The Most Important Thing Page 8

  The audience offered polite, embarrassed applause.

  Mrs. Pelescue came to the front. Her hand rested on Gramps’s shoulder. “Thank you, Mr. Amalfi. That’s our final performance. I do appreciate all of you for coming. I think it’s been a splendid afternoon of music. And again, I congratulate all of our young musicians. And you too, Mr. Amalfi,” she added with a nervous laugh. “Now, there are refreshments in the kitchen.”

  Students and audience moved away. Gramps remained in his performance chair. Marco stayed in his chair, too. Alone in the room, the two looked at each other.

  “I stank, right?” Gramps asked Marco.

  Marco nodded.

  Gramps said, “Anytime you want drumming lessons, let me know.”

  Marco was silent for a moment and then said, “I think I’ll stay with the recorder. I like it.”

  How come I get to spend only one weekend a month with Dad?” demanded Damon. He was sitting on the couch watching an action movie on the small TV.

  His mother was standing in the doorway of the TV room. “We’ve discussed this before, many times,” she said.

  “How about an answer?” said Damon, his eyes on the TV, not on her.

  His mother gave a small sigh before saying, “I try very hard not to be critical of your father. I don’t think it’s helpful.”

  “You can say what you want,” said Damon.

  “The divorce settlement was worked out by both your father and me.”

  “Why just one weekend?”

  “That’s all I could get him to agree to.”

  Damon, eyes still on the screen, was silent for a moment before he said, “I don’t believe you.”

  “Ask him.”

  “I know some kids who spend half a week with their moms, half with their dads.”

  “I’m sure that’s true. But that’s not the way your father wanted things.”

  “Why wasn’t I consulted?”

  “You are still a minor, but you are welcome to talk with him about it.”

  “If he says I can, will you change things?”

  “I’m open to whatever is good for you. And once you are sixteen, you can work out your own living arrangement.”

  “That’s four more years.”

  “You get an A for arithmetic. It would be nice if you did as well in school.”

  Damon said nothing.

  His mother said, “I’ll drop you off tomorrow morning. I’ll pick you up on Sunday at six o’clock.”

  Damon finally looked at her. “I’ve decided to live with him — in my real home — full-time. Be with you one weekend a month. See how you like it.”

  She waited a moment before saying, “I guess that’s an option.”

  “He’ll agree.”

  “Damon, this is your home.”

  “I hate living with you . . . and Adam.”

  “So you’ve told me many times.”

  “Why did he have to move in?”

  “He’s my boyfriend. We love each other. He and I wanted to live together.”

  “You’re too old to have a boyfriend. ‘Who’s that?’ my friends ask. ‘My mom’s boyfriend.’ It’s embarrassing.”

  “Do you want me to call your father and remind him you’re coming?”

  “Why would you think he’d forget?”

  “When was the last time you talked to him?”

  “None of your business. What are you doing this weekend?”

  “Adam and I are going to paint the kitchen cabinets. If you like, we can wait until next weekend, so you can help with the painting.”

  “I’ll be at Dad’s house. It’s my home!” Damon shouted. “It’s where I should be. Don’t pick me up on Sunday. I’m not coming back!” Using the remote to flick off the movie, he fell back on the couch, clasped his hands over his stomach, and closed his eyes.

  His mother waited a few moments and then retreated.

  Saturday morning, at eight thirty-two, Damon’s mother drove her car up to the curb in front of her former husband’s house. Damon, sitting next to her, had his gym bag on his lap. He had stuffed in as many clothes as he could. His backpack, filled with his schoolbooks, was on the floor between his feet.

  He looked at his watch and said, “You’re two minutes late.”

  “Sorry.”

  Damon studied the car in front of them, a shiny new Toyota Land Cruiser. “You should get a car like that,” he said.

  “I can’t afford it.”

  Damon looked at his father’s house. He had lived in it from the time he was born until a year and a half ago, when his parents divorced.

