A Song For Julia Part 12

That, of course, was when Crank walked into the room. He wore ... no, I must be imagining it. No, he was really wearing them. Too small Mickey Mouse pajama pants, with a plain white t-s.h.i.+rt that didn't fit all that well, either. Not that I was complaining.

"Feel terrible about what?" he asked, stumbling toward the coffee pot.

"Your car!" I replied.

He shrugged. "I know you'll make good on it. And I'm not missing much, last night was the first time I'd driven it anywhere other than the 7-11 around the corner."

"Oh, wow. Now I really feel terrible."

"Seriously," Crank said, "don't." He put what looked like about fifteen spoons of sugar in his coffee, doused that with a liberal helping of cream, then stirred.

"If you're gonna take all the sugar in the house," Jack said in a booming tone, "you'd better be prepared to go buy some later."

"Sure, Dad," Crank said. His face flashed irritation.

"How'd your show go last night?" As Jack asked the question, I heard footsteps in the living room, then saw Sean walk by the doorway and keep going, reading a thick textbook as he walked.

"It was all right," Crank replied, at the same time I said, "It was amazing."

Jack smiled and brought the plate of bacon and set it in the center of the table. Crank said, "Coming from someone with your musical taste, I'll take that as a real compliment."

"You're a musician?" Jack asked.

"Not really," I said. "Skilled, but no talent."

"Oh?" Crank said. "You didn't say that. What do you play?"

I shook my head. "Piano. I'd be embarra.s.sed to play in front of you. But my mom had me in lessons from the time I was two."

"Since you were two?" he asked, his tone incredulous. "Suzuki lessons?"

I nodded, taking a sip of my coffee and trying to pretend I wasn't incredibly uncomfortable. I couldn't figure Crank out. Last night, he was well beyond the verge of offensive. Why was he so friendly now? What changed? Just his mood? If he was that moody, then he was right-I should stay the h.e.l.l away.

Jack chimed in, "Your mother wanted you to take Suzuki lessons when you were that young. But it was too expensive."

Crank's face flashed irritation, almost anger. That was the second time in a few minutes. Like his father couldn't say anything right. Of course, who was I to speak? It's not like I've got the best relations.h.i.+p with my mother. On the other hand, Jack was so nice. Crank changed the subject. "What's for breakfast?" Which was obviously not a well thought out question, since his father was at that very moment placing a huge platter of pancakes on the table.

Jack gave him a scornful look and spoke in a gruff, sarcastic voice. "Go get your brother. Breakfast will be a surprise."

Crank opened his mouth, then thought better of it and walked out of the kitchen.

"I never said I raised a pack of geniuses," Jack said, shaking his head and giving me a sly smile.

I tried to hold it in, but I couldn't. After a few seconds, I burst into laughter, and he joined in. It felt good.

A minute or so later, Sean and Crank came back in. Crank sat to my left, nearest the kitchen wall, and Sean to my right. Their father took the seat across from me. He startled me by reaching out and taking both boys' hands. They, in turn, reached out to grab mine, and all of them bowed their heads. Never one to disrespect customs, I did the same, staring holes in the table. I was hyper aware of the fact that my left hand was in Crank's. His was hard, much larger than mine. Warm, but not sweaty. I could feel the calluses from playing guitar on his fingertips.

"Bless us, oh Lord, for this bounty which we are about to receive through Christ, our Lord, Amen." It sounded like he was rus.h.i.+ng through. In my family, we only said grace for major holidays, if then, but I remembered enough to know he'd left out about half the words. Jack paused half a second then said, "Eat up."

Sean let go of my hand instantly and reached out to grab a stack of pancakes. Jack swatted at his hand. "We serve guests first, Sean! And use your fork, please."

Crank's hand lingered around mine, no longer than a second after Sean let go. Not enough to mean anything, he was just slow, I guess. But it was oddly uncomfortable and very comfortable at the same time. Confusing. Like everything else about him.

Before I knew it, Sean and Crank piled my plate high with more calories than I normally eat in a year. I didn't care. The pancakes had an odd texture, light and sweet, because of the rice flour, and I'd be happy if I could take fifty pounds of bacon to my grave with me. For the first few minutes, I concentrated on eating and deliberately ignoring Crank, because the last thing I wanted to do was pay attention to the fact that he was sitting two feet away from me in his pajamas. Or what looked to have been his pajamas ten years ago.

"This is incredible," I said. "Thank you so much. I haven't had a home cooked meal in-I can't remember when."

"I'd like to hear you play the piano," Sean said, out of nowhere. Which was odd, because he hadn't even been in the room when we had the conversation about it.

