Free Mine Are Spectacular! by Janice Kaplan Page A

turns making connecting lines. The beginning goes quickly, and then it comes down to some hard choices. Dylan triumphantly closes the first box and claims it with a “D.”
    â€œI’m winning!” he hollers.
    â€œGot a long way to go, buddy,” I tell him, laughing.
    He closes three more. “Still winning! Killing you, mom! You’re so lame!”
    The elderly couple at the next table eyes us disapprovingly, as irritated as if we were playing roulette in the middle of the Metropolitan Opera House.
    Bradford, finally coming up behind us, shares their displeasure. Not realizing there’s a paper on the table, or that I’m drawing as well, he grabs Dylan’s pen from his hand.
    â€œWe don’t draw on tablecloths, young man,” he says sternly.
    Since he hasn’t bothered with hello, I don’t either.
    â€œWhy not?” I say, jumping up and jumping to Dylan’s defense. “Lots of great artists have drawn on tablecloths. Picasso did it. And so did Dubuffet.”
    â€œThat was different. They were famous.”
    â€œMaybe Dylan will be famous, too,” I say.
    â€œWe weren’t drawing on the tablecloth, anyway,” Dylan says, since we’ve both missed the point. He holds up the now-checkered sheet of paper. “See? Look.”
    Bradford looks contrite. He tosses me a wan smile and tousles Dylan’s hair. “Sorry, guys,” he says, slumping into a chair. “It’s been a rough day. I need a Diet Coke and then I’ll feel better.”
    I try to smile, but I’m still vaguely annoyed at Bradford. Forty minutes late and the first thing he does is snap at us. I’ve got to say this for Bradford, though—when he knows he’s wrong, he immediately tries to make amends. He takes the paper Dylan’s still holding and looks at it carefully.
    â€œAll those D’s are your points?” Bradford asks, impressed.
    â€œYup,” Dylan says, nodding.
    â€œYou’re really killing your mom, Dyl, huh?”
    â€œJust what I told her!” Dylan crows.
    â€œYou guys want to finish the game?” Bradford asks, loosening his tie, and then, remembering where he is, tightening it back up again. “I’ll referee.”
    â€œAre you kidding?” I say. “No way I can make a comeback. Thanks for the save.”
    Bradford takes my hand. “That’s what I’m here for,” he says, and then he mouths, “Forgive me?”
    I squeeze his hand and Bradford kisses me on the cheek. The waiter comes over, sizes up Bradford and looks relieved. Finally, someone at our table who might order the Peking duck. Bradford reads the funny French-Chinese-Thai food names from the menu and lets Dylan pick his favorites. Fortunately, the food’s not quite as exotic as I’d feared.
    â€œI like the one with the ‘dragon’ in it,” Dylan says, leaning over Bradford’s shoulder to look at the menu.
    â€œMe, too, Dyl. Let’s get it. And how about the one named after the emperor.” All in all, they pick out six dishes and two appetizers and Bradford asks the waiter to bring the chopsticks.
    â€œFor three,” he says.
    â€œNope. I need a fork,” Dylan says, looking slightly abashed.
    But when the chopsticks arrive, Bradford has a plan. He secures a rubber band from the now-fawning waiter—ordering eight expensive dishes guarantees our water glasses are quickly refilled—and expertly wraps the top of two chopsticks so they click in unison.
    â€œTry this,” Bradford says, placing Dylan’s fingers around the chopsticks and showing him how easily they now work. “It’s how my daughter Skylar learned. She mastered it before our trip to China.”
    â€œCan we go to China?” Dylan asks, excitedly clicking away. “I think I’ve got it!”
    â€œSure. We’ll go all sorts of places. Ever been to Paris?”
    I give him a raised