Fitz - By Mick Cochrane Page 0,6

girl. He’s gracious. His mom would give him points for that. He has good manners, he is capable of kindness.

And yet, somehow even this, especially this, bugs Fitz. The man can be nice to a stranger, a voice on a speaker, but he ignores his son? All these years, what prevented his father from being nice to him? Why didn’t he knock on the door? Why didn’t he pick up the phone and call? Why didn’t he write a letter? Why? Why? Why? It is the central mystery of his life. The unanswerable question. Fitz did not agonize over the existence of God; he didn’t ponder the origins of the universe. Sometimes he would look at himself in the mirror, an expression of pathetic eagerness on his face. He was a dog in the pound, wanting to be adopted. He’d smile. What father wouldn’t want this boy?

They edge toward the window. “So what do they call you?” his father asks, his eyes straight ahead.

“Huh?”

“If not Fitzgerald. You said nobody calls you that. You must have a nickname or something. What do they call you?”

“Orphan Boy,” Fitz says. “That’s my handle.”

Fitz isn’t sure where it’s coming from, this attitude, this hostility, whatever it is he’s channeling, exactly. It’s like he’s possessed by something, speaking in evil tongues. Normally, he’s respectful to adults. His ordinary, everyday self makes eye contact and never interrupts or mouths off—usually he’s a regular please-and-thank-you machine. A pleasure to have in class, that’s the box all his teachers check. Maybe he’s trying to make up for the hot chocolate, proving he’s still a tough guy. Maybe he’s tapped a deep well of something black and nasty, like some underground oil deposit, buried deep in his soul.

“What right have you got to even say my name?” Fitz says. “Tell me that.”

“None. None whatsoever.” His father raises his hands off the steering wheel then, and Fitz tenses, but it’s not an attack, just a gesture, a mini-surrender: he shows his palms and returns them to the wheel.

At the window now, there’s a perky blond girl wearing a headset and an apron who tells them what they owe. Fitz remembers that he’s got his father’s billfold jammed in his hip pocket. He pulls it out and extracts a ten. He gives it to his father, who thanks him and passes it up to the girl.

She makes change and hands it to his father, who in turn passes it to Fitz. She hands over their drinks next, two tall, lidded paper cups. His father sets his in the console’s cup holder between them.

The girl gives them a big smile and tells them to enjoy their day. Maybe she imagines the two of them are on some nice family outing, Take Your Son to Work Day or some such.

Which reminds Fitz. “You need to call your office,” he says. He’s thought this through and has a kind of outline in his head, but he’s let himself get flustered and forgetful. He needs to get back on track. He needs to stay focused. “Tell them you’re not coming in today.”

“They’re gonna want to know why.”

He pulls his father’s phone out of his pocket and thrusts it at him. “Tell ’em you’re sick,” Fitz says. There’s a word his mom likes. “Tell ’em you’re indisposed. Tell ’em whatever you like. I don’t care. Tell ’em you have plans.”

“Because you have plans for me,” his father says. “Is that right?”

“Oh yes,” Fitz tells him. “Most definitely. I have plans. Big plans.”

7

Fitz has always been fascinated by fathers—the various types, their behaviors. When he visits his friends, he studies their dads, like a zoologist doing field research. He likes to catalog the various species he observes. There are the lawn-and-garden dads, guys who smell like gasoline, who spend the weekends mowing and edging, blowing leaves and whacking weeds. There are hunters and fishermen, the ones with camo jackets and tackle boxes, boat hitches on their trucks. There are the sports guys, coaches and superfans, sitting on the sidelines in their portable chairs, hollering encouragement and advice. Dads read the paper; they grill meat; they pay bills. They drink beer and watch football, remotes glued to their hands. That’s how they are on television anyway. Most TV dads are a little clueless, big kids. Bad dads turn up mostly in movies and lit class: the Great Santini, Huck’s dad—they’re angry and mean and sometimes drunk.

But this man at the wheel, his dad, is not so easy to