The Calculus of Change Page 6

  It’s my dad’s voice thundering up the stairs from the basement. I curse, having burned my finger on the handle of the hot frying pan. Our pans are too old—the handle shouldn’t burn.

  My back is turned to the basement stairs as I run my finger under cold water sputtering out of the faucet. My dad must’ve turned the water off again. I hear him clattering toward the kitchen, and I try to concentrate on cooling my finger. I go back to the frying pan and grab a dishtowel to hold the handle, trying to ignore my dad’s anger, hoping it will go away. My hands grip the handle forcibly. This is not the dad I love. This dad woke up in an ever-empty bed and touched sadness. But he pushed that sorrow down and now he’ll spit it out as anger. I don’t respond to him because he’ll be here any second, and if I don’t yell back, maybe he’ll stop.

  I flip the grilled cheese. It spits butter out of the pan. I turn down the heat.

  “What the hell happened to the downstairs remote control?” He says it more calmly than I’d expected.

  I search my brain for what I might’ve done with the remote. I have no idea. Was I the last one watching TV down there?

  “Have you asked Jon?”

  “I would if I knew where the fuck Jon was,” he says. “Jesus, what is the matter with you people?”

  He’s not calm anymore, and the emphasis is on matter. By you people, I think he means Jon and me, but I can’t be certain. It seems so loaded.

  I suddenly feel a surge of uncontrollable anger. “This is total insanity!” I say, or scream. This happens sometimes—my dad storms into a room, and I can feel a response rise up from deep in my belly.

  My dad slams a few cabinets before he leaves the kitchen. My heart is racing, but I find a way to breathe through the anger. The anger was fleeting, a momentary loss of control, a reaction. In through my nose, out through my mouth. Huffing a sigh, I return my body to some semblance of equilibrium. I’ve got this.

  There’s something scary in the way my dad booms around the house—his voice and the things he says. But he’s all bark and only a little bite.

  The front door swings open, and I can hear Jon lob his backpack up the stairs so that it lands between our rooms. He has no idea he’s just walked into a storm. Jon and my dad meet on the stairway to the basement.

  “Any idea what happened to the downstairs remote?” My dad’s voice is three notches louder than necessary.

  “I don’t know, Dad.” Jon’s voice is low. He never matches Dad’s anger.

  “Well, everybody stop what they’re doing and get downstairs and start looking!”

  I turn off the stove and toss my half-done sandwich onto a plate.

  Jon and I make eye contact, not sure if we’re friends or foes for this fight. We could blame each other, but we’ve learned over the years blaming each other leads to nothing good. It’s hard to understand how the remote control goes from being just a remote control to being our saving grace. But dear God, we will find the stupid thing. I hate the remote control. I hate feeling like this.

  I sprint to the bottom of the stairs, skipping steps as I go, my stomach tight, seized in my throat. Jon follows. I check the surface of the cocktail bar, my mom’s antique crystal glasses hanging from a rack on the ceiling above, dusty and untouched since before she died. I move on to the heavy end tables from the 1970s. Inside the cabinets of the end tables are stacked black contraptions, old versions of Xboxes and PlayStations. Why has Jon saved this junk? I’m looking in, under, and around, on my hands and knees, desperate, not for the remote control, but to end this.

  Jon meets me on hands and knees. As I move to stand, he grabs my wrist and gives me a firm look, meant to call me out on my hysteria. I nod my understanding—he’s right, it’s useless for all of us to lose it—and force myself to calm. He’s protecting me, or both of us, from tossing gasoline into this already raging fire.

  I flip every cushion and finally find the remote under the couch. I’m sure my dad looked there, but it’s in a weird spot.

  Jon and I collapse onto the floor. I’m clutching the remote, and we’re silent save for our breathing, deflating from the frantic search. One of us will tell Dad that the remote’s been found. But it won’t matter. Dad will be sulking somewhere, perhaps lying on his bed, hands crossed over his belly. I’m not sure if he does that because he’s ashamed of his behavior, if he even knows how it feels to receive his temper. Or if he does it because he needs to calm down. Or if he does it because he’s still righteously indignant. I hate approaching him in this state. It’s almost worse than the wrath.

