Nick Hornby - Juliet, Naked

“We don’t want to forget all about it.”

“You’re speaking for who, here? Everyone? The majority? The senior members? ’Cause I don’t think Jackson gives too much of a shit one way or the other.”

“Oh, Jackson. Jackson thinks what you tell him to think.”

“That often happens with six-year-olds. Maybe the withering contempt is inappropriate.”

“I’m sure I am speaking for the majority when I say that I wish we’d all had the protection that Jackson has been offered.”

“Oh, right. Because you’ve all had such fucking miserable lives, haven’t you?”

If this conversation were a prophet, it would be one of those scary Old Testament guys, rather than gentle Jesus, meek and mild. Mildness was clearly an elusive quality; you couldn’t just turn it on and off when you felt like it. But then, that was the trouble with relationships generally. They had their own temperature, and there was no thermostat.

“And that gets you off the hook?”

“I’d say that on the whole it does, yes. If I’d left you all in the shit then I’d feel worse than I do.”

“It was nothing to do with you, us surviving.”

“Not strictly true.”

“Oh, is that right?”

He knew it was, but he didn’t know how to explain it without causing more trouble. His paternal talent, before Jackson anyway, came down to this: he only impregnated charismatic and beautiful women. And after he had made a mess of them, they were pursued by successful men. They were pursued by unsuccessful men, too, of course, but by then they were all done with fuckups of any kind, so they sought out decent, solvent partners who could offer stability and material comfort. It was all pretty basic Darwin, really, although he wondered what Darwin would have to say about the coupling with Tucker that resulted in the women becoming mothers in the first place. There wasn’t much evidence of an instinct for survival there.

So that was it, his aftercare service; it was better than a trust fund, if you thought about it. Trust funds ruined kids; fond, well-heeled, but clear-eyed stepfathers didn’t. It wouldn’t work for everyone, he could see that, but it had worked for him. There was even a little blowback, too, seeing as how Lizzie’s stepfather was footing his hospital bill. He wouldn’t go so far as to say the guy—and he’d forgotten his name again— owed him. But it was quite the charming family he’d inherited, so long as he was prepared to overlook the charmlessness.

“Probably not.” It was too sophisticated an idea to explain from a prone position.

Lizzie took a deep breath.

“I was thinking,” she said. “This was the only way it was ever going to happen, wasn’t it?”

She was trying to sound like a boy again. He wished she’d just choose a voice and stick to it.

“What?”

“Your life gathering around you. You’ve always been so good at hiding from it. And running from it. And now you’re stuck in bed, and it’s heading toward you.”

“And you think that’s what a sick man needs?”

He could try, couldn’t he? It wasn’t as if a heart attack were a pretend illness. Even a mild coronary was serious, relatively speaking. He was entitled to a little R&R.

“It’s what a grieving woman needs. I’ve lost a child, Tucker.”

Her voice had changed key for the third or fourth time. He was glad he didn’t have to provide guitar accompaniment; he’d be retuning every couple of minutes.

“So like I said, it’s not really for my benefit.”

“Exactly. It’s for ours. But who knows? It might do you some good.”

Maybe she was right. Kill or cure. If Tucker had any money, he knew which of those outcomes he would bet on.

When Lizzie had gone, he picked up the books Annie had left him and read the blurbs on the covers. They looked pretty good. She was the only person he knew in this whole country, maybe in any country, who could have done that for him, and he suddenly felt the lack—both of her and of the sort of friends who might have provided the service. Annie was much prettier than he’d imagined her to be, although she was the sort of woman who’d be amazed to hear that she could hold her own against somebody like Natalie, who knew, still, the effect she had on men. And, of course, because she didn’t know she was pretty, she worked hard to be attractive in other ways. As far as Tucker was concerned, it was work that paid off. He really could imagine resting up in some bleak but beautiful seaside town, taking walks along the cliffs with Jackson and a dog they’d maybe have to rent for the occasion. What was that English period movie where Meryl Streep stared out to sea a lot? Maybe Gooleness would be like that.

Jackson came back from a visit to the toy store with Natalie holding an oversized plastic bag.

“You look like you did well,” said Tucker.

“Yeah.”

“What did you choose?”

“A kite and a soccer ball.”

“Oh. Okay. I thought you were going to buy something that made it less boring for you in here.”

“Natalie said she’d take me outside to play with them. Maybe before we go to the zoo this afternoon.”

“Natalie’s taking you to the zoo?”

“Well, who else is there to go with?”

“Are you angry with me, Jack?”

“No.”

They hadn’t really had any kind of conversation since the unfortunate medical event. Tucker hadn’t known what to say, or how to say it, or even whether it was worth saying.

“So why don’t you want to talk to me?”

“I don’t know.”

“I’m sorry about what happened,” said Tucker.

“This soccer ball is what the pros use. In England, and other countries.”

“Cool. You can teach me some tricks when we’re out of here.”

“Will you be able to play soccer?”

“Even better than I could before.”

Jackson bounced the ball on the floor.

“Maybe not in here, Jack. Somebody somewhere will be trying to get some rest.”

Bounce.

“You are mad at me.”

“I’m just bouncing a ball.”

“I understand. I promised you I wouldn’t get sick.”

“You promised me you couldn’t die if you were well the day before.”

“Do I look dead to you?”

Bounce.

“Because I’m not. And the truth is, I didn’t feel well the day before.”

Bounce.

“Okay, Jack. Give me the ball.”

“No.”

Bounce, bounce, bounce.

“Okay, I’m coming to get it.”

Tucker made a show of pulling the sheets back from the bed.

Jackson let out a wail, threw the ball over to his father and collapsed onto the floor with his hands over his ears.

“Come on, Jack,” said Tucker. “It’s not such a big deal. I asked you to stop bouncing the ball and you wouldn’t. And now you have. I wasn’t going to give you a beating.”

“I’m not scared of that,” said Jackson. “Lizzie said that if you strain your heart, you’ll die. I don’t want you to get out of bed.”

Well, thank you, Lizzie.

“Okay,” Tucker said. “So don’t make me.”

Whatever works, he thought wearily. But it was going to be hard to pretend from now on that he was just your regular elementary-school dad.

Jesse and Cooper turned up later that afternoon, looking disheveled and bewildered and resentful. They were both wearing iPods; they were both listening to hip-hop with one ear. The other white buds, the ones they’d removed in the clearly unexpected event that their father might say something they’d want to hear, hung loose by their sides.

“Hey, boys.”

Mumbled greetings were formed in his sons’ throats and emitted with not quite enough force to reach him; they dropped somewhere on the floor at the end of his bed, left for the cleaning staff to sweep up.