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I answer.
“Preston.” The standard-issue boom – pitched at a volume that suggests he believes all cell phones are tin cans connected by string. Salsa music in the background. Possibly a parrot. “Are you busy?”
“I’m at the hospital.”
“Marvellous! Fixing the broken brains! Tremendous work, son. Listen – Miguel and I have just flown in from Papagayo. Captain Beaky came with us. He’s learned a new word. It’s obscene, Preston. I’ve never been prouder.”
“Dad–”
“I have something for you. A surprise. A magnificent surprise. The kind of surprise that changes the trajectory of a life. I need you and Luke available Saturday. 10:00. I’ll send a car. The big one – the one with the champagne fridge. This occasion demands refrigerated champagne.”
Alistair York’s surprises occupy a spectrum that starts at “commissioned portrait of Captain Beaky in oils” and ends at “I’ve purchased a small country and named it after Miguel.” There is no middle ground. Freedom has not mellowed my father. Freedom has removed the last restraining bolt.
“What kind of surprise?”
“The spectacular kind! The kind that makes a man weep with joy! I wept, Preston. Twice. Miguel wept. Captain Beaky–”
A commotion in the background. Miguel’s voice, bright and carrying: “Papi! Tell him about the bathtub! Tell him it fits four people! I measured!”
“Miguel, I am building suspense!” Alistair hisses, barely muffled. Then, back to me: “Ignore that. There is no bathtub. There is certainly not a bathtub that fits four. Saturday. 10:00. Both of you. Wear comfortable shoes.”
“Why would I need comfortable shoes?”
“Because there are stairs, Preston! Many stairs! Beautiful stairs! I don’t want to spoil it. Miguel says I’m spoiling it. Miguel, am I spoiling it? – He says I’m spoiling it. Saturday. Be ready. Tell your husband to wear something nice. Tell him I said hola.”
He hangs up. Just before the call cuts, a parrot shrieks something that is definitely not appropriate for a phone call.
Comfortable shoes. Beautiful stairs. A bathtub that fits four.
When my father tells you to wear comfortable shoes, it means he’s about to walk you into something you can’t walk back out of. And when he mentions a champagne fridge, the scale of the thing is roughly proportional to the volume of Moët he thinks it requires.
I text Luke.
Your mother cornered me at the nurses’ station.
Three dots. Then:
What did she want?
Grandchildren. A timeline. A fiscal quarter, specifically. Also she’s already knitting blankets, Luke. TWO blankets. Green and yellow. She said she’s progressive.
A pause. Longer than Luke usually takes.
We should probably talk about that.
Six words. In Luke’s language, that’s practically a TED talk. He’s been thinking about this for longer than he’s been speaking about it – that’s how Luke works. He holds things in his chest, runs the differential in silence, and then says six words and expects the full diagnosis to be implied.
I understand the diagnosis. That’s the terrifying part.
Yeah. We should.
Then, because I am still myself and the performance is the reason for my existence:
Also she says my palate needs work. I thought the chicken was pernil. Apparently I’m a culinary disgrace.
It was obviously chicken, Preston.
HOW. It tasted EXACTLY like pernil.