  It was a two-story brick structure, with a deep front porch. The gray-shingled roof came down over the porch like a peaked cap pulled low. The front door was painted a dark blue. A large spruce tree was planted to one side of the small lawn. A couple of dandelions had popped up, their yellow petals already beginning to wilt.

  The style of house was called bungalow for reasons Damon did not know. His father, who sold houses, told him the word, but didn’t know where the name came from, either.

  At least the house stays the same, Damon told himself. The thought made him feel good. His dad had also told him that when he died, the house would go to Damon.

  A thought popped into Damon’s head: What if Dad suddenly died — now? Would I get the house right away? Could I live here alone? Or at sixteen? Don’t be stupid, he told himself.

  There were similar-looking houses up and down the block, all of which had been built years ago. Damon liked it that neither the street nor houses seemed to change.

  His mother said, “You okay?”

  “I mean it,” he said. “I’m staying with Dad.”

  “I suggest you talk it over with him first. Then, if that’s what you work out, have him call me.”

  “You don’t believe me, do you?”

  “If you need me, Adam and I will be home all weekend. Do you have your cell phone?”

  “I don’t need you. And Adam is your boyfriend, not mine.”

  His mother reached out and touched Damon’s hand. He jerked it away. She said, “Say hello to your father. Love you.”

  Damon put his hand on the door latch but didn’t pull the handle. I’m doing it, he told himself. Even then, he sat for another moment before saying, “I’ll be home for a weekend in a month.”

  When his mother said nothing, Damon shoved the car door open. Gym bag clutched in one hand, backpack in the other, he swiveled out of the car and staggered to his feet. Then he kicked the car door shut behind him and headed up the cement slab walkway toward the house. He made sure he didn’t look back.

  One slab had a crack across it. The crack had been there for as long as Damon could remember. From spring on, a few blades of grass — and sometimes a dandelion — grew in the crack. Damon remembered something from when he was very young: “Step on the crack; break the Devil’s back.” Careful not to squash the dandelion, he stepped on the crack.

  He glanced back toward his mother. Her car had not moved. She was watching him. “Go!” he shouted with a surge of anger.

  His mother put the car into noisy gear and drove off.

  Damon watched the car move down the street. I’m doing it, he told himself again. Feeling excitement, he turned toward the house.

  Three concrete steps, painted brown, led up to the porch. Damon noted the chipped brick near the doorway. When he was three, he had taken a hammer to the brick; it was another reminder that the house never changed.

  He did notice that the lawn in front of the house was cut neatly. Usually, when he came over, his dad asked him to cut the lawn. Maybe his dad had forgotten he was coming over.

  Don’t be stupid, he told himself a second time.

  He went on the porch. At the far end was a swinging couch with canvas pillows. On the ground before the couch sat a wineglass with a residue of red at the bottom. Damon noted it. Knowing his dad wasn’t a wine drinker, he wondered who had visited.

  To the right of th
e door was a three-foot-tall clay pot. For years, it had been filled with nothing but dirt, but now blue flowers were growing in it. On the other side of the door was a two-foot-high concrete statue of a Disney character, Sleepy, from Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs. Sleepy’s hands were cupped — bowl-like — before him. Usually, those hands were empty. Now, they held tiny pink flowers. It was not like his dad to put flowers anywhere.

  Puzzled about these changes, Damon set his gym bag down and turned the door handle. The door was locked. Knowing his father never locked the door when he was home, Damon tried the door again. It still wouldn’t budge.

  He stepped back and tried to think what to do. He didn’t have a key. His father had told him that when he turned thirteen, he would get one. That would be in two months. Damon had thought a lot about that. Once he had the key, he’d be able to sneak away from his mother’s house and come here. He intended to. Then he recalled his decision to stay with his dad.

  But why was the door locked?

  Damon put his hand to the doorbell button and pushed. He heard its chime and waited. No one came.

  Has he gone somewhere? Maybe he did die. The thought tumbled his stomach. Stop thinking stupid stuff, he told himself.

