Raising Jake. Charlie Carillo
have no intention of introducing Margie to Jake. He’s met just two of the women I’ve dated since I split from his mother, and both times it was a mistake, so my policy since then has been to restrict myself mostly to midweek sex and keep the possibilities open for father-son activities on the weekends—possibilities that have been drying up, I’ve noticed, as Jake’s relationship with Sarah has progressed. Lately all I’ve gotten is Saturday morning breakfast with the kid.
But this weekend is special. With his mother away I’ve got Jake sleeping over for two nights, so Margie is on hold until Monday. Margie said she understood, but her words didn’t exactly match her narrowed eyes.
Jake finishes the last of his french fries. “Come on, Dad,” he says. “Tell me her name.”
“Whose name?”
“This woman you’ve been seeing.”
I sigh, shake my head. “How did you know?”
“Your voice gets funny when you lie.”
“It’s nothing serious.”
“Just tell me her name.”
“Margie.”
“You like her?”
“She’s all right.”
“Do you love her?”
This is amazing. Until now Jake has never, ever asked me a single question about my love life. Now, suddenly, I’m in the middle of an interrogation.
“It’s too soon to tell,” I say, and he looks at me as if he doesn’t quite believe me.
“If you think it’s too soon to tell,” he says softly, “you’re probably not in love with her.”
I find this to be a stunning observation. I also know he’s right. Why has it been so difficult for me to admit this to myself? Margie annoys me. She’s loud and she’s silly and she’s bossy, or maybe the problem is that I’m somber and dark and stubborn. Either way, we are going nowhere. I’m going to have to deal with it, now that my son has opened my eyes.
Jake downs the rest of his Coke, wipes his mouth with a napkin. “I think you should have someone you can love, Dad. Maybe another wife.”
I laugh out loud. It’s a hell of a thing to say, and a hell of a time to say it. “Yeah, I’m a real catch. A guy crowding fifty, with no job.”
“Come on.”
“Listen, it’s hard for people in my line of work. Former line of work.”
“Why?”
“We get bored easily. We’re sarcastic. We don’t have a great outlook on humanity.”
“Why not?”
“Why not? Look at the way the world is, son!”
“Yeah, but you were probably like that before you worked at the paper.”
“Thanks a lot.”
“Am I wrong? Tell me if I’m wrong.”
I sigh, shrug. “I guess I’ve never had a great outlook on humanity.”
“Why not? Did you have an unhappy childhood?”
“Hey, what the hell is this? You just got kicked out of school, and we’re talking about my childhood? Why are we doing that?”
“Because I don’t know anything about your childhood, Dad. Not one friggin’ thing.”
“This is hardly the time to discuss it!”
“All right, Dad. Whatever.”
“I grew up in Queens. You knew that much, didn’t you? I moved to Manhattan. Both my parents are dead. Happy?”
He holds a hand up. “Just forget it, Dad. I didn’t mean to pry.”
He picks up his Coke and takes a long pull on the straws. I rub my face with my hands, give his shoulder an awkward pat.
“Jake. I didn’t mean to get nasty.”
“If you don’t want to talk about it, we won’t talk about it.”
“We were talking about newspapermen, and the way they look at the world. Problem is, we’re convinced that everybody’s working an angle. In the end we can only date each other, and that always turns out to be the worst thing of all.”
“So who are you supposed to date?”
“A lot of newspapermen date waitresses. I don’t know why. Maybe because they eat out a lot.”
“Does that ever work out?”
“Not often. The waitresses want to be doing something else. You have to be willing to listen to their hopes and dreams. That gets a little grueling, at my age.”
Just then, the waitress comes to clear away the dishes. She’s a cute enough girl, closing in on thirty and a little thick at the ankles. When she turns to go I wink at Jake before calling her back.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I just had to ask—are you an actress?”
She blushes. “I’m trying to be one.”
“Where’d I see you? Were you in a commercial or something?”
She nods happily. “I did the orange juice commercial. I’m the mother, pouring juice for the kids?”
“That’s it, that’s it! I knew I recognized you!”
“I’m rehearsing for a play now. The theater’s my passion.”
“Good for you!”
She tells us the wheres and whens of her off-off-off-off Broadway production, balancing our plates and glasses on her forearm all the while. She’s practically floating on air when she walks away, as I’ve given legitimacy to the distant dream her family has certainly encouraged her to drop.
I turn to Jake. “See what I mean?”
“Did you actually see that commercial?”
“What commercial?”
He pats his hands together in mock applause. “Very good, Dad. You found a waitress who wants to be an actress. How rare.”
We both laugh. It’s my first real laugh of the day, and it feels good, like a swallow of coffee on a winter morning, or that moment when a hangover finally lets go and the cool, healing sweat breaks out on your forehead and you’re ready to go out there and punch a cop. I feel something special coming. I don’t know what it is, but it’s coming, and I can’t stop it, and I don’t want to stop it.
And then, suddenly, I know what it is. Nearly eighteen years after his birth, I suspect that I am at long last going to get to know my son. And for better or worse, he is going to get to know me.
“Okay,” I begin. “Here’s my plan. Let’s dump your sack at the apartment and figure out the weekend from there.”
“Sounds good.”
“I want to talk to you. I want you to talk to me. Let’s talk about everything, and let’s not be afraid of anything, all right? All that exists are tonight, Saturday, and Sunday.”
“What about Monday?”
“For now I say, fuck Monday.”
“Can we talk about your childhood?”
I roll my eyes, try to ignore the fact that my heart is suddenly beating faster than it should. “If you want. Don’t expect to be thrilled, though. It was pretty dull, as childhoods go.”
“I doubt that very much.”
Jake smiles. He’s got beautiful teeth, nicely spaced and white, teeth that didn’t need braces and have cost me little more than