Raising Jake Part 13

"Good, but not good enough. Not when your parents lay out a hundred grand for a high school education."

"Where does Sarah want to go?"

"I don't know, and I don't really give a s.h.i.t, Dad. I'm out of that game."

I scramble the eggs, pour them into a hot b.u.t.tered pan. The smoke alarm goes off. It always does when I cook. Jake pulls it off the wall and pops out one of the batteries, killing the shrieking sound. "Was your mother's death a sudden thing?"

I knew we'd be getting back to this. Jake has been patient, letting the topic marinate overnight before coming back to it. I don't really have any more excuses. We've agreed to talk about all things. All I can do is stall it a little.

"Jake. Let me tell you something I've learned. Everybody's Everybody's death is a sudden thing. Did you know that when Elvis died, not one newspaper in the country was ready with a standing obituary? Not one." death is a sudden thing. Did you know that when Elvis died, not one newspaper in the country was ready with a standing obituary? Not one."

"I don't want to talk about Elvis, Dad. Please don't veer off the topic."

"What exactly is the topic?"

"My grandmother. I'm asking you something about my grandmother."

It's odd to hear my mother referred to by a word for something she never lived long enough to become.

"Was her death a shock? Or had she been sick for a long time?"

I have to answer him. "It was a shock. She hadn't been sick. She just...died."

Jake shakes his head. "Well, I guess that made it easy for her, but kind of rough on you and your father."

"That's exactly right. It was rough."

I'm scrambling eggs, keeping them moving around so they don't stick to the pan. It's good to have something to do with my trembling hands while discussing this particular matter. I'm hoping it's over, but it isn't.

"Was she home?"

"What?"

"Was she home when she died, or not?"

"What the h.e.l.l are you asking that that for?" for?"

"What are you getting so upset about?"

"This doesn't happen to be one of my happiest memories."

"Whoa, whoa, Dad. We're supposed to be able to ask each other stuff, aren't we? Wasn't that the deal?"

"Yeah, that was the deal. So let me ask you you something. Why did you stop playing the cello?" something. Why did you stop playing the cello?"

It's as if I've just soaked him with a pail of ice water. Jake's shoulders harden, and his eyes narrow. "We weren't discussing the cello."

"We weren't discussing my mother, either."

"I'll tell you about the cello later."

"Swear?"

"Absolutely."

The cello mystery has been bugging me for three years. Jake began playing the instrument when he was seven and immediately displayed a genius for it, according to his cello instructor, who, it should be noted, charged a hundred and fifty dollars per lesson. (I once asked the instructor if that was his "genius" rate, and he responded with an ambivalent chuckle.) Jake actually played in a concert at Avery Fisher Music Hall when he was eleven years old, but then one day when he was fourteen he refused to play the cello anymore, and his mother wouldn't tell me why. I didn't save any money on the deal because the shrink Doris insisted on sending Jake to after he quit the cello also cost a hundred and fifty dollars per hour. Jump ball.

The bacon and eggs are done. I kill the flames and load the plates with food. Just as I set the plates down, the toast pops up. I have always been proud of my timing.

"So. Dad. Was she at home when she died, or not?"

For the first time in years, I feel the urge to give my son a smack. Instead, I answer his question. "No, G.o.dd.a.m.nit, she wasn't home."

"Where was she?"

"Out somewhere. I don't remember."

"How could you not remember a thing like that?"

"It was a long time ago, Jake. I don't remember where she dropped dead, all right?"

It's not all right, but he doesn't press it. We begin to eat. The food is good and hearty. Jake is silent. I am silent. We cannot go on like this.

"She loved bacon and eggs," I hear myself say.

Jake looks up from his food. "Your mother did?"

"Yeah. She loved good food. A true Italian girl. Great cook."

Jake sets his fork down. "Your mother was Italian?"

"You didn't know that?"

"I'm seventeen years old and now now I'm finding out I'm part Italian!" I'm finding out I'm part Italian!"

"I thought you knew."

"I a.s.sumed I was Irish from your side!"

"You are. But you're Italian, too, plus Spanish from your mother's side, as I'm sure you figured from the name 'Perez.'"

Jake looks pale. "I'm part Italian," he says, in a voice of wonder. "Jesus Christ, Dad, this would have been a nice thing to know about ten or fifteen years ago!"

"Why? You want to join the Mafia?"

"Don't kid around about it, Dad! This is my history!" history!" he shouts, slamming the table with his fist. "It'd be nice to know where I came from! All my grandparents are dead, and I never even he shouts, slamming the table with his fist. "It'd be nice to know where I came from! All my grandparents are dead, and I never even met met them! You and Mom act as if you're Adam and Eve! The whole f.u.c.king world began when you two had me, and it ended when you split up!" them! You and Mom act as if you're Adam and Eve! The whole f.u.c.king world began when you two had me, and it ended when you split up!"

He's breathing hard, almost in tears. I reach for him, but he pulls away from me, covers his face with his hands. I never saw this problem coming, but now that it's out on the table, it seems obvious. Doris and I have f.u.c.ked up royally.

Jake takes his hands away from his face. "I feel..."

"Jake?"