  Increasingly uneasy, constantly checking his watch, Damon waited five minutes. When no one came to the door, he walked off the porch and, lugging his bags, went along the side of the house. There was a narrow concrete walkway next to the high wooden fence that marked the property line between the house and the neighbor’s house.

  As he walked, he saw a new, large garbage can. And the red lawn hose, which was usually in a tangle, was coiled neatly. The backyard grass had also been cut.

  In the right corner of the small yard was a garage, where his father kept his car. Against it was a slab of concrete in which an aluminum pole had been embedded; the pole held a basketball hoop and backboard. Most often, a red, white, and blue basketball sat there, as if waiting for Damon to shoot baskets or play one-on-one with his dad.

  The ball was gone. There also was what looked like a cooking grill, fueled by a Blue Rhino propane tank. That, too, was new.

  Damon panicked. Maybe Dad doesn’t live here anymore.

  For a moment, Damon thought of looking in the garage to see if his father’s car, a Ford, was there. Since he was closer to the back door, he quickly tried it. To his relief, it was not locked.

  Yanking the door open, he stepped into a small mudroom and instantly recognized the distinct, reassuring smell of home. But the next moment, he detected something else, something in the mix that he couldn’t identify.

  On the floor of the room was a pair of boots. His dad’s. Wall hooks held two coats and a couple of peaked caps. Damon recognized one of his dad’s coats. The other coat — a blue one — he had never seen before.

  Bags in hand, Damon used his shoulder to push open the inner door.

  He stepped into the kitchen. The walls were white. There were cabinets on one side for dishes and packaged food. On the other side of the room were a sink and a fridge. At first glance, it all seemed the same. Then Damon realized that on the small counter was a large blender, which he had never seen before. A pad of paper had been stuck on the fridge door with a suction cup. That, too, was new. The pad had a boldly printed heading: GET OR DO! Although a pencil on a string dangled down, nothing was written on the pad.

  In the center of the room was a much bigger counter, with high bar stools set against it. On the counter was an open bag of chips marked Gluten Free, and a large jar of salsa labeled Organic.

  Damon set both of his bags down and opened the fridge door. There were plastic boxes labeled kale, spinach, and wheatgrass. A carton of almond milk, a jar of olives, box of eggs, and a package of bacon. Another box of small tomatoes.

  Knowing his dad didn’t eat tomatoes or any of that other stuff, except the eggs and bacon, Damon was sure now that someone else was in the house. Who?

  Nervous, he stood still and listened. Not hearing anything, he called, “Dad!” When there was no reply, his tension increased.

  Who is living here?

  He shut the fridge door and put his hand in his pocket, felt for his cell phone, and thought of calling his mom. Instead, looking for clues, he walked into the dining room, with its wooden table and four chairs.

  The table was set with two grass place mats. On a sideboard stood a red vase. It was filled with flowers, new red tulips. Off to one side of the room was a small bathroom, its door open. No one was there.

  On the wall were a couple of framed pictures, two matching pictures of flowers, as well as a photograph of a dog with large, sad eyes. Damon had never seen these pictures before. Moreover, he didn’t think they were the kind of pictures his father would like, no more than he would read Automotive News, which lay on the low coffee table. Opposite the couch was a large, flat-screen TV. Not only was it new, it was much bigger than the one at his mom’s house.

  On the right wall was a gas-fired fireplace with ceramic logs. On the mantle over the fireplace was a fairly large glass elephant, trunk raised triumphantly. New.

  Something big has happened, he thought. His dad had moved away, never told him, and someone else was living here. The thoughts made him feel bewildered.

  To the left were steps that went up to the bedrooms. Heart pounding, Damon stood at the bottom, put his hand on the banister, and started up. His eyes were focused on the top of the steps, hoping his dad would appear. He climbed slowly, listening intently. He heard nothing.

  Where is he?

  When he reached the top of the steps, he paused. All was quiet.