Crank looked at me, and I looked at Sean, and Jack looked at me, and I found myself furiously blus.h.i.+ng, which is something I don't do. Ever. "I don't know ..." I said in a hesitant tone of voice.

"Come on," Jack said. "We'd love to hear it."

"Please?" Sean said. "No one has played it since Mom left. Dad has it tuned every six months, but no one plays it any more."

I swallowed, because both Crank and Jack froze. I swear it felt like a bomb was about to go off in that kitchen, the tension hit so suddenly. At the time Sean said the words, Crank was reaching for another handful of bacon, and he literally froze in place with his arm extended.

A lot more was going on here than I knew about. And I didn't want to say or do the wrong thing. But I didn't know what the right thing was, and Jack and Crank, both frozen like terrified rabbits, were no help at all. It was obvious that both of them were so wound up around Sean that the whole situation could explode in a heartbeat. So, my voice sounding meager and unsure in my ears, I said, "Okay."

The end, not so much (Crank) When she said, "Okay," in that hesitant voice, I think I let out a sigh of relief. Because Sean went back to eating. On the one hand, the last thing I wanted was Sean getting attached to Julia in any way. On the other hand, I really didn't want to deal with a blowup this morning, and anything involving our mother risked a blowup from Sean.

So Dad and I went back to eating as if nothing had happened, and Sean launched into a monologue. For the last six months, he'd been alternating between a huge set of medical textbooks I'd picked up at an estate sale and an equally huge set of manga comics he'd ama.s.sed over the last two years. So it didn't surprise me when he started talking, seemingly randomly, about open heart surgery, but I could tell Julia was more than a little bit surprised.

Once he got started, it would be impossible for anyone to get a word in edgewise, so at the first pause for breath, my dad jumped in. "Sean, this is fascinating, but I'm sure Julia might like to know more about you."

Sean didn't respond for a second, so Julia asked, "Where do you go to school, Sean?"

He answered in his usual loud monotone. "Excel High School. It's a magnet for public safety studies."

"It used to be South Boston High," my dad said. "I went there, and so did Dougal."

I winced. He'd said that name once in front of her, but I didn't think she'd noticed. "Dad," I said.

"Oh, for the love of G.o.d, Dougal, we gave you a good Irish name when you were a baby!"

"And that's why I changed it!"

The corner of Julia's mouth quirked up. "Dougal?" she asked.

"Isn't it a nice name?" Dad asked. "Reminds me of the open fields of Ireland."

I muttered, "The only open fields you've ever seen are the basketball courts."

"In my day, kids weren't so d.a.m.n disrespectful of their elders." Dad looked irritated, but only barely so.

"In your day Whitey Bulger was running Southie like his personal kingdom and burying bodies in backyards."

Dad just let out a grunt and took a sip of his coffee. "You don't know nothin' about Southie in those days," he said.

I shrugged and turned to Julia. "What he's not saying is that back then, things weren't exactly on the up and up. And Dad was-straight as an arrow. Which is why he's still driving a patrol car instead of sitting behind a desk somewhere."

Dad snorted. "Like I want to be behind a desk." But behind the snort, I could see the pride in his eyes. Dad and I don't get along, but don't ever mistake that for me not having respect for him. He's a hero-he's my hero. But I've never quite been able to live up to him, so, at some point, I just stopped trying and went my own way.

Julia's eyes were going back and forth between my dad and me, and I could tell the wheels were turning, but I couldn't tell what she was thinking. Maybe I'm just out of practice. I don't make it a habit of wondering what girls are thinking-most of the time that's the last thing I want to know.

"Dougal, you take care of the dishes," Dad said.

"I'll help," Julia chimed in.

"Oh, no! He's not getting out of it! You just sit and enjoy your coffee."

I took her plate, and she said, "Thank you, Dougal," with a wry expression on her face.

I gave Dad a sharp look. "You'll pay for that, Dad."

The old b.a.s.t.a.r.d just burst into a loud belly laugh.

So I started was.h.i.+ng the dishes, as my dad asked, "So you're at Harvard? What are you studying?"

"International business," she said.

d.a.m.n.

"And when do you graduate? Do you have plans after?" My dad wasn't exactly being subtle as he pumped her for information. I filled up the sink as they talked and began was.h.i.+ng suds over the dishes.

"Well," she said, "I've applied to graduate school ... at the Fletcher School, and Georgetown. I'm probably going to end up going into the Foreign Service. That's what my dad wants anyway."

"Must have been fascinating, growing up in a bunch of different countries," Dad said.

She didn't answer right away, and I couldn't see her expression. I found myself straining to hear her next words.

