The Most Important Thing Page 9

  After a moment, she said, “You look like your father. Which is nice, you know. Girls go for good looks.”

  When Damon, feeling nothing but stupid, made no reply, she said, “I make a morning drink. If I don’t drink it, I get headaches.” She went into the kitchen.

  Damon watched her go and then sat back down on the couch. Why didn’t Dad tell me? Did Mom know? Should I leave? He looked over his shoulder toward the steps, hoping his father would come down. When he did not, he stared at his hands, noticing they were dirty.

  He heard Ami move around the kitchen, the water turning on and off, the fridge door opening, shutting. Chopping noises. The whir of the blender.

  The thought Why didn’t he tell me? kept repeating in his head. What am I going to do? Why didn’t he tell me? Why didn’t Mom tell me?

  Realizing Ami was coming back, he jumped up.

  She came into the room. She had a tall glass in her hands, the contents green.

  “Maybe we can we visit a little,” she said, and smiled and sat down opposite Damon, on the edge of the stuffed chair.

  Damon sat on the couch again and studied his hands, wishing he had washed them.

  She took a sip from her glass and then held it up. “A veggie smoothie,” she said, all the while gazing at Damon. Aware that she was studying him, Damon looked at the TV.

  The room was very still.

  Ami said, “I think I should get your dad.”

  Nervous about seeing his dad, he said, “No, really. I’m all right.”

  She held up her smoothie. “Sure I can’t make you one?”

  “Don’t like green stuff.”

  The silence returned. Ami said, “So, I’m guessing your father didn’t tell you we got married. About a month ago. Zipped out to Las Vegas. I wish he had told you. Wish he had told me about you, too. I like kids.

  “Anyway, like I said, my name is Ami, with an i. Ami Mogans, but I’ve taken your father’s name, Rudge, so you and I have the same last name.”

  Her words made Damon face her. She took another swallow of her drink. It left a slight green mustache over her upper lip. He watched as she carefully wiped it away with her fingertips.

  She said, “Hey, I guess I’m, you know, your stepmom.” She threw out her smile again. “I come down the steps, and there you are — my son. Well, stepson. I suspect you’re shocked. Hey, me too. How old are you?”

  “Twelve.”

  She nodded. “I should have known from that other bedroom. First one up along the hallway. That was your room, right?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  She said, “How stupid can I be? Like, really stupid. Do you ever feel stupid? I dislike the feeling. The worst, isn’t it? Like missing the last step. You can hurt yourself — and other people . . . doing that.” She sipped more smoothie. “How often do you come here?”

  “I have to be here one weekend a month.”

  “Have to?”

  “The . . . divorce settlement.”

  “Would you like to come more often?”

  Damon gave no answer. The silence returned.

  “Damon, I have to go to work. I’m a sales rep at the Toyota dealership on Bascome Avenue, over in Littlefield. That’s where I met your dad. He was looking for a car. Found me. Did he know you were coming over today?”

  Damon shrugged.

  “How long are you staying?”

  “Weekend.”

  “Great! Let’s have dinner together tonight. Okay? What’s your favorite food?”

  “Uh . . . steak and fries.”

  “You got it. Ice cream?”

  “Okay.”

  “Have a favorite?”

  “Coffee.”

  She finished the rest of her drink and said, “Really good stuff,” but kept her eyes on Damon. “Look,” she said, “I’m really sorry we’re meeting this way. Your father . . . well, you know, whatever. Not cool. Okay, I’m your stepmother. But, I’m not your mother. Understood. I know that. You know that. But, hey, we can be friends, can’t we? Want to give it a try?”

  “Suppose.”

  She smiled. “You ever give real answers?”

  Damon was about to shake his head, but checked himself and instead said, “Sometimes.”

  “What’s the best answer you ever gave?”

  “Don’t have it yet.”

  “You know what? That’s a smart answer. I thought your father was all the answer I ever needed, but I, well, guess there were some other questions I should have asked. And sometimes the most important questions are, you know, the ones you never think of asking. You follow me? And you are one of the big answers.”

