Free Tomorrow We Die by Shawn Grady Page B

like a paramedic dawned on me when Gary Foster presented a question just as I’d stuffed another mouthful.
    “Jonathan, do tell us about what made you want to become a doctor. Weren’t you interested in being a professional kayaker or something along those lines back in school?” He smiled and waited.
    I was a minute out, minimum, from finishing chewing. I raised my eyebrows and smiled back, brought up a finger and smiled again, dabbed my lips with a napkin and chewed faster. I scratched the side of my head, pointed to a painting of Sand Harbor at Tahoe on the wall, and grunted admiration. They grinned and bobbed their heads. As soon as I could take a drink of water, I did and exhaled.
    “That’s a really good question. You know, you get to help people, provide a valuable service. It can be exciting.” I took another sip.
    Who was I kidding?
    It was for her. My mother.
    It always had been.
    I stared at the wood grain in the tabletop and stuck with a simple answer that still resonated truth. “And . . . it’s nothing at all like what my dad has ever done.”
    The room fell silent.
    Gary cleared his throat. He glanced at Caroline, then at me and raised his glass. “To what our fathers have never done.”
    I stood next to Naomi as we worked on the dishes. The Fosters’ vintage dishwasher, though in great working order, was small, so we did most of the stuff by hand. I washed and she rinsed, her hip brushing mine. She took the soapy dishes from me with both hands, all the while humming.
    The tune sounded vaguely familiar. Like the melody of a music box brought out only at Christmastime.
    My cell phone rang. I held my hands out of the bubbles and searched for something to dry with.
    Naomi pulled a towel from the stove front. “Here.”
    “Thanks.” The number was local, but I didn’t recognize it. “This is Jonathan.”
    “Jonathan Trestle?”
    “Yeah.”
    “Jonathan, this is Steve from O’Brien’s pub.”
    My heart bungeed to my stomach. “On Wells Avenue?”
    “No, South Virginia.”
    “Right.”
    “Your father – ”
    “Don’t explain. I’ll be right over.”
    I pocketed the phone and clenched my teeth.
    Naomi enshrouded a plate with a yellow cotton towel. “Everything okay?”
    “I’ve got to go.”
    “What is it?”
    “It’s my dad. He – ” I pressed my lips together. “His car broke down and he needs a ride home.”
    “Oh.”
    “Thanks for a great dinner. But I’d better go.” I walked to the front door.
    “Jonathan?”
    “Yeah?”
    She dangled her keys in the air. “You’re going to need a ride too.”
    Her VW puttered up the on-ramp to the interstate. “If you want, you can just tell me where your dad is and we can give him a ride. Save you time.”
    “No. I mean . . . thanks. But it might be something that I can fix, so I want to stop by home to pick up my tools.”
    “Sure you won’t need a hand?”
    I stared out the passenger-door window. “I’m sure.”
    At the café she parked next to my car and turned off the ignition. “You sure everything is okay?”
    I got out and leaned on the door. “I had a great time. It wouldn’t be right for me to keep you.”
    “I don’t mind. Really.”
    “I’ll see you later.” I patted the doorframe.
    “Jonathan.”
    “Yeah.”
    She tilted her head. Her eyes pierced me. “Will you?”
    I gave a slow nod.
    “Then give me your hand.” She held hers over the passenger seat.
    I hesitated, and then stretched out mine. She turned it palm side up and wrote her number on it. She rolled my fingers into a fist.
    “Don’t lose that.” A subtle smile turned her chin.
    I breathed deep and quick. My eyes flashed hot and full of liquid. I tapped the top of the car, took two steps back, and walked away.
    The only thing that made O’Brien’s Irish was a kitschy brass four-leaf clover that twirled on a string behind the bar. Scribbled on one side was the dubious autograph: Best Wishes, Bono .
    The pub was windowless and cavern-like, the