’s nothing. My pleasure.”
“Still,” Steven insists, flashing a mercurial smile, “Peter and I, we don’t like to encourage materialism.”
“One gift in three years, Stevie—”
“Thaddeus.” Cheryl lays a hand on his forearm, and her touch immediately calms him.
He raises his hands in surrender. “Hey, okay. I get it. My mistake. Cool as a cucumber. We’ll take it back to the store tomorrow. Your mother still has the receipt. We can get her something else. Whatever you like.”
Cheryl smiles. “Your father’s had a long day.”
“Nothing personal,” Steven says, looking at Thaddeus. There’s a cordial reciprocity in his eyes that falls far short of intimacy.
Peter crosses his arms. “Oh, it’s fine, Thaddeus. One more toy won’t matter. And Gertie seems to like it.” At the moment, Gertie has Talkin’ Tina stripped down to a pair of tan slacks worn backward, a tiara perched on her head. “Right, Steven?”
Steven worries his lip. He shrugs the backpack from his shoulder and places it in the corner. “You’re right. No big deal.” He extends a hand. “I’m sure the doll is lovely.”
“Oh,” Thaddeus says, surprised at getting a handshake so soon. “You’re welcome.”
Returning the gesture overcomes him. Stevie possesses a firm handshake. He’d forgotten that. There’s so much about him that he’s forgotten, but it’s all coming back now in fits and starts. Steven further surprises him by reaching in for a kiss on the cheek.
“It’s good to see you, Pop.”
Cheryl gasps. “Oh my...”
With a smile burning his face, Thaddeus firmly grasps his son’s upper arm, feeling the muscles tense under his grip. His eyes mist. Tomorrow will be a breeze. “Come here,” he says. Voice faltering, he drags Steven into his chest. He still has a couple of inches on his son. It’s the first time they’ve touched in more than three years and he doesn’t want to ever let go, except that at a certain point he feels Stevie squirm, so he relents and pulls back.
Thaddeus grins, playfully wags a finger. “Now don’t go getting any ideas. I know how you guys are.”
“Thaddeus!”
“It’s just a joke. He understands.” He claps Steven on the back. “Just a joke, Stevie. You understand. We can joke because we’re family.”
“For better or worse.”
“Steven!” Peter says.
“Just a joke,” Steven says, then he cracks his knuckles.
Cheryl shuttles trays of hors d’oeuvres between the kitchen and the family room while Peter plays horsey with Gertie on the floor. Words volley, some loud, some soft, all too rapidly for Thaddeus to keep up, so he sits back with a cracker and a smear of Brie, grinning blankly at everyone. Before leaving the house this morning, he stashed an emergency cache of weed in the car just in case things with Stevie went south. Part of him wants to sneak out to the driveway now to light up—not because things have gone poorly, but in celebration. Miracles happen! After three years he’s in the same room as Stevie and Gertie, and they’re all getting along. It feels like a dream because he’s dreamed it so many times. He pictured the house differently—maybe a bit smaller, humbler—and the neighborhood exceeds anything he ever imagined, but they’re doing well, and it appears safe for Gertie, and that’s the important thing.
He reaches for the crudités at the same time as Stevie, and when their fingers brush Stevie acknowledges it with a pleasant nod. He serves himself a cracker and a handful of grapes. They both lean back into their seats, and Thaddeus grins. At last, he thinks, like two friends.
“They’ll be done with the house by next week,” he says while chewing.
Steven flexes his hand, bending the fingers in unison at the second knuckle. “That’s quick.”
“Maybe we can swing by there tomorrow—you and me—and make sure everything’s kosher. Keep those guys on their toes.”
“Maybe.”
“No pressure. Think it over and let me know. Whatever you want to do.”
This newfound intimacy feels fragile and Thaddeus doesn’t want to rush things. They have all sorts of time. Besides, father-son conversations are supposed to be casual, aren’t they? Nothing set in stone.
Cheryl adds a plate of hummus to the spread. “What are you two talking about?”
“Just some guy talk,” he says.
She rolls her eyes but he can tell that she’s pleased. “Don’t ruin your appetite,” she warns, on her way back to the kitchen.
From the floor, Peter asks if Cheryl needs any help. Gertie pokes him until he neighs, and when he does she laughs and pokes him again. Each time he complies her laughter increases.