"...like I came out of nowhere. My history is a mystery. How can I know who I am if I don't even know who you you are?" are?"

My heart is breaking. My boy is falling apart before my eyes. I get up and go around to the back of his chair to embrace him from behind, as if to keep him from exploding into a million pieces.

"What can I do?" I ask. "Tell me and I'll do it."

"Tell me things I don't know, Dad. Just tell tell me." me."

And then it comes to me, the thing to do, the only only thing to do, a thing I should have done years ago. I never wanted to do it. I thing to do, a thing I should have done years ago. I never wanted to do it. I still still don't want to do it. But suddenly, undeniably, the time to do it has come. don't want to do it. But suddenly, undeniably, the time to do it has come.

"I can do better than tell you about it, Jake. I can show you."

"Show me?" me?"

"How'd you like to take a little ride today?"

I give him a final squeeze before breaking my embrace and returning to my chair. He's looking at me in wide-eyed antic.i.p.ation, the way he did when he was little and I'd ask him if he wanted to go on the swings.

"Where are we going?"

"My old neighborhood. I'll show you where I grew up, where I went to school...everything. The fifty-cent tour, lunch included."

He wipes his eyes, forces a smile. "You'd really do that for me?"

"What do you you think? Want to do it?" think? Want to do it?"

"I'd love to. More than anything in the world."

"Well, wash the dishes and we'll go."

"Where?"

"Beautiful downtown Flushing, the garden spot of Queens. Hurry up, do those dishes. It's time for a long-overdue crash course in your ancestry."

Jake leaps to his feet, gathers the dishes, dumps them in the sink, turns on the water, and starts scrubbing.

"Road trip!" he exclaims.

"Yeah, that's right. We're going on a road trip."

The thought of it already has me trembling, but there's no backing out now. The road trip is on, and G.o.d only knows where it'll take us.

CHAPTER TEN.

It's good to be in motion, if for no other reason than the fact that it makes you a moving target. Jake and I are in the borough of Queens, riding the Q-76 bus down Francis Lewis Boulevard.

I'm staring out the window at sights I haven't seen in nearly thirty years. Everything looks smaller and grayer than it used to, and the number of Asian businesses is startling. The bright red Chinese lettering on their signs seems to be the only real color around.

"What do you want to know about the cello?"

Seated beside me, Jake is looking out the window as he asks the question. I continue looking out the window as well. We both seem to instinctively realize that absence of eye contact will make this easier for us to talk about.

"You had real talent. Why'd you stop playing?"

"I wanted to switch to guitar. Wanted to play in a band with some guys from school."

"And?"

"And Mom wouldn't let me. She said I had a gift for playing the cello, and that it's wrong to waste a gift."

"Maybe you had a gift for the guitar as well. Maybe it's the same same gift." gift."

"That's what I said. Mom didn't want to hear about it. She said I had to stick with the cello."

A shiver goes through me, remembering the days when Doris used to try telling me what I I had to do. "But you had to do. "But you didn't didn't stick with it." stick with it."

"Well, no, I didn't."

I turn to look at him. "Jake. You going to tell me what happened, or what?"

He looks at me and sighs, a sound that seems to well up all the way from his ankles. "You remember the rooftop of our building? You used to take me up there to see the Fourth of July fireworks when I was little."

"Sure, I remember. What's that got to do with the cello?"

"One Sat.u.r.day morning Mom wanted me to practice the cello for an hour. I'd had enough. I told her flat out that I didn't want to play the cello anymore. It was like she hadn't even heard what I said. She just kept insisting that I practice, because I was scheduled to play in a concert at Lincoln Center in a few weeks. I told her again that I didn't want to play the cello anymore, and she just rolled her eyes, like this was some kind of temporary anti-cello phase phase I was going through. Finally I agreed to practice, but only if I could go up on the roof to do it. She asked me why I'd want to do such a thing, but I ignored her. I just carried the cello up there, stuck it in a big metal garbage pail, squirted lighter fluid on it, and...lit a match." I was going through. Finally I agreed to practice, but only if I could go up on the roof to do it. She asked me why I'd want to do such a thing, but I ignored her. I just carried the cello up there, stuck it in a big metal garbage pail, squirted lighter fluid on it, and...lit a match."

He tells the tale without emphasis, as if he's a cop reading it off a police report, somebody else's act of madness. He's not smiling, but he's not frowning, either.

"Burned up pretty fast. Some kind of fruit wood, I think, and the strings made pinging sounds when they snapped. By the time Mom showed up, it was really roaring."

"Jesus Christ Almighty, she must have gone out of her mind!"

"No, she didn't. That was the best part. She wasn't angry, she was scared. scared. I knew I had to make her afraid of me if I was ever going to get my way. She's an extremely determined person, as I'm sure you know." I knew I had to make her afraid of me if I was ever going to get my way. She's an extremely determined person, as I'm sure you know."

I try to swallow, but my throat is dry. "Did the fire department show up?"

"No, no. The cello burned up in about five minutes, and all the ashes fell straight down into the garbage can. I was very careful about that. It's not like I was some crazy arsonist."

"Jake. My G.o.d. How could you do do that?" that?"