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I open the conversation with food—teenagers are big on food.
“Are you hungry?”
“No.”
“I was going to make my spaghetti sauce for dinner.”
His eyes don’t move from the pages of The Crucible.
“I’ll make myself a sandwich.”
I try the easy charm that’s never let me down before.
“Come on, dude—you have to try my spaghetti sauce. It’ll change your life.”
Jason stands and pushes his stool in under the counter.
“No thanks. I’m good.”
When he goes to leave the room, I call his name, putting a little more force behind it.
“Jason—wait up.”
He stops and turns around, and even though his eyes are on my face, it’s like I’m a ghost—like he’s looking through me.
“Listen, Jay, I wanted to—”
“You need to be here,” he cuts me off. “For Mom. She needs you here—I understand that. And the baby is half yours.” He motions from his chest to mine. “But you and me? We’re not friends.”
Ouch.
I saw a Viking show on the history channel once. A guy got sliced open across the middle, his guts spilling out. That’s how Jason’s words feel to me.
Eviscerating.
And I can’t even argue my case. Because he’s a teenager and he’s pissed off, and he’s been burned before, and even worse—he’s watched his mom get burned. So even if I make him sit down and listen, he’s not going to hear me.
The only thing that’s going to convince Jay that I’m the man he used to think I was . . . is time. The proof is in the pudding—shit like that. Nothing else is going to move this stubborn needle. So, I let it go for now.
Because time will tell—and I’m going to make sure my time tells it loud and clear.
~ ~ ~
Lainey
Two days later, when Dean goes back to work and Jason goes back to school, my parents come down early in the morning to be with me and help out where they can with the house projects. My dad is uncomfortable being recorded, but he knows it’s part of my job, so he doesn’t complain while he sands an old dresser that will go in the master bedroom, with the eye of my computer camera watching his every move. My mom hangs curtains in the dining room while I’m laid out on the couch, painting a tall ceramic vase that will be the table’s centerpiece.
There’s a knock at the front door, and I hear my mom’s footsteps move to the window to see who it is.
“Lainey—there’s a bus outside.”
I clean my paintbrush in the cup of water and set it on the tray across my lap.
“A bus? What kind of bus?”
“From the looks of the crowd getting off it—it’s some type of senior citizen class trip.”
The knock comes at the door again, and my mother answers it.
A chorus of bustling voices reverberates from the foyer, and then Grams comes into the living room, with her squad behind her.
“Hi, Grams.”
She shuffles over and pets my head. “Hello, honey. How are you and the little bumpkin?”
“We’re okay. What . . .” The energetic group of seniors behind her ooh and aww as they take in what I’ve done with the house. “What are you all doing here?”
“I’ve called up the Gray Army.”
“The Gray Army?”
I wonder what movie they showed at the senior center this week.
“We’re here to help you finish decorating the house, for your show—Dean told me all about it. The bus will bring us here twice a week. Florence Reynolds over there was a seamstress for Broadway musicals. And old Dirk Despacio used to be a plumber.”
A hunched bald man scoots up beside Grams. “I was a handyman in my day. You just tell me what needs fixin’, and I’ll get her done.”
A smiling wrinkly-faced little woman moves forward next. “When I was a girl, I built planes in the factory during World War II.”
Another man, this one with thick gray hair rubs his hands together. “I was a roofer—where’s your ladder?”
Grams grins. “We’re old, but we’re not dead yet.”
She gestures to an adorable gentleman in a tool belt and flannel shirt. “This is my boyfriend, the Widower Anderson.”
The widower pulls the trigger on the drill in his hand. “I brought my power tools—drill, baby, drill.”
~ ~ ~
Grams and the Gray Army aren’t the only surprise visitors I get. After the senior bus leaves around 1pm—to take them to the early bird dinner special at Dinky’s Diner—Debbie Christianson, Dean’s old friend, stops by with her little girl.
Debbie is sweet and friendly and about my age. She does a great job of recording a video of her and my mom hanging a chandelier and helping my dad finish the dresser project. On her way out, she tells me she’ll come by again on Monday for a few hours.
A little while after that, Angela Daniels, Garrett’s sister-in-law who I met at the Christmas Bazaar comes over—with a huge tray of lasagna and spaghetti sauce and chicken cacciatore that she puts in the freezer for us to eat next week.
