the Art Institute. Different place. Not painting—‘graphic arts.’ That worries her, a little. I don’t know.”
“Plenty of call for graphics. Everything’s made out of graphics.”
“We’ll see.”
Fifteen minutes later a tall young man in a Red Sox cap parked his mother’s car outside the family home and trudged through the snow in unsuitable shoes. He was a head and shoulders lankier than his father, skinnier, too, and his face, though good-natured and open, did not have Mike’s sharp architecture. He shook the powder from his feet and smiled bemusedly as his father met him at the threshold of the bar, hugged the boy tightly round his middle, and burst into unabashed tears.
“Hey, Dad . . . Hey, it’s all right. Let’s sit. You’re getting yourself all worked up.”
The son maneuvered them inside into the warm. The look of ardent love in the father’s eyes was such that even Frank, ten yards away, felt oppressed by it.
“Oh, boy, look at that: cried on you,” said McRae, poking at the wet patches on his son’s shirt, while the young man gazed calmly down at his father’s finger, waiting for him to finish. Something about this scene put Frank in mind of St. Thomas, up to the knuckle in stigmata. But of course that was the kid’s name: Tommy.
“Boy oh boy, I’m sorry . . . And the thing that’s nuts is I’m not even sad! I’m so grateful and blessed right now! Look at me! I’m the luckiest man in the world.”
“Okay, Dad. Let’s sit, though. Let’s just sit right here.”
Gently the younger McRae pried the elder’s hands off his person, held them for a moment between his own, then placed them gently on the table.
“Sorry I’m late. You look well, Dad.”
“Nah, I’m ten pounds over. Fifteen. I can’t run—so. All I know is running and cycling. And the doctor’s put the nix on both. I gotta figure out what I can do now! Driving’s got me sitting down all day.” McRae reached over and played a strange sort of jig on his son’s knees. “Hey, you going over to your mother’s after?”
“Um . . . Sure.”
“Good, that’s good.”
Frank came over with a pair of Guinnesses, on a tray no less.
“Your old man instructed me,” he said, and set the sloping drinks down. “He was real clear: when the kid comes, bring out the black stuff, it’s his favorite.”
“Great,” said the son, but took only the vaguest sip of froth, without any sign of pleasure. Mike left his exactly where it was.
“I mean, look at this kid. The length of his arms! They tried to hustle him into basketball—well, of course they would—but no interest, none whatsoever. He’s his mother’s child. She plays the piano, loves pictures. He’s a musical, visual person.”
The son sighed, pointed a finger at his own temple and pulled the trigger: “Arty.”
“Hey, it’s a great thing! Don’t despise it! Not everybody can like sports. Be a dull world if they did.” Mike batted at the peak of the baseball cap. “What is that, anyway? Late-life conversion?”
“Kim’s.”
“His girl’s Korean,” explained McRae. “And I really couldn’t be happier.”
“Nice,” said Frank.
“Couldn’t be happier. Marie either. We’re so proud for both of them. Kim’s at the art school, too. Art is a wonderful thing. Education—that’s another wonderful thing. It’s a gift. But it’s not free! I’ve put three boys through college now and I’m telling you: it’s not easy. Guys like us, we never got that far, never expected to—but even if we had, who would’ve paid for it? It’s serious money!”
Frank whistled: “And it’s the middle class that’s getting squeezed!”
“Right. But we’re in it together, me and Marie—together but apart—if you see what I mean. Bottom line: we’ve always sacrificed for these children. Only place we ever been as a family is Hawaii. Twice. Never been to Europe. Never been to Ireland. But Michael Junior went to France—all over France, for a whole summer. Joe went to Spain that time. And Tommy—you went somewhere with Father Torday—years ago—”
“Edinborough.”
“Right, Edinborough!” McRae reached out and squeezed his son’s shoulder. “And I feel I went to these places, through my boys. And that’s what I’m talking about. If you love your children you make these sacrifices—they’re not even sacrifices, they’re just what you do. And all of that—it can’t just end because it’s over! We’re a family. Twenty-nine happy years—happiest of my life. Honestly, meeting your mother was the luckiest thing that ever happened to me. I stand by that, Tom, I really do.”
“Okay, Dad,”