Once A Liar. A.F. Brady
house. You didn’t make any effort at all.” Claire isn’t looking at me. In fact, she hasn’t made eye contact all morning.
“I have to work, Claire. How do you think I afford to provide all of this for him? Sometimes I won’t join you for dinner. You’ve always understood that. He’s just going to have to understand it, too.”
“Oh, stop it, Peter. I know you weren’t at work. I called the office while Jamie and I waited for you, and Anna told me you’d left hours ago. Don’t feed me your lies.”
Caught but unconcerned, I continued to focus on tying my tie.
“He didn’t mention anything about his room. I tried so hard to make it welcoming for him. It’s like I shouldn’t have even bothered,” Claire pouts. She’s not talking to me anymore, just speaking her mind aloud and airing her frustrations into the mirror. I watch her shake the negativity off herself, still determined to make strangers into family.
“Peter, please at least have lunch with us today before you go into the office. For me. I got your note yesterday, the one that said I get to be a mother now? Well, you have to be a father now. It’s Sunday. Please. Stay for lunch.” She turns and rushes down the stairs.
I stand on the landing outside my bedroom and wait until I hear the murmur of chatter in the kitchen before I gently make my way down the steps to Jamie’s room. I’m curious to see what it’s like to have him in this house.
Jamie is impeccably tidy, and I am impressed with the way he’s made his bed and folded his clothes in the closet. I walk around and look at the pictures sitting on the bookshelves, photos of me with bigwig CEOs on fishing trips, of me shaking the hands of politicians and criminals on the steps of courthouses. A photo I don’t recognize is propped up against a frame; a picture of Juliette in a long yellow gown. As I lift it out of the way, I see it’s obscuring a picture of me with my arm around John Gotti holding a giant fish. I lay the photo back in front of a different frame.
I sneak down the stairs to the parlor floor and hear Claire and Jamie chatting in the kitchen. I peek in through the slightly propped door.
“How have you been doing? It’s only been a week since your mom passed.” Claire doesn’t look at him, busy shoving herbs and lemon peels into the cavity of a chicken.
I hear Jamie take a deep, ragged breath before responding. “It’s weird. I mean I knew it was coming, you know? She was sick, but—I guess it still hasn’t really hit me. I feel like I’m on vacation staying here. It doesn’t feel like this is my house.”
“Well, you just got here, sweetie. It’s going to take a little while before you feel comfortable. Sometimes even I feel like I’m vacationing here.” She peeks out from behind the carcass and grins warmly at Jamie.
I step into the doorway to make myself known before they can delve further into their irritating discomforts.
“Hello,” I say, walking into the kitchen as if I hadn’t been listening to them.
“Hi,” they both respond at the same time. Claire’s face flushes, and she busies herself with lunch instead of admitting to me that she’s uncomfortable in my house. Jamie looks at me with the expectant eyes of a teenager. What could he possibly want from me?
“Jamie, welcome. I’m sorry I wasn’t here to help you get settled yesterday. Big case I’ve been working on, I hope you understand.”
He shrugs like he didn’t even notice my disappearance.
“Good. I’m sure Claire took great care of you.” I glare at her, silently letting her know her lecture was unwarranted.
“I’m making a feast for lunch here, Peter. Jamie didn’t eat anything last night, and I don’t want him to starve to death,” she says lightly, obviously trying to change the subject.
“Fine,” I say, using an authoritative voice I hardly recognize. “I’ve got some work to do, so I’ll be in the parlor. Let me know when it’s ready.” I step through the threshold and sit down in front of the fireplace in the parlor. I pull some papers from my briefcase and open my laptop, but instead of working, I’m straining to hear what’s happening in the kitchen.
Claire leaves the chicken to roast while Jamie tells her about his classes and friends at school. The details are boring, and I’m not hearing my name, so I tune out and focus my attention back on the computer.
After nearly an hour of mundane chatting, I hear the sounds of cupboards opening and closing and the clatter of plates and silverware. I focus back in on them to hear what they’re saying.
“Do you like going to the movies?” Jamie asks her.
“I like watching movies at home—I haven’t been to a movie theater in a long time. Ever since the bedbugs thing in New York, I got really grossed out by those places. There’s a huge screen down in the basement with big leather chairs. It’s really fun to watch down there. It’s like being in a clean movie theater.”
That’s what I like to hear, something positive. At least I’ve provided a good place for movie watching.
“What kinds of movies do you like?” Jamie asks, classic teenage attempt to find common ground with a grown-up.
“I like everything. Action, comedies, romantic stuff that you probably hate. I like sports movies, too. My favorite is definitely Field of Dreams.”
“I love that movie. Been watching a lot of the superhero stuff these days. Lots of Batman movies.” Jamie’s jovial tone turns pensive and my ears perk up. “I feel like Batman sometimes.”
“You feel like a superhero?” I can hear the hopefulness in Claire’s voice.
“No... I feel like an orphan.”
“Oh, Jamie. I’m so sorry. You must miss your mom so much.”
Now I’m getting agitated, and I don’t know if I want to listen anymore. I don’t need to hear about Jamie’s feelings of being orphaned. It’s not my fault his mother is dead.
“Yeah, and I wish I knew my dad. It’s like he doesn’t really exist, you know? My friends tell stories about their dads coming to lacrosse games and taking them on vacations, and I can only tell them stories that my mom told me. And I know she made them up.”
I stand and lean against the doorframe in the parlor to hear them, careful not to step on a creaking floorboard.
“What did your mom tell you?” Claire asks, and I hear the clattering of the oven door close.
“What a nice guy he is, and that person we saw on TV during big trials was just his professional persona. She said that he really loved me and wanted to stay with our family but that he didn’t know how to. She told me about when they first met, and he would take her out on these fancy dates and plan these special surprises. She told me this one story about a scavenger hunt that he set up for her across New York City. She said he made her feel special. But I never saw him like that. He always ignored me.”
I feel a twinge of defense brewing in my stomach as I listen to Jamie list my perceived shortcomings.
“One time he called me Charlie,” Jamie adds. “Couldn’t even remember my name.”
Did I? I chalk it up to a Freudian slip.
“He’s a good man, your dad.” Claire begins her well-versed defense. “Just sometimes it gets lost under his...his armor. He doesn’t mean to hurt anyone.”
“Is he nice to you?” Jamie asks delicately.
I strain to hear how Claire responds. I know I’m not nice to her. At least not lately.
“Well, no, not all the time. But he can be. And when he is, it makes all the other times worth it. When he’s good, he’s perfect, but when he’s bad...”
Now I’ve had enough. I won’t allow this conversation to