  She stood up. “But I really have to go to work. Saturdays are big for car buying. I’ll tell your father you’re here. It must have just slipped his mind. Right?”

  Damon did not answer.

  She smiled. “‘Suppose’ works.”

  “Yeah, suppose.”

  “He can be really forgetful,” she said, and went into the kitchen.

  Damon watched her go. Next moment, she returned empty-handed and headed up the steps. “I’ll rustle up your dad.”

  As soon as she disappeared up the steps, Damon got up and went into the kitchen. He got a glass from one of the cabinets, filled it with tap water, and drank. Then he went back to the couch, and sat. He was unsteady.

  Damon heard the sound of someone clumping down the steps. Though he didn’t turn, he knew it was his father.

  “Damon! How are you, kid? Hey! Sorry, I forgot you were coming over.” He was in a red bathrobe, and in need of a shave. His thin blond hair was tousled.

  He stood over Damon. “But you met Ami, right? Isn’t she great? It’s all been such a whirlwind. Fast wedding and all. Las Vegas. Talk about gambling! Crazy, right?”

  Damon looked up. “When did you get married?”

  “Three weeks ago. Right after your last visit.” He spread his arms wide. “Hey, give me a hug. Aren’t you going to congratulate your old man?”

  Damon stood. His father hugged him. Damon didn’t lift his arms. His father held him at arm’s length by the shoulders. “How are you doing? Did you get married? Ha! How’s your mother? Still with that guy — what’s his name?”

  “Adam.”

  “Right! Oldest guy in the world.”

  “Did Mom know you got married?”

  “None of her business. So great to see you. And you got to meet Ami. Isn’t she great? But, I’ll be honest — I’m always honest with you, right?— in all of this craziness, I forgot you were coming over. And guess what — I’m showing two houses today, morning and afternoon. Hot prospects. Totally. If I sell them, we’ll celebrate tonight. Big time. You understand. You never know in this business. You good with hanging out all day? You have a cell phone, right? I’ll let you know as soon as I’m free. You see the new TV? HD.”

  Behind him, Ami came down the steps. She was now dressed in gray slacks and a newly ironed pink shirt with small flowers all over it, the cuffs neatly rolled back. There was a gold chain around her neck, and her face was made up. She was wearing high heels. A purse was in her hand.

  “Hey, honey,” Damon’s dad said. “We’ve worked it out. Damon will be here for dinner. You’re going to sell three cars. I’m going to sell two houses. Big celebration dinner tonight.”

  Ami said, “Nothing green. Steak. Fries. Coffee ice cream.”

  “That’s exactly what he loves. Isn’t she great?”

  Ami walked toward Damon and held out her hand again. “Lovely to meet you, Damon. We’ll have a great dinner. Get to know each other some more, okay?” She turned and hugged Damon’s father, careful not to smudge her makeup.

  Damon’s father walked her to the door. When he came back, he said, “Isn’t she terrific?”

  “Suppose.”

  “You’re not mad at me, are you? Of course not. I’m happy, right? And you’re happy because I’m happy, right? You good with hanging out until I get back? You can watch TV. I’ll give you some money
so you can go out, or something.” He looked at his watch. “Whoa! Gotta get going.”

  He raced up the steps.

  Damon sat back down on the couch. Feeling cold, he got up, and turned the switch on the fireplace. There was a pop. Flames spread among the ceramic logs. It occurred to him that the flames always looked the same. Not like a real fire. Yet there was real heat. Fake fire. Real heat. Or was it fake heat, real fire?

  Fifteen minutes later, his father hurried back down the steps. He was wearing a suit with a tie. He was shaved, his hair combed back. His shoes were shiny.

  He pulled out his wallet and offered Damon a ten-dollar bill. “You good?”

  Damon, refusing the money, shook his head.

  His dad said, “You sure?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Okay, wish me luck. Never a bad thing, luck. See you at dinner. Oh, if you go out, turn off the fire, okay? Oh, another thing. You’re going to have a baby brother or sister. Isn’t that fantastic?” He hurried out by the back door. Damon heard the garage door rattle up, then down.

