The first thing he noticed about Stef was her gray lipstick, applied heavily to the thick and pouty lips, lips that scarcely cracked when she gave him the obligatory half-smile. She was certainly plain and gaunt enough to be a model. Her arms were as skinny as broom handles. Though Nate couldn't see them, he knew her bony legs ran to her armpits, and without a doubt there were at least two tattoos burned into the flesh around her ankles.
Nate disliked her immediately, and got the impression the feeling was mutual. No telling what Daniel had told her.
Daniel had finished college at Grinnell a year earlier, then spent the summer in India. Nate had not seen him in thirteen months. He had not gone to his commencement, had not sent a card or a gift, had not bothered to call with congratulations. There was enough tension at the table without the mannequin puffing smoke and looking at Nate with a completely blank stare.
"You wanna beer?" Daniel asked when a waiter got close. It was a cruel question, a quick little shot designed to inflict pain.
"No, just water," Nate said. Daniel yelled at the waiter, then said, "Still on the wagon, huh?"
"Always," Nate said with a smile, trying to deflect the arrows.
"Have you fallen off since last summer?"
"No. Let's talk about something else."
"Dan tells me you've been through rehab," Stef said, smoke drifting from her nostrils. Nate was surprised she was able to start and finish a sentence. Her words were slow, her voice as hollow as her eye sockets.
"I have, several times. What else has he told you?"
"I've done rehab," she said. "But only once." She seemed proud of her accomplishment, yet saddened by her lack of experience. The two beer bottles in front of her were empty.
"That's nice," Nate said, dismissing her. He couldn't pretend to like her, and in a month or two she'd have another serious love.
"How's school?" he asked Daniel.
"What school?"
"Grad school."
"I dropped out." His words were edgy and strained. There was pressure behind them. Nate was involved in the dropping out; he just wasn't exactly sure how and why. His water arrived. "Have you guys eaten?" he asked.
Stef avoided food and Daniel wasn't hungry. Nate was starving but didn't want to eat alone. He glanced around the pub. Pot was being smoked somewhere in another corner. It was a rowdy little dump, the kind of place he'd loved in a not too distant life.
Daniel lit another cigarette, a Camel with no filter, the worst cancer sticks on the market, and he blasted a cloud of thick smoke at the cheap beer chandelier hanging above them. He was angry and tense.
The girl was there for two reasons. She would prevent harsh words and maybe a fight. Nate suspected his son was broke, that he wanted to lash out at his father for his lack of support, but that he was afraid to do so because the old man was fragile and had been prone to crack and go off the deep end. Stef would throttle his anger and his language.
The second reason was to make the meeting as brief as possible.
It took about fifteen minutes to figure this out.
"How's your mother?" he asked.
Daniel attempted to smile. "She's fine. I saw her Christmas. You were gone."
"I was in Brazil."
A co - ed in tight jeans walked by. Stef inspected her from top to bottom, her eyes finally showing some life. The girl was even skinnier than Stef. How did emaciation become so cool?
"What's in Brazil?" Daniel asked.
"A client." Nate was tired of the stories from his adventure.
"Mom says you're in some kind of trouble with the IRS."
"I'm sure that pleases your mother."
"I guess. She didn't seem bothered by it. You going to jail?"
"No. Could we talk about something else?"
"That's the problem, Dad. There is nothing else, nothing but the past and we can't go there."
Stef, the referee, rolled her eyes at Daniel, as if to say, "That's enough."
"Why did you drop out of school?" Nate asked, anxious to get it over with.
"Several reasons. It got boring."
"He ran out of money," Stef said, helpfully. She gave Nate her best blank look.
"Is that true?" Nate asked.
"That's one reason."
Nate's first instinct was to pull out his checkbook and solve the kid's problems. That's what he'd always done. Parenting for him had been one long shopping trip. If you can't be there, send money. But Daniel was now twenty-three, a college grad, hanging around with the likes of Ms. Bulimia over there, and it was time for him to sink or swim on his own.
And the checkbook wasn't what it used to be.
"It's good for you," Nate said. "Work for a while. It'll make you appreciate school."
Stef disagreed. She had two friends who'd dropped out and pretty much fallen off the face of the earth. As she prattled on, Daniel withdrew to his corner of the booth. He drained his third bottle. Nate had all sorts of lectures about alcohol, but he knew how phony they'd sound.
After four beers, Stef was bombed and Nate had nothing else to say. He scribbled his phone number in St. Michaels on a napkin and gave it to Daniel. "This is where I'll be for the next couple of months. Call me if you need me."
"See you, Pop," Daniel said.
"Take care."
Nate stepped into the frigid air and walked toward Lake Michigan.
TWO DAYS LATER he was in Pittsburgh for his third and final reunion, one that did not occur. He'd spoken twice to Kaitlin, his daughter from marriage number one, and the details were clear. She was to meet him for dinner at 7:30 P.M., in front of the restaurant in the lobby of his hotel. Her apartment was twenty minutes away. She paged him at 8:30 with the news that a friend had been involved in an auto accident, and that she was at the hospital where things looked bad.
Nate suggested they have lunch the following day. Kaitlin said that wouldn't work because the friend had a head injury, was on life support, and she planned to stay with her there until she was stable. With his daughter in full retreat, Nate asked where the hospital was located. At first she didn't know, then she wasn't sure, then upon further thought a visit was not a good idea because she couldn't leave the bedside.
He ate in his room, at a small table next to the window, with a view of downtown. He picked at his food and thought of all the possible reasons his daughter didn't want to see him. A ring in her nose? A tattoo on her forehead? Had she joined a cult and shaved her head? Had she gained a hundred pounds or lost fifty? Was she pregnant?
He tried to blame her so he wouldn't be forced to face the obvious. Did she hate him that much?
In the loneliness of the hotel room, in a city where he knew no one, it was easy to pity himself, to suffer once again through the mistakes of his past.
He grabbed the phone and got busy. He called Father Phil to check on things in St. Michaels. Phil had been bothered by the flu, and since it was chilly in the church basement Laura wouldn't let him work there. How wonderful, thought Nate. Though many uncertainties lay in his path, the one constant, at least for the near future, would be the promise of steady work in the basement of Trinity Church.
He called Sergio for their weekly pep session. The demons were well in hand, and he felt surprisingly under control. His hotel room had a minibar, and he had not been near it.
He called Salem and had a pleasant chat with Angela and Austin. Odd how the younger kids wanted to talk while the older ones did not.
He called Josh, who was in his basement office, thinking about the Phelan mess. "You need to come home, Nate," he said. "I have a plan."