Stranger in Dadland (3 page)

By ourselves? I wondered. Just me and Beau? I could picture the expression on my mom’s face.

Beau sprawled on a lounge chair with his towel over his head, and Dad gathered up all his stuff and led me upstairs. Cora wasn’t in the apartment, and I was glad. Now maybe Dad and I could…do whatever it is boys and their dads do. Talk? Play chess? Tell dirty jokes?

Then Dad turned on the TV and his computer. I’d forgotten that he does that. Liz used to say that Dad surrounded himself with monitors so he could bask in their glow. That was back when she was calling him “Dr.
Raaay
from Outer
Spaaace.
”

It’s true that it’s impossible to imagine Dad living in a prescreen era, like the Old West or ancient Egypt. But computers are his work, so he’s
supposed
to care about them. And I think he just liked the television on all the time for company.

I guess my company wasn’t enough.

I stood around feeling odd and goose-bumpy. I wondered if Dad felt at all shy or whatever too. But I decided that idea made precisely zero sense.

“Here’s your room, Big Guy,” he called from the doorway to the guest room. He tossed me a towel.

I took a long, long shower. Then I admitted to myself that I was kind of hiding, and I got out. I unpacked my junk and got dressed. Then I stood around. I hated feeling so
stiff!
I’d been dying to come here. Dying to get out of my all-girl house. My mom, my sister—even my dog, Ditz, was a girl!

Ditz. If she were here, she’d put her head in my lap and look at me with those big eyes of hers, her wagging tail banging into everything.

This is stupid! I thought. Here I am in Dad’s bachelor apartment with Dad—who thinks I’m old enough to go to the beach by myself—and I’m wishing I were with
Ditz?

I walked out of the room and said, “Hey, Dad.”

He smiled back. “Hey, Big Guy.”

“So what’s the story with Cora and Beau?” I asked, casual, cool.

Dad started to answer but the phone rang. I sat down in front of the TV while he talked. It was one of those shows where contestants scream their heads off and try to see who can act like a bigger jerk. One guy was balancing stuff on his head, including some yellow slime that glopped him when it fell. I hoped it wasn’t my dad’s favorite program.

Dad hung up. “We’re outta here!” he said, grabbing his wallet, keys, and beeper. “Cora will be in a lather if we’re late.”

But when we got to Cora’s, she wasn’t even ready. Her apartment was girly, with breakable stuff all over the place. I sank into her flowery couch and almost drowned in cushions. Dad chose a more reasonable chair. He picked up a magazine and flicked through the pages, his foot tapping.

My eyes started to itch, then water. I sneezed. Sneezed again. “Dad?” I said. “Does Cora have a cat?”

“Four,” he said without looking up.

The thing about allergies and asthma is, after you’ve had a few attacks, you start to panic at the
idea
of an attack. At least I do. I mean, just looking at a
picture
of a cat can make me wheezy. I got up and said, “I’m gonna wait outside.”

Dad followed me out the door. “Sorry, Big Guy,” he said. “I forgot.”

“That’s okay,” I said, embarrassed. I felt my pockets. Dang! I’d forgotten my inhaler! If a picture of a cat can make me wheezy, knowing I don’t have my inhaler can make it ten times worse.

I told myself to calm down. I’d been in that cat house only a couple of minutes. Maybe I didn’t need the inhaler. I breathed in, out. All was well.

Four?
I thought. Why would a person need
four
cats?

My dad—who’d never wheezed a wheeze, who’d probably never even had a cold—was looking down, way down, at his short weakling of a son, with an expression of…what? Pity?

“Really, Dad,” I said, doing my best to smile. “I’m fine.”

Cora came out and Dad said, “Some father I am, eh? I forgot than John’s allergic to cats.”

“I’m
fine
,” I said again.

Cora nodded at me. Then, taking Dad’s arm, she smiled up all lovey-dovey at him, and said, “John’s perfectly fine and you’re a
perfectly
wonderful father. Now, let’s go!”

She had lipstick on one of her front teeth.

Back home a barbecue means ribs or burgers—or chicken, at least—and corn or potatoes. Not this one. This one meant tiny snacks being whisked over my head by waitresses wearing matching T-shirts. At first, Dad introduced me to people. Then he got involved in conversations and I was left standing around feeling awkward and hungry.

One lady tried to entertain me with dumb questions like, How’d I like California, and Had I seen any movie stars yet?

