Fender: A Novel Page 3

  “Already did. I was pretty sure you’d say yes.”

  “If you were any more cocky, your ego would need its own zip code.”

  Rocco laughed a little, just to be polite. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

  Chapter 4

  A man in black formalwear led Brennan and Rosie past tables decorated with expensive fabrics and candlelight. He gestured to the table occupied by her parents, both of whom were in their late fifties. Carter sat back in his chair, observing the couple through beady eyes outfitted in bifocals. Eleanor had her graying hair in an updo and gave the couple a thin smile, touching the pearls around her neck.

  Rosie stepped around the table and hugged her mother first, then her father, who planted a kiss on her cheek. “Mom, Dad,” she said, “meet Brennan.”

  Brennan smiled as wide as he could—to the point it almost felt uncomfortable—and extended his hand. “Pleased to meet you both.”

  Eleanor remained seated but leaned forward on her forearms and gave him a single, shallow nod. “Likewise,” she said. Her voice sounded weak, hollow, somehow disinterested.

  Carter stood halfway and gave Brennan’s hand a pump. “Pleased to meet you, too, Brennan. Glad you both could make it.” He motioned to the two empty chairs. “Have a seat.”

  Brennan pulled out a chair for Rosie, just the way he had seen it done in movies. He took the seat next to hers, smoothed out his shirt and tie, both creased, purchased earlier that day as a boxed set.

  “So, Rosalie tells us you’re an aspiring journalist,” said Carter.

  Brennan glanced around with unease, certain that the interrogation had already started. A pianist performed in the lounge area, filling the restaurant with a soft melody that he might have otherwise enjoyed. He fidgeted with his collar and replied, “Yes, ah, I’ve just started with the newspaper. I worked in public relations just briefly before that.”

  “Daddy,” said Rosie, placing a hand on her father’s arm. “We just got here. How about a little small talk?”

  A waiter appeared at the table. He was a short man, had slicked back hair, a neat goatee, and sparkling blue eyes. He looked at Carter and no one else. “Have you had a chance to review the wine list, sir?”

  Brennan strained to recall some of the conversation topics he’d thought of earlier that day, something that might impress her parents. The environment, perhaps, or how he hoped to see the Bills in the playoffs that year. Rosie had warned him that her parents would have plenty of questions—only because they were curious people by nature, she had insisted—but he hoped to take their focus off him as much as possible.

  He looked up and realized the waiter had already left. “J-journalism has always been a dream of mine.” His voice cracked and he hoped no one had noticed.

  Rosie grinned at her father. “He wants to pursue the big stories, Daddy, international news.” Her voice had a hint of enthusiasm to it, excitement to show off her new boyfriend. “He’s getting some experience at the paper and . . .”

  The waiter returned with a bottle of wine and poured a sample for Carter. He gave his head a subtle nod, and the waiter filled all four glasses. “To success,” said Carter, raising his glass.

  Once all four took a sip, Eleanor said, “What a lovely wine.” She raised her glass, examining it from different angles. “Hard to believe it was only ninety dollars.”

  Brennan paused, holding a sip of wine on his tongue, thinking for a second that he ought to spit it out.

  “You grew up in Buffalo?” asked Carter.

  He decided he had no choice and swallowed. “Yes, Mr. Hutchins, I did.”

  “Whereabouts?”

  Brennan looked to Rosie, who reassured him with a smile. She wore a lace cocktail dress with cap sleeves in navy, and she awaited his response along with the rest of the table. “Near Masten Park,” he said at last.

  Carter was clean-shaven, had fine wrinkles and short gray hair—a plain face that turned serious all at once, a scowl forming at the edges of his mouth. He looked first to his wife, who blinked at him and wriggled her nose. He looked next to his daughter, who smiled, urging him to be polite through wide eyes. He looked back to Brennan and took a sip of his wine. “What was that like?”

  “It was, uh . . .”

  “Not much in terms of fine dining down that way, is there?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Did your father ever bring you to restaurants like this?”

  It struck Brennan as an odd question. He thought it must have been obvious from his disheveled attire and nervous demeanor that he hadn’t had a lot of experience with fine dining, regardless of who it was with. He took a breath and said, “I never knew my father, to tell you the truth.”