  We mutually choose Jon to go and tell Dad we’ve found the remote. Jon’s less likely to make him angrier. Maybe it’s because he’s a guy and Dad’s a guy (guy club), but Jon has always forgiven Dad his temper. And more so, he rarely gets angry himself.

  Jon comes back from the delivery looking wounded, carrying my grilled cheese. He can’t get mad because Dad’s rage breaks him inside, each episode chipping away little pieces of his strength. I tear the sandwich in two and hand half to him. He eats listlessly, eyes glazed as the television flashes from image to image. I watch my brother and wonder what he holds back from saying or doing. Like if my dad and I weren’t crowding all the space where anger resides, what would we learn about Jon?

  We sit side by side without talking, and eat. The fluorescent lights buzz and flicker. Jon grabs the remote and starts flipping channels.

  ***

  Eventually, Jon falls asleep, and I leave him there. Carefully, I ascend the stairs. I can see my dad through the sliding glass doors, hands folded over his chest as he looks out over the gloaming, dim-lit grasses, a beer resting on the ground next to him.

  I could be walking into a landmine.

  Our house was built in 1978, and it’s a split level with a basement. My dad bought this house before he met my mom. It’s seen the death of two dogs and a mother since we moved in. My parents built the deck themselves. It spans the entire back of the house. We don’t have neighbors behind us, just a quiet street, and beyond are the open plains. The porch is my dad’s favorite spot to sit quietly with a beer. The older I get, the more I appreciate it, too. It’s a good place to be.

  My dad is in his favorite lawn chair, wearing his plain gray hoodie. He must wear it every day when the weather turns. Before I say anything, I gauge his mood again as I stand in the now open doorway. He takes a slow pull of his beer, and I interpret it as a good sign.

  I inhale. I hate walking on these eggshells, but I can’t shake the fact that I could set him off with one wrong move. Are we past the remote control episode? Or does it still linger, its ember ready to flare any minute?

  “Aden,” he says. He sounds relaxed and kind. I can feel the tension in my body start to release. As I’m making my way to the chair next to his, it begins to rain. Big, thick drops that threaten to turn into slush or snow.

  “You know I’m really a seventeen-year-old trapped in a forty-seven-year-old’s body, right?” he says.

  “Yeah,” I say. “Except when you’re four or five.”

  He laughs. “Yeah, except then.”

  We’re quiet together as the rain increases its cadence, beating onto the porch’s overhang. My dad takes a swig of his beer before saying, “So Jon tells me you’re hanging out with a new guy?”

  I eye him. It’s alarming that Jon and Dad have talked about this. Jon knows about Tate because we talk about everything. And we both talk to my dad about some of this stuff. But still, what has Jon told him?

  “Dad.” I say this in the most teenage way possible, and then I laugh out loud at myself. I pride myself on not being the typical asshole teenager to my dad. He’s had enough to deal with in life.

  He’s waiting for me to speak. He’s looking out over the plains with squinted eyes. I zip up my jacket and pull my hood tight beneath my chin. Though we’re sheltered, the wind is blowing enough to get us a little wet. The plains are a rich brown today with gray clouds cutting off the usually expansive horizon.

&
nbsp; “Yes,” I say. “I’m hanging out with someone new. And he’s a guy.”

  “Anything doin’ there?”

  “What do you mean?”

  I know exactly what he means. Not that I want to talk about it. Yet.

  “New boyfriend?”

  “No,” I say.

  “But you wish he was.”

  “Dad.”

  What could he possibly know about this? And why is he assuming that it’s me who likes Tate and not the other way around?

  “What? It’s a crime to talk about crushes?”

  “Don’t say crush. That sounds so cheesy.”

  It makes the whole thing with Tate feel stupid and worthless.

  My dad looks sideways with an eyebrow raised at me.