Two people asked me if I knew Iris. Last year, some friend of Dad’s thought it was hilarious that Liz and I didn’t know a Santa Ana was a wind. In California they name the
wind
and expect everyone else to know that. I figured
Iris
was another California in-joke. So I just smiled—the dolt son from Kansas who doesn’t even know what
Iris
is!

Then a woman grabbed my hand, saying, “You’ll be bored to death out here with us old fogies.” She dragged me indoors.

It turned out Iris was an actual girl, and we found her in the kitchen, looking guilty. But the woman who dragged me there didn’t notice. “Iris, this is Matt’s son, John,” she said. “Here all the way from Kansas!”

Iris half-smiled. Her mouth was full, and she was hiding her hands behind her back. She was taller than me. Not much, but still.

The woman walked away.

After Iris swallowed, she said, “And your little dog Toto too?”

That was another California thing. All they knew about Kansas was that Dorothy came from there in
The Wizard of Oz.

“Actually, my dog’s name is Ditz,” I said.

“Ditz? As in, Boy, is she a ditz?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s a ditzy name.” She giggled. “But my hamster’s name is Puff Ball, so maybe I shouldn’t judge.”

“What were you doing?” I asked.

“Huh?”

“When we came in.”

Iris giggled again, then showed me her hands, sticky red
with goo. “Caught me red-handed!” she howled. “I hate the powder on the outside.” Then I noticed the mess next to her. She’d been squeezing the jelly out of the little doughnuts on the dessert tray.

“Powdered sugar makes me sneeze,” I agreed. “It’s like sweet dust.”

She handed me one. I looked around. “Don’t worry, we won’t get in trouble,” Iris said. “I live here.”

So I sucked the jelly out of the doughnut the way she did. Not bad. Then she asked if I wanted to see the new Mac she’d gotten for her birthday. I asked when her birthday was and she said, “Last Thursday. I’m a Leo. What are you?”

I couldn’t remember.

Iris rolled her eyes. “Well, when’s your birthday?” she asked. “We can look it up.”

“May,” I told her.

“I think that’s Gemini,” she said, leading me to her room. “How old are you?”

I wanted to say fourteen, but I figured she wouldn’t believe me. “Twelve,” I admitted to her back.

“Me too,” she said. And I breathed with relief.

Iris turned on her computer and talked constantly while searching for a game we both liked. I sneaked peeks at her room. I hadn’t been in a girl’s bedroom, beside my sister’s, since I was a little kid. But Iris’s room didn’t reveal any girl secrets. It was pretty much a regular room except for the stuffed animals.

Then Iris stopped talking and leaned closer to me. For a
split second I thought she was going to kiss me! I held my breath. But then she just whispered, “So what’s the inside scoop? Is your dad
serious
about Aunt Cora?”

“Sh-she’s your aunt?” I stammered, caught off guard. Then realized,
Duh
, Dad said we were going to Cora’s sister’s barbecue, so Iris was Cora’s sister’s kid.

“Does that mean yes or no?”

“Huh?”

“Well, is he going to propose or what?”

The meaning of her words finally dawned on me. “Propose
marriage?
” I asked.

“Oh,” Iris said. “I guess that means no.”

“No, it doesn’t—I mean, not necessarily.”

“You’re being shady,” Iris said. “I don’t like that in a person.” She crossed her arms, poked out her lower lip, and pretended to pout.

I didn’t want to tell this girl that I had no idea what my dad planned to do about her aunt Cora or
anything
else. Iris probably thought normal sons know these things about their fathers. That fathers and sons
talk
about stuff.

Iris squinted at me. “Are you sworn to secrecy?”

I shrugged.

“Aha! You’re honor-bound by your word. Sticking to your promise, even under torture. I like that in a person!”

Eventually, Dad and Cora found me and said it was time to head out. I wondered if I’d see Iris again. I liked her—even though her good-bye was “Follow the Yellow Brick Road!”

By the time we’d dropped Cora back at her apartment, and gotten stuck in traffic (it’s always rush hour in L.A.), and climbed the stairs to number 216, I could barely keep my eyes open. I went to the guest room and crashed. One day down, six to go.

“Morning, Big Guy,” Dad said when I stumbled into the kitchen the next day. “Hungry?”

He was drenched, his T-shirt stuck to him. A drop of sweat hung off the tip of his nose.

“You still run every day?” I asked.

