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He was so agitated at dinner that he let Doris eat his share of pumpkin cake.
“This lemon icing is wonderful,” she said, “so sour. Who would have thought to put lemon icing on pumpkin cake? Your mother should open a restaurant. What does she do for a living?”
“She doesn’t work,” he said. His mother had never worked, as long as he could remember. She still got a little money from Eve’s dad, who she’d divorced years before Lincoln was born. And she was a licensed massage therapist. That had been a somewhat serious gig for a while. Sometimes in the summertime, she did chair massages at flea markets. His mom never seemed to be short of money.
But Lincoln should probably be paying rent, he thought, or at least helping with the groceries …
especially now that his mom was feeding Doris, too.
“What about your dad? What does he do?”
“I don’t know,” Lincoln said. “I’ve never met him.”
Doris clucked and choked on her cake. She put her hand on his shoulder. Lincoln hoped that Beth wasn’t about to walk in. “You poor kid,” Doris said.
“It’s really not so bad,” he said.
“Not so bad? It’s a terrible thing to grow up without a father.”
“It wasn’t,” Lincoln said, but maybe it was. How would he know? “It was fine.”
Doris patted him a few times before she pulled her hand away.
“No wonder your mother cooks for you.”
Lincoln went back to his desk after dinner and tried to think about his dad. (Who he really had never met. Who might not even know that Lincoln existed.) He ended up thinking about Sam instead. She used to tell Lincoln that he should “work the fatherless boy thing.”
“It’s very romantic,” she’d said. They were at the park. Sitting on top of the monkey bars. “Very James Dean in East of Eden.”
“James Dean is a motherless boy in East of Eden.” Lincoln hadn’t seen the movie, but he’d read the book. He’d read everything by Steinbeck.
“What about Rebel Without a Cause?”
“I think he had both parents in that one.”
“Details,” Sam said. “James Dean reeked of fatherless boy.”
“How is that romantic?” Lincoln had asked.
“It makes you seem unpredictable,” she said, “like a sad chasm could emerge in your personality at any moment.”
He’d laughed then, but now it didn’t seem so funny. Maybe that’s where he was stuck. In the sad chasm.
“MOM SAYS YOU’VE been acting weird,” Eve said when he met her for lunch the next day at Kentucky Fried Chicken. (Eve’s choice.)
“What kind of weird?”
“She says you’re up and down all the time and that you’re losing weight. She thinks you might be taking diet pills. She compared you to Patty Duke.”
“I’m losing weight because I joined a gym,” he said, setting down his spork. “I told you about it already. I go before work.”
“Actually,” she said, “I can tell. You look nice. You’re standing straighter. And your beer gut is receding.”
“I don’t drink that much beer.”
“It’s a figure of speech,” she said. “You look nice.”
“Thank you.”
“So, why are you acting so weird?”
He almost argued that he wasn’t, but that seemed pointless and like a lie.
“I don’t know,” he said instead. “Sometimes, I think I’m really happy. I feel better, physically, than I have in a long time. And, socially, I feel better. Like I’m connecting with people. Like I’m talking to new people, and it isn’t as hard as it used to be.”
That was true, even though the new people probably weren’t the sort of people Eve was hoping he’d connect with …
Doris.
And Justin and Dena, who weren’t exactly new.
And the copy editors, who were an awful lot like D&D players who didn’t play D&D. They still counted as new. A bunch of them were even girls—not girls Lincoln was interested in, but girls.
Beth and Jennifer seemed to count. Even though they obviously didn’t.
“I feel like I’m finally getting over things,” Lincoln said. “That sounds stupid, doesn’t it?”
His sister was watching his face closely. “No,” she said, “that all sounds really good.”
He nodded. “But I still feel really hopeless sometimes. I don’t like my job. And I’ve stopped thinking about finding another one. And, even though I hardly ever think about Sam anymore, it still seems impossible that I might have something like that again. A relationship, I guess.”
If he had made that confession to his mother, she would have burst into tears. But Eve looked at Lincoln the way he looked at people when they were explaining their computer problems. He felt partly responsible for that line between her eyebrows.