  “Do you think it’s possible to be fat and pretty at the same time?” I say.

  “What?”

  “You heard me.”

  “Aden, you’re not fat.”

  I sigh loudly. You’re not fat means nothing to me. What do people even mean when they say it? Do they mean you’re not ugly? You’re not morbidly obese? You’re not unworthy?

  “Dad, you don’t need to tell me what I want to hear, okay? I just want to know what you think. Man to man. Can a girl be pretty if she’s also fat?”

  He scratches his chin thoughtfully, contemplating the question. “I think so. Yes.”

  Not what I was expecting. The long pause, the thought that went into it. What if the answer is just plain no? I’m not buying it. My mom was skinny. I wonder if it mattered to her—being thin. Why don’t guys have to worry about this so much?

  “Aden, you’re more than pretty,” he says.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’re pretty, but what makes you beautiful is that you’re you.”

  “Thanks, Dad.”

  “So you do like this mystery guy?”

  “Yeah,” I say.

  “And?”

  “He has a girlfriend.”

  “And?”

  “She’s a lot of things I’m not.”

  “You can’t be like anyone else, Ade. And no one, believe me, is like you. You’re one of a kind.” He winks.

  “Dad? Even though I’m not her . . . I can’t believe I’m saying this out loud . . . sometimes I get the feeling that maybe he doesn’t, but maybe he could . . .”

  I think about the way Tate’s held my hand. I think about the fire between us. It can’t be something I’ve just imagined, can it?

  “Spit it out, Ade.”

  “I don’t know. Have feelings for me.”

  “Yeah,” he says. “I’m sure he could.”

  It’s hard to reconcile this dad with one who rages over remote controls, but I have to. If I didn’t take refuge in the warm, safe side of my dad, I’d be on my own.

  Tate

  The screen on my phone lights up. Tate.

  “Hello?” My voice is light and alive, giddy.

  “What are you doing tonight?” he says.

  “Tonight?”

  “Yes. Right now. Oh, nothing? Okay. Pick me up in fifteen. I have a plan.”

  He hangs up.

  I almost text him about how presumptuous he’s being, but I have only fifteen minutes to make myself look presentable. I throw on a little makeup and some jewelry.

  ME: Text me your address?

  TATE: You’re making us late. 3250 East Grove.

  ME: You’re pushing it.

  TATE: :) Hurry!

  “Where are we going?” I ask as Tate buckles his seat belt and turns up the music with a kind of ease, as though we’ve been friends for years instead of a few weeks.

  “It’s a surprise. Make a left.”

  We pull into the synagogue parking lot of Temple Emanuel at five after six.

  “Wait, what? Tate. I . . .” Everything I want to say gets caught in my throat.

  “Come on.” He looks at me. “It’ll be okay. Let’s go.”

  I sigh because he’s pushy in the best way possible, and the never-saying-no-to-him phenomenon is intoxicating. So I open my door and try to keep pace with Tate’s hurried stride. I don’t have time to think about the fact that we’re at a synagogue. Or the fact that I haven’t been inside one for years. Or the fact that Tate doesn’t even know my mom is dead.

  The place is familiar. I realize as I’m sitting next to Tate, studying the Hebrew symbols painted on the ceiling, the rabbi’s voice filling the room, that this is the exact temple where I once sat with my mother. My brother and I came with Bubbie on a few of the high holidays before she moved away, but after that, my dad never took us and we never asked. Maybe because being here without her feels wrong somehow. Like coming with her made me Jewish, but when she died, that part of me died with her. I don’t have time to think about that because Tate is leading me to a set of chairs in the back, holding my hand. I try to remember to breathe. Without crying or overthinking this. Or wondering why Tate would go out of his way to bring me here.

  As I watch the rabbi give a sermon about the importance of friendship, I wonder if he is the same rabbi who stood over my mother’s grave at her funeral.

  I glance at Tate as he chants Hebrew prayers. His face is relaxed, serene even. It must be nice to feel connected like that.