“Five miles, rain or shine,” he said, opening the fridge. “Let’s see, we’ve got eggs and we’ve got eggs. Or, you could have a couple of eggs. What do you think?”

I smiled. “I think I’ll have eggs.”

“Good choice,” Dad said, and began cracking and cooking. “I’ve got a nine o’clock,” he said, “that should be done by ten-thirty, eleven at the latest. And a…” He leaned over and peered down at his planner. “Oh,” he said, “a one-thirty that could run to, say, three. Maybe I can stop by here in between, depending. You going to be all right till maybe fourish?”

I was stumped. Be all right doing what? Sitting here in the apartment for seven and a half hours?

“Sure,” I said anyway.

“You’ve got my pager number and Cora’s number and a key over there by the phone. Oh, and the combination for the outside door is thirty-three, twelve, nineteen.”

I looked around for a pen. “Thirty-three what?”

He repeated it. Then he had to repeat it again because the pen didn’t work.

“Not much to eat in the house, I’m afraid,” Dad said. “But there are restaurants up on Grand.”

I had no idea where
Grand
was. I’d never even been in this neighborhood before. “Well,” I said, trying to sound calm, “there’s always eggs.”

“Over easy—the way you like them,” he said proudly, placing my plate in front of me.

No, I thought, that’s Liz. I’m the one who likes them scrambled dry.

“Aren’t you having any?” I asked.

“I’ll pick up something on the way,” Dad said, heading for the bathroom. Soon I heard him singing in the shower.

I ate my eggs, or Liz’s eggs, looking around, imagining myself there all day. The only magazines Dad got were
Forbes
and
Business Week.
I knew I’d go into a coma of boredom reading them. There was also TV. One in the kitchen, a bigger one in the living room. Probably one in Dad’s bedroom too.

The phone rang. I wondered if I should answer. Then I thought, I’m his
son!
Sons answer their fathers’ phones! I’d never think twice about answering
Mom’s.

“Who’s this?” the voice asked.

“This is John. Matt’s son,” I said.

“No kidding! I didn’t even know he
had
a son!”

What could I say to
that?

“Well,” the voice went on, “your dad around?”

“He’s in the shower.”

“Tell him Chris called, okay?”

I hoped Chris wasn’t a good friend.

And then, in a rush of sports jacket and briefcase, Dad was gone and it was very, very quiet.

It’s not like I was never in the house alone at home. Mom worked. My sister, especially since she’d met Jet, was out all the time. But at home—well, I was
home!
I had my stuff. I had my life. There was Ditz. There was food in the fridge.

Dad always had a million appointments and meetings, but Liz had been with me all the other visits, and she’s four years older. Well, I thought, time to grow up! I hated it that my mom babied me so much at home, so I should be
thrilled
now, right?

The first thing I did was try to go back to bed, but my eyes wouldn’t close. So I got dressed and started poking around the guest room. My friend Theo had divorced parents, but he didn’t call his room in either of their houses a “guest” room.

Nothing in the drawers but some Kleenex and a few pens.

Bathroom next. Wow, Dad sure uses a lot of hair stuff. What was this? I unscrewed a cap and sniffed.
Dad!
It was my father—in a bottle! Oops. I must’ve jumped because now
I’d spilled Dad on my hand, my leg, the floor. As I wiped it up with great wads of toilet paper, I laughed at my own stupidity.
Of course
that dad-smell was some kind of cologne. Had I thought he smelled like that naturally? That his
sweat
smelled like that?

Now what? Flush the wad of dad-smelling toilet paper down the toilet and probably plug it up? Shove it in the garbage can and have it smell like Dad-in-trash?

I destroyed the evidence clump by clump, four flushes. When I went to crank open the window, I jumped
again!
A huge palm-tree head was bobbing there, made all wiggly and mysterious by the bathroom window’s pocked-up privacy glass. Since I’d seen it out of the corner of my eye, I guess I thought it was someone watching me. One more jump and I figured I’d probably have a heart attack. Spies must have nerves of steel.

On to the kitchen. Boring—pots and pans, silverware, plates. A bottom drawer with a hammer and two screwdrivers and a few batteries.

It was as if no one lived there. Maybe my dad really
is
Dr. Ray from Outer Space, or a fugitive, I thought. And lives a secret life somewhere else. Maybe he just pretends to live here while I visit. It’s a cover-up or something!