“Okay,” she said. “I think this is good.”
“How is it good?”
“Well, you’ve just told me about all these good things in your life,” she said. “Big improvements from just six months ago.”
“Yeah.”
“So, what if, instead of thinking about solving your whole life, you just think about adding additional good things. One at a time. Just let your pile of good things grow.”
“This is investment advice, isn’t it? You’re personal-bank-ing me.”
“It’s good advice,” she said.
He was quiet for a moment. “Eve, do you think it was damaging to grow up without a father?”
“Probably,” she said, stealing his biscuit. “Is that what’s bothering you?”
“I’m just trying to figure out what’s wrong with me.”
“Well, stop,” she said. “I told you, figure out what’s right with you.”
Before they left, she talked him into taking her older son to see the Pokemon movie that weekend.
“I can’t take him,” Eve said, “I’m allergic to Pikachu.” Then she said, “Get it? Pikachu? Pikachu. It sounds like I’m sneezing.” When they walked out of the KFC, Lincoln stopped Eve on the sidewalk to hug her. She let him hold on to her for just a moment. Then she patted him stiffly on the back. “Okay, that’s enough,” she said. “Save it for Mom.”
LINCOLN MET JUSTIN and Dena at the Ranch Bowl Saturday night. Lincoln wore his new denim jacket.
He’d had to buy new jeans that week, smaller jeans, and the jacket had been an impulse buy. He’d worn one like it in junior high, and that had been the last time he’d ever come close to feeling like a badass. He forgot to take the price tag off, so Justin called him “Minnie-fucking-Pearl” and “XXLT”
all night. They stayed out so late, Lincoln slept in and didn’t have time to shower before he picked up his nephew the next afternoon.
“You smell like cigarette smoke,” Jake Jr. said, climbing into Lincoln’s car. “Do you smoke?”
“No. I went to a concert last night.”
“With smoking?” the six-year-old asked. “And drinking?”
“Some people were smoking and drinking,” Lincoln said, “but not me.”
Jake shook his head sadly. “That stuff’ll kill you.”
“That’s true,” Lincoln said.
“I hope I don’t get any of this smoke on me. I have to go to school tomorrow.”
The Pokemon movie was even worse than Lincoln had expected. It was almost a relief every time Jake Jr. had to go to the bathroom. “My mom says I can’t go alone,” Jake whispered. “She says I’m so cute, someone might try to take me.”
“My mom used to tell me the same thing,” Lincoln said.
CHAPTER 52
From: Beth Fremont
To: Jennifer Scribner-Snyder
Sent: Mon, 12/20/1999 1:45 PM
Subject: My Cute Guy has a kid.
Can you believe it? A kid! And probably a wife, too. How could he do this to me?
<<Jennifer to Beth>> ???
<<Beth to Jennifer>> My thoughts exactly.
<<Jennifer to Beth>> What I meant by that was: give me the information that you have and I don’t —that is making you talk like a crazy person.
<<Beth to Jennifer>> I saw him (them) yesterday at Cinema Center. I was going to see Fight Club again, and as I was buying my ticket, I saw My Cute Guy getting in line for popcorn. So—don’t judge —I got in line behind him (them), right behind him, and just sucked in his presence for three and a half minutes.
<<Jennifer to Beth>> I’m still confused. You saw him with his wife and kid? And then you sucked in his presence? What does that even entail?
<<Beth to Jennifer>>
1. Just the kid. Like a 5-to-10-year-old kid.
2. And “sucking in his presence” entails: Standing. Exalting. Inhaling. Trying not to bite his shoulder.
Realizing that my mouth is the exact height as his shoulder.
Memorizing what he was wearing—camouflage pants, hiking boots, a Levi’s jean jacket. (Like a very 1985 Levi’s jean jacket. Hard to explain, but very, very cute.)
Noticing that his shoulders might be the broadest shoulders I’ve ever seen on someone who isn’t a lumberjack. Marveling that I’m the kind of girl who finds a thick neck ridiculously attractive. (Is it thick necks in general? Or just his? I don’t know.)
