Spoonbenders

“Ah.” He thought that had all stopped for the kid. But maybe there was still a bit of the talent there. He was so God damn unreadable, that one.

Mo said, “But Irene and Frankie have to know what’s coming, too.”

“I’ll help you tell them,” he said. He touched a scarred hand to her cheek. “Tomorrow, I promise.”

He was so good at making promises, because he’d had so much practice.

From the basement came the high whine of a drill going full tilt into wood studs. Did he even want to look? For weeks he’d avoided going down there, afraid that he’d see the damage and burst an artery. But the mountain wasn’t coming to Teddy, so he had to go to the mountain.

Buddy stood at the base of the stairs, using both hands to drill into the wall beside the basement door. The door frame was shiny new metal, and the old wooden door had been replaced by a steel one. A fucking steel door.

Jesus Christ.

At Buddy’s feet lay an alarm clock, busted and sprouting wires. A spool of new wire was set beside it.

Teddy took a breath before he spoke. “Buddy. Buddy. Hey.” The big lump finally heard him and released the trigger on the drill, but did not turn around. “Could you put that down for a sec?”

Buddy looked over his shoulder, drill tilted up, a cowboy holding his fire.

“I’m not going to ask you what you’re doing,” Teddy said. “I’m sure you got your reasons.” Buddy said nothing. Waiting for the interruption to be over.

“I just want your advice on something,” Teddy said.

Buddy winced.

“Come on,” Teddy said. “Sit down with me, one God damn second.”

Buddy reluctantly set the drill on the floor, and Teddy led him through the steel door into the basement. It was dark in there, darker than it should have been. The row of garden-height windows were all covered.

Teddy flipped on the lights. The windows had been sealed with sheet metal.

“What the hell did you—?” He stopped himself. He wasn’t going to criticize. He wasn’t going to question.

Buddy hadn’t limited himself to remodeling and fortifying—he’d also been redecorating. A secondhand love seat and three ratty armchairs, all different colors, were set up around a twenty-six-inch TV, with a video-game gadget wired up to it. Lamps of various vintages were set up but not yet plugged in. The desk Irene had been using was pushed off to the side, the computer missing. And against the far wall were four unpainted bunk beds.

“Have a seat,” Teddy said. Each of them took an armchair. “I gotta go somewhere this afternoon, talk to somebody I don’t want to talk to. You know anything about that?”

Buddy looked off to the side.

“If it’s going to go bad, I’d like to know. Are you getting any, you know, glimpses? Anything like you used to?”

Buddy refused to make eye contact.

“Okay, fine, you don’t want to talk. I get it. You and me, we haven’t talked much lately. I know I used to put a lot of pressure on you, back in the day. And I know that was wrong.”

Buddy seemed to be holding himself to the chair through force of will.

“But I got a real problem right now, and the stakes are high,” Teddy said. “So how about this?” He reached into his jacket pocket and held out a manila envelope. “You don’t have to say a thing. Just nod or shake your head, okay? A nod or a shake.” He leaned forward, watching his son’s face. “Buddy, is this going to be enough?”

Buddy’s eyes flicked toward the envelope and away, as if it were a too-bright light.

Teddy said, “All I’m asking is a nod or a—”

Buddy jumped up and fled the room. Teddy listened to him clomp up the stairs and bang through the back door.

“God damn it,” Teddy said. He was going to have to do this blind.

He went upstairs to his bedroom, opened the closet door, and dialed open his safe. The top rack was piled with Maureen’s letters, the top one being the one he’d opened last month, as Graciella lay in the hammock.

He’d drunk them in as they arrived over the years, each pen stroke like a scratch upon his heart, summoning her to life and killing her again in the same moment. Her words had coached him and soothed him and chided him, helped him navigate the minefield of years. Made him a better parent, a wiser man. Each letter was like a pocket ace.

But the letters hadn’t told him what to do now, and no new letter had arrived today. He’d outrun the reach of Maureen’s advice. Fallen off the edges of the God damn map. He’d have to go forward into the dark, steering by his own lights. Improvising.

On the floor of the safe rested a black velvet tray. He eased it out and set it on top of the bed.