Truth in Advertising Page 0,67

voice mail. He answers.

I say, “Hey. It’s Fin.”

“Yeah. Hey. What’s up?”

What’s up? Gee, not much. What’s up with you, asshole?

I say, “They’ve transferred him to the ICU.”

I can hear children’s voices in the background.

Eddie says, “Has he said anything?”

Yes, Eddie. He said he’s sorry. He said he loves you. He said you’re a good person and he’s proud of you. No, Eddie. He hasn’t. He never said he’s sorry and he never said he loves us and he’s never going to.

You are always a certain age in your family. I am twelve forever. It’s annoying.

I say, “No. Not that I know of. I was here Christmas Eve, part of Christmas Day.”

“I have the kids. Tonight and tomorrow.”

“Okay.”

I’m running my thumbnail back and forth across a packet of sugar.

“Do you know if Maura has any intention of coming down?” The words are polite but the sound of my voice suggests a mild annoyance.

Eddie says, “You’d have to ask her that, Fin.” The subtitle would read “Fuck you, Fin.”

I say, “But she knows he’s in here, right?” The subtitle would read “Why am I the only one here, you selfish, sad prick?”

“Yeah.”

I say, “She knows he’s . . .”

But I stop. What more is there to say? Why fight it? Why let it get to me? But it does.

Eddie says, “Of course she knows, Fin. We all know. We’ve all made our choices. Just like he made his.” He turns from the phone and shouts. “Kara! Turn that down!”

I’m tempted to tell Eddie that he sounds exactly like our father. But I don’t.

• • •

Phoebe calls.

“Hi,” she says.

“Hi.”

I’m still at the hotel. No Knockwurst Night tonight. Not much of anything. I had a beer and two bites of a disgusting cheeseburger. I ordered another beer and took it back to my room. I’m watching The Shawshank Redemption. I’ve seen it maybe five times.

“Where are you?” I ask.

“Friends of the family. They have a party on New Year’s every year.”

“Sounds fun.”

“Lots of cute boys. Ski instructors. Snowboarders. Why are boys who ski so hot?”

“I’ve been asking myself this question for years. You’ve had some wine, I think.”

“Maybe I have. Your date wasn’t good, huh?”

“How do you know I was on a date?”

“Ian told me. Is she there now? Is she hot? Are you guys in love?”

“We’re totally in love.” I pause. “I need to be younger and hotter and a skier, maybe.”

“You’re not that old.”

“Thank you.”

“And you’re not hideous.” She laughs.

“I’m so glad we talked.”

“What are you doing?”

I say, “I’m back up on Cape Cod.”

“What?” Her voice softens. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I got a call yesterday. There’s been a change in his condition.”

“I’m so sorry. God.”

I have no line. I don’t know what to say or feel or do. I’m simply watching myself, as if waiting to write my own dialogue.

I flip around the channels and see poor Dick Clark for the eleven seconds they let him speak before cutting to Ryan Seacrest. They keep saying it’s the greatest party in the world, while showing shots of people standing in the bitter cold of Times Square looking around, bored. There’s a clock in the corner. Twenty-one minutes until midnight.

I say, “It’s an awful thing to die alone. How does that sound, by the way, because I’m not sure I believe it. I want it to sound like an episode of ER.”

There’s a long silence before Phoebe says, “You’re a good man, Fin.”

It is strange the effect those words have on me. It’s something my mother used to say to Eddie. It is a thing I feel I have not remotely achieved, as if it may be beyond my reach. Fathers on their way to the park with their kids on Sunday morning, when I’m on my way to get coffee and the paper. These are good men. Men in meetings who look tired because they were up half the night comforting a colicky baby. These are good men. Men who know themselves, who commit to a thing greater than themselves: a wife, a family. These are good men. How does one get there?

I watch part of a commercial our agency did for a drug for type 2 diabetes that has an unusually high incidence of death. The creative team on it told me that during the fair balance—the reading of the long list of possible side effects—they had had a week’s worth of meetings about what shot to show when the voice-over says, “May cause death.” Ultimately they decided upon a man