  After the service, Tate puts an electric hand on my shoulder, and says, “Ready for Oneg Shabbat?”

  “Yes?”

  He laughs.

  “What is it?”

  “The best part.”

  We move into a banquet room outside of the temple. On a big buffet table sit several beautiful, fragrant, golden loaves of challah and bottles of wine.

  I breathe deeply.

  “Smells amazing in here doesn’t it?” Tate says.

  “I swear I’m smelling cinnamon.”

  “Could be. The Hebrew school kids all pitch in to bake the challah on Friday afternoons. Sometimes they spice up a few loaves.”

  An older couple approach Tate, the woman placing a hand on Tate’s arm.

  “Who is this, Mr. Newman?” the lady says to Tate, smiling and winking at me.

  “This is Aden. Aden, meet my pseudo-grandparents, Mr. and Mrs. Weinstein.”

  “Nice to meet you.”

  Mrs. Weinstein shakes my hand. “She’s lovely, Tate.”

  “She is,” Tate agrees.

  I can’t make eye contact with Tate because I like this too much and I’m afraid he’ll see it. I like that Mrs. Weinstein assumes I’m good enough for Tate. I like that Tate hasn’t corrected her in some awkward way. I like feeling as though I could be Tate’s girlfriend.

  I wonder if he’s ever brought Maggie to his synagogue.

  Tate hands me a small glass of red wine. “Allowed. It’s for religion.”

  We exchange grins. I feel so happy. And closer to Tate. Closer to my mom in this weird way.

  “So what do you think your mom will say?”

  “What?”

  “Aren’t you going to tell her that you came to Shabbos service with me?”

  I look into Tate’s eyes and think about telling him the truth.

  But instead I say, “Yeah. I’ll tell her. She’ll probably think it’s cool.” Which isn’t that far from the truth.

  ***

  Tate and I ride back to his house in silence until I say what I’ve been thinking.

  “I don’t want this night to end.”

  Tate smiles in a way that makes the air warm up and come to life.

  “I don’t want it to end either.”

  I pull in front of his house and set the emergency brake. He stays in his seat, still buckled.

  I laugh. “So you refuse to leave?”

  “Yes. I want three more songs. Play me something.”

  He closes his eyes while I scroll through my phone for three perfect songs.

  He raises his eyebrows without opening his eyes when the first song starts to play. A Dustin O’Halloran piano solo. It’s vibrant, emotional. Tate moves his fingers as though playing along.
I watch him the whole song. His face says everything. Every nuance of the piece, every change in note, every refrain; his beautiful, expressive face betrays just how deeply he understands this song.

  His eyes stay closed when the second song replaces the first. A duet. Ella Fitzgerald and Louis Armstrong. Tate smiles when he hears their voices. He reaches for my hand. And finally there is the warmth of his touch on my skin. So much heat where our hands collide.

  And then the last song. “A Case of You” by Joni Mitchell. I can’t help myself. While Joni Mitchell pours her heart out, I sing along with her. This is a song I understand with every ounce of my soul. It’s about getting drunk on loving someone. It’s about being able to hold all of someone, even if you’re sick on loving that person.

  When the song ends the car is silent. Tate unbuckles his seat belt and leans over the middle console. He kisses my cheek. It’s soft, barely a graze.

  “I can’t wait to hear you really sing,” he says before getting out.

  Mom

  At midnight I find myself at my desk, browsing the Temple Emanuel website. My head is so full with thinking about Tate and my mom.

  The synagogue has a big congregation, so they have two rabbis. And one of the two has been a rabbi at the synagogue for thirty years. Rabbi Morrey. He must have known my mom. I type and erase the email until about two a.m., when I finally settle on:

  Dear Rabbi Morrey,

  My name is Aden Matthews. My mom’s name was Vivian Bauer. When I was a little girl, my mom took my brother and me to synagogue a few times with her. She died when I was in second grade. She grew up attending Temple Emanuel. I was wondering if you remember her and if you’d be willing to tell me what you remember?

  Thank you for your time.