  A dark red carpet lay along the narrow hallway. At the far end of the hall was a bathroom, its door open. Along the way were three rooms, doors closed. Damon’s old room was the nearest. The middle room was the laundry. The far room was where his dad slept.

  Damon opened the door to his old room. It was different. His bed was still there, but the bedspread with the names and logos of all the National Football League teams was gone. Though the small dresser and the small bookshelf remained, his stack of old picture and comic books, as well as two volumes of the Percy Jackson series, were gone. On the wall was a photograph of a galloping herd of horses. New.

  Damon was now convinced that his father was gone. Where? Why? Who’s living here?

  A knot of dread in his belly, Damon walked softly down the hall until he reached his father’s room. After a momentary hesitation, he used his fingertips to nudge the door open three inches. Eye to the crack, he could see the double bed. To his great relief, he saw his dad sleeping there. But next to him was someone else, a woman with blond hair.

  As if punched, Damon started back and drew the door shut with a click. Moving fast, he hurried down the steps and sat on the couch.

  Embarrassed, confused, and angry, he fumbled with his phone. Should I call Mom? Should I leave and come back later? Did Dad forget I was coming over? Who is she? His girlfriend?

  Unable to decide what to do, Damon remained sitting on the couch, picking the edge of a fingernail. Who is that woman?

  As he sat there, an alarm clock buzzed above. It stopped quickly. Within moments, he heard a toilet flushing.

  Damon waited, increasingly tense. Someone was coming down the steps. He tried to keep from looking, but unable to restrain himself, he turned toward the steps. It was the woman. He bolted up and stared at her.

  Her face was pale, and without makeup, almost blank. She appeared to be younger than his mother, and much thinner. Long blond hair was pulled back in a ponytail. She was wearing baggy blue pajama bottoms and a collared denim shirt that was too big. Her feet were bare, with toenails that had been painted gray. Her fingernails were painted gray, too.

  She was halfway down the steps when she saw Damon. Startled, she halted, and put her hand on the banister to steady herself.

  Not knowing what to say, Damon stood and gawked at her.

  She said, “Who are you?” There was alarm in her voice.<
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  “Damon.”

  The woman, looking at him, remained unmoving. Damon saw her make a slight movement back up the steps, but then she turned back. “What are you doing here?”

  “I live here.”

  “Ahh . . . I think you need to explain that.”

  “Douglas Rudge is my dad.”

  She gazed at him, mouth open. “Doug didn’t tell me he had a son.”

  “I — I live mostly with my mom.”

  “Where?”

  Damon made a vague gesture. “Two miles.”

  “Why are you here . . . now?”

  “I’m supposed to come. Once a month.”

  “Oh.”

  Upset, but not wanting the woman to know, Damon turned away.

  She said, “Tell me your name again.”

  “Damon,” he said without looking at her.

  She said, “Well, my name is Ami. With an i. I’m your dad’s wife.”

  Damon spun around. He had seen the woman perfectly well before. Now she seemed completely different.

  She said, “I’m . . . sort of guessing he didn’t tell you. That right?”

  Damon managed to nod.

  “That wasn’t very nice,” she said. She turned. “I’ll go get him.”

  “No!” cried Damon with a shake of his head. He was too confused and embarrassed to know what to say or do.

  Ami looked at him for a moment, then came down to the foot of the steps. “I have to go to work,” she said. “Want some breakfast?”

  Damon shook his head.

  She moved toward the kitchen, only to halt and, as if making a decision, turn toward Damon and smile.

  Damon didn’t believe the smile.

  She said, “I’m really glad to meet you. It’s . . . Damon? Right? I want to get it right. I guess it’s sort of weird to meet you this way. Isn’t it?” She held out her hand.

  “Sort of,” said Damon. He put out his hand only to realize he could not reach her. It was Ami who moved toward him. They shook hands, limply. Though Damon avoided looking directly at her, he was aware that she was staring at him.