“No,” Tommy says. “He’s okay to me.”
“Did your mom do something to you?” I ask.
“She doesn’t do anything anymore.”
Portia and I share a worried glance over his head.
In the Oaklyn apartment, Portia and I tuck Tommy in and read him a quick book as my sister and Johnny Rotten stare at the television and sip beer.
When we say bye to them, Johnny Rotten says, “Congrats again.”
“Yeah, proud of you, bro,” Danielle says, but her words are flat and empty.
In the truck, I say, “Was it me, or did Danielle seem underwhelmed by my good news?”
“You’re changing your life for the better, and she’s the same as always. Your drinking buddies aren’t going to cheer when you get sober, right?” Portia says, and we drive back to our own apartment of bliss, where Portia toasts my new job with champagne, and we talk more about the strange coincidence of my connecting with Sister Maeve’s best friend and then end up making celebratory love on the living room floor.
CHAPTER 26
The day after Thanksgiving, I have a precious day off.
Teaching has been going very well. I love my kids, the other teachers have been incredibly supportive—sharing lesson plans, lending me supplies, taking me out for after-work drinks and not grilling me when I don’t order alcohol—and Mother Catherine seems pleased with my performance so far, but teaching full-time is much more demanding than I had originally thought. It’s even harder than student teaching, which was difficult. And unfortunately, it’s cut into the time I get to spend with my nephew.
So I use my rare free day to take Tommy out to buy a cell phone. He’s been complaining about our not talking as much as we used to. My commute is long, so I figure we can catch up then.
Tommy and I pick out a cheap little flip phone at the Verizon store and I add him to my plan for next to nothing, especially since the only person he will ever call is me, and the sales guy sets it up so that calls from Tommy won’t cost me anything extra.
“So I can call as many times as I want?” Tommy asks as we drive home. He’s got the phone in his hand now and is examining it like it’s some magical device from outer space.
“All you have to do is . . .”
“Hit the number one,” he says, because we’ve programmed my number into his favorites.
“And . . .”
“Keep the phone charged.”
“That’s right! And I can call you from the truck now too during my commute!” I reach over to tousle his longish hair.
He pushes the one button on his phone, and mine starts ringing.
“I wonder who that could be?” I say in an overly dramatic voice that Tommy loves. It’s so easy to entertain the little guy.
“Hello,” I say into my phone.
“Uncle Chuck?” Tommy says into his.
“Speaking. Who is this?”
“Tommy!”
“Tommy who?”
“Tommy your nephew.”
“That’s an incredibly weird last name, Mr. Your-Nephew. Is it Greek?”
Tommy laughs and laughs and then says, “It’s Tommy Bass.”
“Oh, Tommy Bass, my nephew. I get it now. Why didn’t you just say so?”
“I did!”
“Well?”
“Well what?”
“What is the purpose of your call?”
“To talk.”
“Okay, then talk away.”
“I know a secret you’re not supposed to know,” Tommy says, and suddenly the laughter has left his voice.
“What’s that, Tommy, my nephew?”
“Mom’s not working at the Crystal Lake Diner anymore.”
“Really? Why?”
“I don’t know. She told me not to tell you.”
I swallow once. “Okay, Tommy. We’ll find her another job.”
Tommy hangs up his flip phone.
When we get to the Oaklyn apartment, I tell Danielle I purchased Tommy a cell phone so we can talk more. He shows it to her, and she says to me, “Um, do you think that maybe, just maybe you should have talked to me about this first?”
Sensing the tension, the little man retreats to his room.
It hits me that I definitely should have talked to Danielle about Tommy having a cell phone, but instead of admitting that, I say, “Went to the diner for lunch. Heard you lost your job.” I glance down at her long sleeves. “What happened?”
“Jesus, Dad,” she says, shaking her head. “I had the flu and called out a few days. My boss fired me. Does he really want me serving food when I have a virus, coughing on people’s eggs and making everyone sick?”
“Tommy seems worried about you.”
“I’m fine.”
“You using again?” I say, before I can stop myself.
“What?”
“I haven’t seen your arms in months.”
She squints at me and says, “Are you even serious?”
“If you’re using again, I’d be happy to take you to a meeting or—”
“I’m not using.”
“Danielle, listen. I just want to—”
I’m shocked when she pulls her shirt over her head and then, in her black bra, holds both of her arms out for me to inspect.
My eyes speed up and down the soft white undersides of her wrists and biceps, but I see no fresh track marks, nor anything at all to suggest that she has been shooting heroin, other than the fact that her ribs are sticking out and she’s lost quite a bit of weight. I wonder about other drugs, but am rather relieved to see that she at least isn’t shooting junk. She never shot up anywhere else, back in the day—just in her arms. And my sister is a creature of habit, if nothing else.