Raising Jake Part 6

"Dead!"

"Uh-huh."

"How?"

"He tried to hold up a bodega on 115th Street. He got into a shoot-out with the cops."

"When the h.e.l.l was this?"

"About a year ago, I guess."

A year ago. That would have made him sixteen. A sixteen-year-old kid who used to play ball with my son gets shot dead during a holdup, and I don't know anything about it. Of course, we never would have reported it in the New York Star New York Star-not a Puerto Rican corpse north of Ninety-sixth Street. The only way I could ever know was through Jake, who'd never told me until now.

"I wish you'd told me back then."

"Why?"

It's a good question. Why? What was I going to do, attend the funeral? I didn't even know Eduardo's last name. All he ever was to me was a ball-hogging punch line to a funny story.

"I don't know why," I admit. "I just...Jesus! What else do you know about it?"

"Not much. From what I hear, he ignored the warnings to drop the gun and ran outside, firing away. So they had to shoot him."

"Jesus Christ!" Christ!"

"What did you expect, Dad? That was Eduardo, all the way. He never gave up the ball. He wasn't about to give up the gun."

I stare at Jake, both awed and chilled by what he's just said. My son, I realize, is very smart. I always knew he could regurgitate what he'd learned from books and spit it back out on exams, but this is a new level of intelligence, and for some reason it's not a comfort to me. I would hate for him to think that I am stupid, and I wonder if he does. It's never occurred to me before. I've often wondered whether or not he liked me, but this is something new to ponder, something new to worry about. Just what I need.

"Dad," he says in the weary voice of one forced to explain something totally obvious, "you want to know why I stopped playing organized ball, right? It's because the coaches wreck the whole thing, the way they carry on. The yelling, the screaming...I just couldn't listen to it anymore. Does that make any sense to you?"

"I'll have to take your word for it. I never had a coach." Jake sits up straight on the bed, turns and looks at me. "You never had a coach? How is that possible?"

"I was never good enough to make any of the teams. And in the schoolyard games, it was always 'We got Sullivan.'"

"What the h.e.l.l is that?"

"Two captains would choose up sides for kickball, or dodge-ball, or whatever, and I'd always be the last one left. That's when one of the captains would sigh and say, 'All right, we got Sullivan.'"

Whenever I tell that story to people I get laughs, and I expect one from Jake. Instead he is silent for a few moments before saying, "That really must have hurt, Dad."

I shrug. "You get over it in twenty years or so. Thirty years, tops." I'm shocked to find that my eyes are misting up. I blink back the tears, smile at Jake. "That's why I could never quite believe it, that I could be the father of a star athlete. Me, the guy they always chose last. And suddenly you just quit everything."

"I disappointed you."

"No, no, no. I just never understood why you did it, until now. Thank you for telling me."

Jake gets off the bed and comes over to me. He puts a hand on my shoulder, gives it a squeeze. "It's not like it was some aftershock from the divorce, in case that's what you were wondering."

It's exactly what I was wondering. "I appreciate that, Jake."

"You like to blame yourself for things, don't you, Dad?"

"It's not a question of liking it. It's just that I'm good at it."

"Well, give yourself a break on this one. I'm sorry I never told you about Eduardo. I thought I did. Maybe I found out about it on a weekday, and didn't see you until the weekend, and forgot about it in between, you know?"

The gaps, those f.u.c.king gaps. "Sure, Jake. That's probably what happened."

"Listen, Dad, as long as we're talking to each other, can I ask you to do something for me?"

It's the first time he's ever flat-out asked me to do something for him. I'm actually thrilled to hear the words, to feel that I'm needed in some way by my son. If he was about to ask me to be the getaway driver for a bank job he was pulling, I'd have gladly said yes.

"Name it," I say.

"Could you come with me to see my girlfriend?"

I'd sooner have expected him to ask me to knock over the bank.

"You want me to meet Sarah? Sarah?" I ask in wonder.

"I just want you to come with me to see her," he says carefully. "It could get ugly."

I'm engulfed by a gulpy warmth. My son needs me with him. He needs needs me! me!

"Let's brush our teeth before we go," I suggest. "The last thing you need in a situation like this is beer breath. Where are we meeting her?"

"Just leave that to me," Jake says, flipping open his cell phone and hitting a speed-dial b.u.t.ton. "I appreciate this, Dad, I really do. Hey, one other thing. Give me my essay, would you? I may need it."

CHAPTER SIX.

We ride the crosstown bus through the park to the East Side, our teeth freshly brushed, our breaths minty from the Life Savers we've been sucking on. The bus we're on is a double bus, and we sit right at the axis, which creaks and shifts beneath our feet with every turn. We've always sat at the axis on crosstown buses, ever since Jake was a little kid. When the bus made sharp turns in those days I'd say, "Look, Jakey, the bus is breaking in half!" and he'd squeal with delight.

I turn to him. "Hey, Jake, do you remember-"

"You'd tell me the bus was breaking in half. Yeah, Dad, I remember."

"Oh."

He's a little too preoccupied for tender memories.

We're meeting Sarah at a Starbucks on Lexington Avenue. He's told her he has something important to talk about, but he hasn't told her about me coming along. He's remarkably calm, considering what may soon be happening.