"I don't know about all that," she said. Her voice sounded sad. "It's not a normal life, moving to a new country every three years. Kind of lonely sometimes. You leave behind everyone you know and start over, new schools and new teachers. I don't know if I'll ever get married, but if I did ... not sure it's the right life for kids. What about you? You grew up here?"

I could understand that. Even though I lived in Roxbury now and spent most of my free time in Somerville mixed up in the music scene, I felt grounded when I was in Southie. I knew every block, every park. I knew the neighbors and where they came from, and in most cases, I knew their parents and grandparents.

My dad answered her question by launching into a story of growing up in Southie, trying to stay clear of the gangs. I knew this was going to take a while. The old man had a knack for story telling and tended to stretch the truth just a little to get some laughs.

I discreetly turned and watched Julia's reactions. She looked more relaxed than I'd ever seen her, curled up in her chair, elbow on the table, chin resting in her hand. She had a broad smile, which was remarkable, and her blue-green eyes were wide as my dad waved his hands around, trying to describe the antics of one of the gangs that had terrorized the neighborhood in the 1970s. At one point, she threw her head back in a full-throated laugh, her whole body shaking.

Watching her like that, I thought she just might be one of the most beautiful women I'd ever seen.

Not because of physical beauty, though she had plenty of that. It was in her bearing and in her eyes. This was no pill-popping, c.o.c.ktail drinking college girl who'd never experienced anything in her life. Somewhere along the line, she'd been through something. There was grief and loneliness behind those eyes. And strength like I don't think I'd ever seen before.

I didn't realize I was staring. But at one point, Dad paused in his story at the part where he was climbing in the back windows of South Boston High School, and looked at me. Then she looked at me and met my eyes, and I took a sharp breath. I realized I'd been standing there at least two or three minutes, a dripping dish in my hand, just watching her.

Stumbling over my words, I said, "Don't stop, Dad," and went back to was.h.i.+ng dishes like nothing had happened. I'm not the blus.h.i.+ng beauty type, but I could feel a little bit of heat on the back of my neck, probably from their eyes boring through me like laser beams.

This was getting way too cozy, so as I finished drying the last dish, I interrupted Dad's story to ask Julia, "So how do you want to work this thing about the car?"

Dad gave me a seriously annoyed look, as if to say, 'Where the h.e.l.l did you learn your manners.'

She shrugged. "Um ... go get an estimate and let me know how much it is? I can give you a ride back over there when I go."

I nodded. "All right."

"How bad's the damage?" my dad asked.

"Not bad," I said, "just dented," right at the same time she said, "I think it's probably totaled. Frame's bent."

Now she was a car expert, too? What I knew about cars you could fit in the change pocket in my wallet.

"That's bad," my dad said.

"We'll find out," I said.

"How much did you pay for the car?" Dad asked.

"A thousand."

One thousand dollars. Which, after studio and recording fees, and the rent, and eating, and public transportation, had taken six months of cooking for me to save. Morbid Obesity wasn't exactly making the charts, and right now we were very much in the red.

She grimaced. "It'll cost a lot more than that to fix it, if I'm right. Might be best to just buy you a new one."

"Yeah, well, I don't exactly have the money to buy a new car."

"I told you I'd take care of it. It's my fault."

"Maybe we should get going, then," I said.

She nodded, her face suddenly looking sad again. I didn't get it. Most of the time when I was here, I wanted nothing more than to run away. But here she was, suddenly making herself at home. Was her 'I don't get involved' all some kind of game, and she was one of those clingy girls who would be calling and texting me in the middle of the d.a.m.n night?

"You promised," Sean said, not even looking up from his book.

"So I did," she responded to him. "Let's go check out that piano."

She stood, and my eyes followed every inch of her as she did so, from the curve of her b.u.t.t, her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, to the slight hollow in the base of her neck. I'd had my share of beautiful girls. But Julia was something different.

So, somehow the three of us, my dad, brother and I, ended up following her into our living room as if we were the guests.

She approached the piano with extreme caution, her body turned just slightly away from it. "This is a beautiful piano," she said.

My dad said, "It's my wife's ... it belonged to her grandmother."

"Does she play often?"

"Not anymore," dad replied, sadness in his voice. G.o.d, that killed me. The way he acted-like it was his fault she'd left. I'd never understand that. But both of my parents were a mystery to me. How they fell in love, how they split up, and especially how they manage to stand each other now, given what happened.

She sat down and lifted the fallboard gently, then touched the keys, somehow reverently and expertly at the same time. She positioned her hands expertly. "I'm badly out of practice. I don't get many opportunities to play these days."