  Carter feigned surprise, sat up straight, and looked down his nose. “Raised by a single mother, were you?”

  Brennan nodded and wondered why Rosie hadn’t shared that information with her parents. He knew so much about them, after all. Had Rosie not told them much about him?

  “It’s sad,” Eleanor said. “So many today don’t stay together.”

  Carter took his wife by the hand. “We’ve been together thirty years now, if you can believe it.”

  Eleanor smiled and looked at her daughter, then looked at Brennan. Her smile faded.

  Rosie saw sweat beading on Brennan’s forehead and held his hand beneath the table. He gave it a squeeze and said, “Congratulations to you both.”

  Carter opened the menu in front of him, bound in leather, and Brennan thought he should do the same. He took one look and sat back in his seat. His jaw dropped. He hoped her parents planned to pay for dinner. He wouldn’t be able to afford the check no matter what the table ordered. He scanned the entrees, picking out the one least expensive, and shut the menu just as the waiter returned.

  “Brennan, what’ll you have?” asked Carter.

  He handed his menu to the waiter. “The roasted chicken, please.”

  Eleanor let out an inaudible gasp and shrank in her seat. Carter shook his head and looked at the waiter. “Nonsense,” he said. “He’ll have the filet like the rest of us. Four, all medium rare.”

  “Very good, sir.” The waiter collected the menus and made a graceful exit.

  “Talk to me about international news, Brennan,” said Carter. “What should I know that the media’s not telling me?”

  Brennan felt his cheeks get warm. He stared at the white tablecloth and wrung his hands together. “I, uh, cover mostly local stuff. Well, actually, I’m an editor, so . . .”

  Carter leaned back in his chair. He appeared to relax and let his shoulders down, nodded. He held his wine glass but didn’t drink it, just swirled its contents. “But surely you follow international stories if you intend to cover them one day. How about the war in Iraq? Let’s start there. What’s your take?”

  His mind raced as he tried to consider different perspectives. He had grown up with kids who were deployed overseas and some of them hadn’t returned. As far as he was concerned, there weren’t two sides to the issue. He took his glass of wine and finished it in three gulps. “Well, uh, our p-president misled the public. Told us there were weapons of mass destruction when there weren’t.”

  Carter grinned, pushed his bifocals up his nose, and took a slow, deliberate drink from his glass.

  “So, I don’t believe the war was justified.”

  Carter swallowed another sip as he listened, and allowed a beat to pass before adding, “But wasn’t it the right war for the wrong reasons?”

  Brennan brushed back his hair, giving himself a second to think. “I don’t understand.”

  “What about bringing freedom to the Iraqi people? Toppling an oppressive regime?”

  He shrugged after a moment. “Last I saw, we’ve been responsible for killing tens of thousands of Iraqis. Hundreds of thousands by now, maybe. I’m, uh, not sure freedom is the word I’d use to—”

  The waiter returned and set four bowls of soup on the table. Brennan, having never seen F
rench onion soup, wondered what he was supposed to do with its hardened cheese surface, and whether to use a fork or a spoon.

  Eleanor leaned forward, spoon in hand. “Give me liberty or give me death, right?”

  “That’s right,” said Carter.

  It seemed to Brennan that sentiment was easier to get behind for someone who wasn’t fighting on the front lines. “Well, uh, I mean, thousands of Americans have died overseas f-fighting this war. We’ve lost more Americans in Iraq than we did on September eleventh.”

  Carter shook his head, stroked his chin. “If you’re gonna pursue journalism, Brennan . . . anything, for that matter, at least anything you want to be successful at, you’re gonna have to learn to see the bigger picture.”

  “Like trading blood for oil?” Brennan caught the sharp stare Rosie gave him and considered that nothing good could come from talking politics. He hoped to transition to something else and began poking at his soup.

  “Like learning that sometimes you have to make sacrifices for the greater good,” said Carter.