I'm the one who's nervous. I'm actually jumpier now than I was a few hours ago, when I was losing my livelihood. the one who's nervous. I'm actually jumpier now than I was a few hours ago, when I was losing my livelihood.

"You okay, Dad? You don't look so good."

"What are you going to say to this girl?"

"I'm just going to tell her about what happened today."

"And I'm coming with you because..."

"Because I asked you to. I don't think I've asked you to do too many things. If you don't want to do it, you can bail."

I'm a little stunned by this attack. "Hey. n.o.body's bailing. bailing."

"All right, then, thank you."

"Know why you haven't asked me for things? Because I always took care of things before you had a chance to ask."

He nods. "There may be some truth to that."

"You're G.o.dd.a.m.n right there's some truth to that. Private school, summer vacations, cello lessons-"

"Dad, be fair. I didn't ask for any any of it, and I didn't create the structure. I was born into it." of it, and I didn't create the structure. I was born into it."

"At least you had had a structure!" a structure!"

Everybody on the bus is looking at me. I'm shouting without even realizing it. Jake is shocked, but not embarra.s.sed.

"Dad. Chill."

"I'm sorry."

"What are you saying, that you didn't have a structure when you were a kid?"

"Oh, I had a structure all right. A f.u.c.king crazy structure."

His eyes widen. "Tell me about it."

"Not here, not now."

We ride in silence for a few moments. "Look, Dad, I need you to be calm for me. If you can't be calm, let me go by myself."

"I'll be calm. I promise. Whatever happens, I'll be calm."

We get off the bus and walk to the Starbucks. Jake sees her through the window and says, "She's early. That's funny, she's never early."

He waves to a girl in a pink blouse, seated alone at a window table for two. She's got blond hair braided into a pigtail that reaches to the center of her back. Her posture is perfect-spine straight and shoulders squared, as if she's ready to attempt a back dive off the high board. And when she sees Jake, her face lights up in what appears to be genuine delight. She blows him a kiss.

"Want me to wait out here?" I ask. Jake looks at me as if I'm an idiot partner in a robbery who's bungling the well-rehea.r.s.ed caper before it even begins.

"We're going in together, Dad. Please, just play along."

I follow him inside. He plants a kiss on her cheek.

She's so beautiful it's almost painful to look at her. Her eyes are big and blue, and she's got a b.u.t.ton nose and cheekbones that could cut diamonds. She rubs her face and says, "Ooh, Jake, that beard really scratches!" scratches!"

"Sarah, I'd like you to meet my father."

She extends a hand. As we shake she says, "It's so so good to meet you, sir." good to meet you, sir."

"Call me Sammy."

I'm trying to appear both hip and fatherly, thinking hard of something to say, and the best I can do is, "What can I get for you guys?"

They both want lattes. For once I'm actually glad to be at Starbucks, glad to be someplace where the help moves as if they've been hit with tranquilizer darts. It'll give Jake and his girl a little private time. I don't get back to the table for a good five minutes, with lattes for them and a coffee for myself.

With surprising consideration, they've dragged a third chair over to this table meant for two. I sit down and see that they both seem relaxed. Obviously, the news of the day has not yet been reported. Sarah thanks me profusely, sips the latte, and lets out a small moan of pleasure.

"Ohhh, that just hits the spot," she says in a voice both girly and gravelly.

A funny thing is going on in the midst of everything else-I realize that I am jealous of my son. Never in my life have I ever been involved with anyone even remotely as beautiful as Sarah. This is model beauty, but it's beyond that-she's also smart, and she seems to be crazy about my son.

No woman was ever crazy about me. All my life I've been involved with women I've known were wrong for me, women who looked wrong or moved wrong or even smelled wrong, in terms of their very scent-and all because I didn't have the patience or the whatever it is a person needs to persevere in that search for someone who'll knock your socks off simply by existing. You stop believing she's out there, and the cynicism that seeps into your soul after a lifetime in the tabloid newspaper game doesn't help, and half the time you've got a load on, so you learn to shut your eyes and just f.u.c.k what's in front of you, and be grateful for that.

And then one day your seventeen-year-old son shows you exactly how it's done, his very first time out of the gate. I can imagine them getting married one day, in a simple sunset ceremony at the edge of a lake, close friends and family only, and a barefoot girl playing the flute as Jake and Sarah read the vows they've written themselves...

Then Jake snaps me out of my totally ridiculous daydream by going ahead and pulling the trigger.

"Sarah," he casually begins, "I got kicked out of school today."

Sarah sits up even straighter than she'd already been sitting, which I wouldn't have thought was possible. "Jake. Is this a joke?" joke?"

"It's no joke. I'm out."

"Drugs?"

He laughs. "Come on. You know I don't do drugs."

This is a relief for me to hear. I figure it has to be the truth, if he's telling his girlfriend. But she certainly doesn't look relieved.

"Jake. Why?"

"I wrote an essay they didn't like."

"An essay? About what?"

He pa.s.ses her the pages. "You might as well read it."

Sarah takes the pages and begins reading. She puts a hand to the nape of her neck, and those impossibly big eyes seem to grow even larger with each pa.s.sing paragraph. She finishes with a gasp, an actual gasp. "Are you out of your mind?"