John.â She snapped off the light. He thought it was because she didnât want him to see she was crying. He saw the tears and wondered what was going on for her.
Taking the stairs two at a time, he shouted out a country-western song about a man whose wife had left him with all the kids while she went off in a pickup truck with a jailbird to find the big time in Natchez. John always knew words to songs like that, and sang them at the top of his lungs. They sounded better that way, he said.
John could hear his father still on the phone, talking to Uncle Ed. For lack of anything better to do, he listened in on the extension.
âThe pain was agonizing,â Uncle Ed was saying. âNo one who hasnât had gallstones, Henry, can possibly know what real pain is. Like hot pokers. Labor pains. When I described the pain to Marge, she said, âThat sounds exactly like the pains I had with Susan.â And thatâs when I decided to call the doc. You better get yourself checked out, Henry. Youâre no spring chicken, you know.â
Very quietly John hung up. So his father thought he might have gallbladder problems. No wonder heâd been testy lately. He thought of calling Keith, but decided that could wait. To celebrate his good fortune, he did his history assignment. Then, with all those dates swirling around in his head, he lay on his bed thinking of ways to screw his mother out of a couple more bucks. If he was going to go into the gigolo business, feed Grace Lernerâs nerdy niece full of expensive munchies, sheâd have to pay for first-class accommodations. His time was valuable.
Long after John had gone up to his room, long after Henry, his face gray with fatigue, had said he thought heâd turn in, she sat there quietly, thinking about how things had turned out, thinking about John, about Henry. About the way they were always at each otherâs throats. Johnâs face, when he said, âDadâs getting soft as a grape,â had been suffused with joy. It made her very unhappy that they didnât get on, which Henry knew. But still he pursued his tack, so stiff, so unyielding when it came to John. They had spoken of it many times, always at her instigation. Invariably, Henry turned away, unwilling to say more than that John must be made to understand he couldnât goof off for the rest of his life. âHe is very irresponsible, Ceil,â Henry had said through stiff lips.
âYouâre too hard on him. You never give him a break. If you must be so severe, then treat Leslie with the same severity. Itâs not fair the way you single him out for constant criticism.â
âLeslie doesnât need it the way he does; sheâs disciplined, sheâs tough on herself, sheâs motivated, Ceil.â
Through clenched teeth she said, âI hate that word. Find another one.â
âWhether or not you like the word, itâs important to be motivated. I worry about him. Heâs so ⦠so feckless, I guess is the best word. Heâs always clowning. Heâs an escapist, Ceil.â
âAnd you? I suppose you were all business, all buttoned-down, chairman-of-the-board dedication when you were his age, is that it?â
âNo, of course not. But my father was stern with me, and I think itâs the way to be with John. Itâs the only way I know. I want him to grow up to be a responsible person, a good man. And right now, heâs as soft as a grape, to coin one of his phrases.â
âHeâs got good stuff in him,â she said. âIn a few years, heâll be a man and youâll see. I just hope it wonât be too late for you and him to be friends. At the rate youâre going, youâre going to destroy any chance you have. Your relationship will be too far gone.â
âAh, Ceil.â He tried to embrace her and she would have none of it.
John, at six, had come to her and asked, âWould you give up