  Rosie, feeling tensions rise, looked to her mother for help. Eleanor, convinced that her daughter had brought a degenerate to dinner—one she wasn’t likely to see again—gave in. She touched her husband’s arm. “Oh, come off it, Carter,” she said. “Let the boy enjoy his soup. He’s young, and he’s done quite well so far considering, you know . . .”

  Brennan couldn’t be certain if she had meant that remark to sound as condescending as it did. He wondered if all rich people talked the same way. It was as if they had their own code, never arriving directly at a point. They sort of slithered their way through conversation, hinting at their motives, just like how his boss would hand him an assignment and tell him, “We need to have this done by Friday.” But what he really meant was, “You need to have this done by Friday.”

  He decided his only recourse was to accept Eleanor’s words as a compliment. He looked up from his soup. “Thanks, Mrs. Hutchins. I’m, uh, just getting started, believe me.”

  “I know you are, dear. And you have so much room to grow.”

  Brennan slurped a spoonful of soup, cleared his throat, and hoped to take the attention off himself. “You both must be so proud of Rosie.” He nodded to Carter. “She says she’s following in your footsteps.”

  Rosie blushed a little, brushed her hair to the side, and took a sip of her wine. “And those are some pretty big shoes to fill.”

  Carter gave them both a dismissive wave. “I have a funny feeling my Rosalie will accomplish more in her career than I ever did in mine.”

  She grinned and reached across the table, touching her father’s hand. “I’ll try not to disappoint you.”

  “Nonsense.” He turned to Brennan. “I’m retired now, Brennan. Did Rosalie mention that?”

  “She did. Said you two just moved to Allentown. You must be big fans of art.”

  Eleanor wrinkled her face and set down her spoon. “Well, I’d hardly call some of it art. Some of these young men—long hair, greasy beards—they’ve just got no talent. They really ought to find themselves some respectable work. Something more . . . appropriate.”

  “When did you become such an art snob, Mom?”

  “Since we bought an expensive condo down there and walked outdoors, that’s when. We expected to be immersed in a world of fine art, but . . .” She trailed off and shuddered before adding, “And I’m not a snob, I just have good taste.” She focused on Brennan’s creased shirt as she said it.

  “Well, now that I’m retired, I have quite a few clients Rosie can start out with once she passes her Series 7.” He pulled his daughter close and kissed her on the cheek again. “I know she’ll make me proud. I’ve always told her that she can do, be, or have anything she wants. Or anyone, for that matter.”

  Brennan finished his soup and wiped his mouth. “I guess I’m a lucky guy.”

  “Luck’s got nothing to do with it, Brennan. Did you know studies say your income will be the average of your five closest friends?”

  He looked down and stared into his empty bowl, wishing he had more wine. “Never heard that before, sir, no.”

  Carter smiled at his daughter. “That’s why it’s so important to keep good company.”

  Chapter 5

  Three men and a dog sped down the interstate, hours and towns rolling by in a haze. The atmosphere in the car was thick with suffocating apprehension, as though no one knew what was safe to discuss and what was best left unsaid. Rocco and Franky engaged in idle chitchat in the front, careful to tiptoe around anything that might trigger a reaction from Brennan.

  “Looking forward to Milwaukee?” asked Rocco.

  “You’re damn right,” said Franky.

  “Yeah? Why’s that?”

  “All the big titties.”

  Rocco sighed at the absurdity. “What makes you think the tits are any bigger in Wisconsin?”

  “Figured that’s why they call it America’s Dairyland.” Franky slapped his knee, cackling at his own joke.

  Brennan largely ignored their conversations from the back. Listening to Rocco and Franky interact sometimes reminded him of a low-budget buddy cop film. Rocco was methodical and patient, good-looking, dark and athletic. A tall man with style and charisma. Franky, on the other hand, was often tactless and absentminded. He was large, had a round face, tufts of ginger on his chin and prematurely balding head, steely blue eyes, freckles, and all the class of a trucker-sailor hybrid.

  Something gnawed at Brennan and consumed his focus. Something he couldn’t put his finger on, as if something was pulling him back east, as if the west were pushing him back toward home. And it wasn’t the heavy headwinds they were driving into—Rocco’s stylish Lexus cut through them with ease. It wasn’t the dark clouds gathering in the vast western sky, either, although they did suggest a storm brewing ahead. It wasn’t even the country music Franky had the radio set to.