Imagining that if I were standing this close to him somewhere else, like at a grocery store or a restaurant, people might think we were together.
Deciding that his hair is about three shades lighter than mine. Cadbury colored.
Thinking I could probably bump into him and make it seem like an accident.
Wondering what his name is. And whether he’s as nice as he seems. And whether he likes piña coladas and getting caught in the rain …
<<Jennifer to Beth>> Hmmm. I’m judging. I can’t help it.
<<Beth to Jennifer>> But I didn’t really do anything. He was there. And I was there. And we both like popcorn …
<<Jennifer to Beth>> You didn’t have to exalt.
<<Beth to Jennifer>> Au contraire, mon frere. It would have been impossible to do anything but.
<<Jennifer to Beth>> How do you know it was his kid? Maybe it was his little brother. Or his Little Brother.
<<Beth to Jennifer>> No, they were acting like father and son. I had 75 minutes to evaluate the situation. I ended up—remember, don’t judge—following them into their theater, Pokemon: The First Movie, and sitting about six rows behind them. McG sat with his arm around the kid’s chair the whole time. He even got up three times to take him to the bathroom. And when the movie was over, he really carefully put the boy’s scarf on.
<<Jennifer to Beth>> So, you stayed in there for the entire movie? You didn’t go to Fight Club?
( So judging right now.)
<<Beth to Jennifer>> Do you think I was going to miss a chance to sit in the dark with My Cute Guy for an hour and a half? I already know who Tyler Durden is. (And I went back to catch the last showing of Fight Club after I followed My Cute Guy home.)
<<Jennifer to Beth>> Take it back. You didn’t follow him home.
<<Beth to Jennifer>> I tried. I lost him on the freeway.
<<Jennifer to Beth>> That’s something a scary person would do.
<<Beth to Jennifer>> Really? It felt more nosy than scary.
<<Jennifer to Beth>> How did you lose him? Was he driving evasively?
<<Beth to Jennifer>> No. Have you ever followed somebody in a car before? It’s really hard, even though he drives a pretty distinctive car, a Toyota Corolla. (An ancient Toyota Corolla, the kind people drove back when it was still embarrassing to drive a Japanese car.) I’m hoping that means he’s divorced and can’t afford a decent car. But that might be an evil thing to hope; there is a child involved. I wish I knew whether he wore a wedding ring …
<<Jennifer to Beth>> I wouldn’t guess Emilie would be throwing herself at him if he wore a wedding ring.
<<Beth to Jennifer>> Good point. Even so …I’m just not sure I’m ready to be a stepmother.
<<Jennifer to Beth>> It’s a lot to think about.
<<Beth to Jennifer>> It is.
<<Jennifer to Beth>> You’re not going to try to follow him again, are you? Now that you know what kind of car he drives?
<<Beth to Jennifer>> Hmmm. Probably not. But I’m still going to hang out in the break room a lot, hoping I’ll run into him.
<<Jennifer to Beth>> That’s fair. I don’t think you can get arrested for that. What would you do if you did run into him?
<<Beth to Jennifer>> If I literally ran into him? I’m not sure. But it might involve never washing this sweater again.
<<Jennifer to Beth>> Would you talk to him? Would you flirt with him?
<<Beth to Jennifer>> Are you kidding? What kind of a floozy do you take me for? I have a boyfriend. More than a boyfriend. I’m living in sin.
<<Jennifer to Beth>> You are a complicated woman.
<<Beth to Jennifer>> No. Doy.
CHAPTER 53
LINCOLN DIDN’T WALK by Beth’s desk that night. The next time he saw Christine, he wanted to be able to tell her that he still hadn’t. But at the end of the night, before he left, he printed out the paragraph that Beth had written about him. He figured this was crossing yet another line. (How many lines do you get?) But it was the closest Lincoln had ever come to getting a love letter—even though he didn’t really get it, he took it—and he wanted to be able to read it again. He tucked the paragraph into his wallet.