  Damon sat on the couch, trying to make sense of it all. It was as if he had lost something but wasn’t sure what it was, where he had lost it, or how to look for it.

  After ten minutes, he got up, turned off the fire, and went into the kitchen. Abruptly he picked up the glass and flung it into the sink, shattering it. Then he gathered up the broken bits of glass and put them in the basket under the sink. Only after he had done all that did he realize he had cut his finger. Blood was oozing. He licked it off.

  Using the pencil on the string, he wrote Went home on the pad, careful not to get any blood on it. Then he picked up his bags and left, pausing only to make sure the door was securely locked behind him.

  I was twelve years old. We were a family of four: Mom; my older sister (by three years), Mary; Dad; and me. We lived in Boston. We all got along fine, but the way it worked, Mary was closest to Mom, me closest to Dad. Guess that’s why it was just Dad and me who went on camping weekends, maybe three, four times a year. Mom and Mary didn’t like grubbiness. We did.

  After leaving Boston, we’d drive west a couple of hours on the turnpike, get off, zip by a couple of old Berkshire towns, and head down a narrow, bumpy dirt road, which cut through a forest for only a quarter of a mile. At the end was a little log cabin, a lake, and an aluminum canoe. No one else was ever there, though I guess the place was rented by other people, too.

  Dad and I would swim, fish, canoe, the whole buddy bit. Come twilight we’d grill burgers or steak, scorching everything, but always great eats. Then we’d sit at the end of the rickety lake dock and talk till words faded.

  The last time we were there, we had one of those perfect August nights: balmy air pine-ripe and sharp sweet, with a lonely loon sounding sad somewhere on the ink-black lake, the moon a slip of silver against a spread of stars that were all about forever. It was fantastic.

  Dad, who had been silent, said, “I think this is my favorite spot on earth. I can’t think of any other place I’d rather be.”

  “In the lake?”

  He laughed. “Sure.”

  “I’d join you for the swim,” I said.

  It was a Friday in October and as I walked from school, I couldn’t wait to get home. Dad and I were heading out to the lake for our last camping trip of the year. Snow came early out there, and he always said he didn’t want to be caught. He was careful that way, a planner, wanting no loose ends, liking things wrapped up and done right.

  Anyway, when I got to our apartment building, I noticed a police car parked out front, but if you live in a large city, police cars are as common as cement.

  Two police officers were sitting in the car. One of them had a clipboard in her hands. She was writing something, clutching the ballpoint pen tightly. The other officer, a white-haired guy, was behind the wheel, peaked cap pushed back, staring bleakly out the windshield. I remember thinking, I’m glad I’m not seeing what that guy’s seeing.

  I passed through our bright apartment lobby and took the elevator to the twelfth floor. Hoping that Dad was home so we could get going, I hustled down the narrow, dim hallway toward our place, 12-G.

  I was three-quarters of the way there when I saw a glimmering at the far end of the hall, the dark end. Not sure what I was seeing, I halted and stared. The glow was roughly rectangular in shape, upright, and fuzzy, nothing distinct. Even as I peered, it went away, not like some small drifting cloud but like a thing, which melted away to nothing.

  Shrugging it off as some quirk of the hall light, or maybe my eyes, I got to our apartment door. As I reached for my key, I realized that the door was already open. That was unusual. I pushed the door in enough to see people standing in our short hallway, their backs toward me.

  I stepped forward, only to see Mrs. Oates, my mother’s friend from down the hall. She was a large, pink-faced, middle-aged lady, who always wore big flowered dresses and loved to laugh. The moment she saw me, her face turned pale.

  “Luke!” she gasped.

  The other people — mostly neighbors — peered around. Their faces were slack, heavy, eyes wet and stuffed with sad.

  “What’s going on?” I said, thinking right away about the cops on the street.

  The people didn’t reply but stood there awkwardly, as if not knowing what to say. Then, as if someone told them what to do, they all edged closer to the walls, leaving a narrow passage for me.

  Still standing by the door, I said, “What is it?”

  No one spoke.

  I dumped my backpack and passed through them. As I did, one, maybe two, patted my back. As if saying good-bye.