  “What’s this shit we’re listening to?” asked Brennan.

  Franky turned the volume down. “What? You don’t like Keith Urban?”

  “I thought this was Blake Shelton,” said Rocco.

  “Either way, it’s shit,” said Brennan.

  “Yeah, uh, I guess I’m with Bee.” Rocco looked at Franky, pleading. “Maybe give it a rest?”

  Franky turned it off and folded his arms over his round belly.

  Brennan concentrated, taking himself through a mental checklist. I shut off the air, asked Mrs. Posada to grab the mail and keep an eye on things. Locked all the doors and windows. Closed the garage, set the alarm, packed Fender’s food and pain meds . . . The overwhelming sensation persisted that something was off. He felt it in his stomach. He felt it balling up in his throat. And he felt it in his hands as he wrung them together, hoping to strangle his nervous energy, pausing every so often to fiddle with his wedding band.

  He considered that the tension wasn’t behind him, but before him, waiting for him somewhere along the thousands of miles ahead. “Sometimes we have to get away from all we know,” Mrs. Posada had told him, “just to find our way home again.” Her voice spoke softly in his memory and her words sounded empty.

  He turned to Fender, who was glued to the window, standing upright with his paws on the car door. Fender looked back and forth, as if hunting for something, and Brennan wondered if Fender felt the same unease he did.

  Rocco clicked his tongue, unsure how to casually engage Brennan in conversation. “Have you been sleeping at night?”

  “Why? Do I look tired or something?” Brennan studied Rocco’s narrowed eyes in the rearview mirror, assessing his reaction.

  “You look like dog shit,” said Franky. “You need some rest, dude.”

  “Franky,” said Rocco, stern and amused all at once, flashing him a grin.

  A deep gust of wind whistled past the car and took the last traces of sunlight with it, the overcast horizon darkening and expanding.

  “How’s Harlem doing, anyway?” Brennan asked, thinking conversa
tion might distract his troubled mind.

  “Well, you know, he’s nine now and he takes after his old man. Scored eight baskets at his last game. Natural athlete and getting chased by all the girls at school. ”

  “That fancy prep school?” Franky asked. “Grover or whatever the fuck?”

  “That’s the one.”

  Franky cackled again. “Hey, you know what all the little white girls in his class are gonna find out, right? Once you go black, you never go—”

  “He’s nine, man. Take it easy.”

  “You gave him the blackest fucking name, too. Harlem. Might as well’ve named him Jamal or Wu-Tang.”

  “My mom named me after the wop she was screwing behind my dad’s back. Not that I met either of ’em. Figured the least I could do was give my son a proper black name.”

  “Harlem’s named after a Dutch village,” said Brennan. “Got nothing to do with blacks in New York. I keep telling you that.” Something was still wearing at him, and being a know-it-all seemed like more effort than it was worth. He changed the subject. “Fuck, I could use a drink.”

  Rocco exhaled with force and scratched the back of his head, the telltale sign that he was debating how much to say.

  “What is it?” Brennan asked.

  “What’s what?” Rocco licked his lips, nervous.

  “That. The head scratches. You only do that shit when you’re hiding something.” Brennan thought back to when Rocco first learned he would be a father—not even twenty-three at the time. He’d scratched the back of his head all night, knowing he had to share the news with his friends, but unsure how.

  “It’s, uh, it’s nothing, Bee.”

  Brennan studied Rocco in the rearview, and he knew it wasn’t nothing.

  Rocco licked his lips again and shifted in the driver’s seat, aware that he was being watched. “It’s just, ah, I’m worried about your drinking, that’s all. You’ve been sober a long time now and I just don’t wanna see you get yourself in trouble.”

  Brennan doubted that was the full truth, but decided against pressing the matter. He stared out the window. The rain had started but it was only a faint drizzle, and he studied the shades of gray churning overhead. “That’s why you guys planned this trip, right? ’Cause I went off the rails when Colin hung himself?”