Free Flat Water Tuesday by Ron Irwin Page A

top of the list. Right next to it is smoking, any kind of smoking. I figure a kid with your ability would be out of his mind to smoke, but I may as well remind you.”
    “You smoke.”
    “No boarding school or college is interested in me for anything and never will be. And don’t be a smartass.”
    I looked out over the river while he took an angry drag on his cigarette. Then he started in again. “The school also lists premarital intercourse as a rule infraction. And being AWOL. And driving a car. And taking drugs. And showing disrespect to those in authority. This place isn’t fooling around is what I’m saying.”
    “Did you take out the insurance on me?”
    “I figured since you already did all the things they don’t want you to do while you were back at home, you might consider retiring from your old life and focusing in on the job at hand.”
    Lines of students were filing out from the field house. He sipped his coffee, agitated. “Another thing they don’t tolerate is fighting. I thought I’d bring that up as well, all by itself, as another issue altogether.”
    “Half the fights I get in aren’t my fault, Dad. And it’s not a big deal.”
    He smacked the steering wheel. “Do you know how many times I hear that? It’s never anybody’s fault. You send some millionaire’s kid home with a busted jaw, son, and get kicked out, understand you’ll be signing up somewhere in town as I certainly don’t need a hothead on my payroll and, on top of that, I can’t afford a lawyer to protect you. That’s the way it works.”
    “How do you know Connor Payne is rich?”
    “I took a goddamned educated guess, Robby.” He flicked the cigarette out the window, where it tumbled, sparking, into the grass. Then he looked at it angrily, furious at himself for littering. “You think eight or nine months of your life is a long pull, don’t you? It’s not even a year, kid. You haven’t been drafted. You’re not carrying a weapon and calling anyone ‘sir.’”
    I let him sit there for a beat and cool off. “I’m not planning on getting in trouble, all right? I’m going to be okay.”
    He reached into the glove compartment, pulled out his leather wallet and it fell open in his hands. He extracted some notes, all new and crisp. They were held together with a paperclip. “Take this. You ought to have some walking around money.”
    “I can’t take any more of your cash, Dad.”
    “Go on.” He coughed, hard and deep in his chest.
    I picked up the bills, slid them into my pocket. They were fresh from an ATM somewhere on the I-90 and they cut into my leg. He’d been driving up here and thinking about the money in the envelope and figured it wasn’t enough so he had drawn more at a rest stop. He drove me nuts.
    “What time is it?” he asked suddenly.
    “After five.”
    “I wish I could have sent you kids to a place like this when you were younger.”
    “Wendy would have been kicked out inside an hour.”
    “Wendy would’ve been running the place inside fifteen minutes and wouldn’t have to crack heads to do it.” He grabbed his cigarettes, a reflex, contemplated the last one and returned the box to his pocket. “Ah, hell, I didn’t mean to say all that other stuff to you, Robby.”
    “I’m not keeping score.”
    He nodded, settled it, had to cough a couple of times before he could speak again. “I’m driving into Hartford. I’m staying overnight so I can see a doctor tomorrow morning about something. Then I’m heading back. I have a job to finish. I won’t be able to stay.”
    “That’s fine.”
    “If you think of anything you need, you just call home. I’ll be checking in with your mother and Tom before dinner.”
    “I won’t need anything. Thanks for the scull, Dad. You didn’t have to go to all the trouble.”
    He rubbed the bottom of his chin so I heard the scratches of his one-day beard. “One of those college coaches called a week or so ago. A man who claimed he was from Harvard.