  I stepped into the living room. There were more people standing around, not talking much, or if talking, whispering. Then the same thing happened as before: people saw me, and backed away as if I had some disease.

  Then I saw two adult cousins — from my father’s side — and Uncle Carl, who was married to my mother’s sister Joyce. They looked at me with wide eyes.

  “What’s the matter?” I cried.

  Uncle Carl came forward. A big guy, he draped a heavy arm around my shoulder. Without saying anything, he began to guide me toward my parents’ bedroom.

  “Just tell me!” I said, resisting his push.

  “Your mother will,” he said, his voice heavy and low.

  “Tell me what?” I demanded, trying to free myself.

  Not answering, Uncle Carl gripped me tighter and kept steering me into the bedroom. When I stepped in, I saw my mother sitting on the edge of the double bed, a large, floppy white handkerchief in her hand, which she kept pressing against her face. Aunt Joyce, her sister, was sitting on one side. My sister, Mary, was on the other side.

  Mom’s face glistened with tears, which she kept trying to blot away. Mary was crying, too. Aunt Joyce looked equally miserable. They had their arms around each other in a way that made it impossible to see who was holding whom — like one of those multi-armed, multi-headed goddess sculptures you see in museums.

  Mom looked up and saw me. “Oh, my God! Luke!” She stretched out a shaking arm, fingers fluttering like moth wings. When I stepped forward, she clutched my hand and blurted out, “Your father was killed!” then jerked me close so clumsily I almost fell.

  Uncle Carl threw out the explanation: My father had been hurrying home before rush hour so he and I could get going on our trip. A collision at an intersection. The other driver — heavy truck, at fault — had gone through a red light. My father’s small car struck broadside. Completely rolled. No seat belt. The police officer said he died instantly.

  Uncle Carl said it just like that, as if going through a checklist. Mom’s words, his words, flooded my head, leaving me stunned and so muddled I couldn’t fully grasp what they said. Next second, pain scorched through me. I’m not sure why I said what I did, but what came out of my mouth was “Where is he?”

  Mom didn’t answer, just clutched me tighter.

  Uncle Carl, big hand on the back of
my neck, gave me a squeeze and said, “In a funeral home.”

  I pulled away. “Can — can I see him?”

  Mom said, “No,” with a violent shake of her head.

  “Why?”

  Behind me, Uncle Carl said, “Luke . . . it’s — it’s too awful.”

  Mom grabbed my hand again and kissed it all over. I think I heard her say, “I’m not even going to look at him.”

  “I did,” mumbled Uncle Carl. I turned toward him. Seeing his lips pressed together, suggesting something ghastly, pain went through me again, this time like a chain saw.

  Mom said, “We need to . . . remember him as he was.”

  “But —” I began, appealing again to Uncle Carl.

  He made a slight shaking motion with his head, as if to say, “No more.”

  That made me realize how stupid I was talking. I shut my mouth and stepped back toward Mom. She hugged Mary and me simultaneously, holding our faces against her sobbing body. “We loved him so much.”

  The best I could do was nod dumbly.

  I’m not sure how long I remained in that family hug, but at some point I pulled away, whispered something idiotic like, “I’m going to my room,” and went to sit on my bed, pushing my hands into my eyes as if to hide from what I couldn’t see.

  That was when I started to cry. Seems odd to say, but I think I was crying not because my father had been killed, but because they were telling me something I refused to believe. Dad dead? Impossible. He could not be gone.

  Three hours later, I was still sitting on my bed trying to grasp the idea that I would never see Dad again — ever. I kept thinking how, that morning, as we had rushed around getting ready for our day, everything had been completely ordinary. “Going!” I had called out, and from somewhere Dad replied, “Luke! I’ll be home early! I really want to get to the lake.”

  How could things have been so ordinary?

  I’ll be home early, I kept hearing. Each time I did, there was the counter thought: He never got here.

  I glanced at the pile of camping stuff I had piled against the wall: Hiking boots. Knapsack. Sleeping bag. Jacket. Emergency first-aid kit. Our portable gas cooker. All the things he and I always used.