OLIVER GRIPPED THE DOOR HANDLE but couldn’t bring himself to pull it. “I’m not sure this is such a great idea.”
“Would you stop worrying so much?” Mattie said. “You’re going to give me an ulcer. Besides, if I recall correctly, you didn’t think our other adventure this morning was such a great idea either. And how did that turn out?”
Oliver stared at her.
“Never mind,” she said.
Mattie had volunteered to give Oliver a ride home after their shift. But instead of driving toward his house, she had paused at the mouth of the parking garage and said, “So what do you think? Is it time to crack Vandy?”
“What are you talking about?”
“I read your notebook, Oliver. You’ve ‘audited’ classes at every college or university in a thirty mile radius, except for Vanderbilt. I believe you called it your holy grail?”
Mattie removed a folded printout from her purse and tossed it into Oliver’s lap. It was a comprehensive class schedule that she had gleaned from the internet. “I highlighted a few choice options. But it really needs to be your call.”
In the end, they decided to ease into things. After parking illegally, they ate a quick breakfast in one of the many campus dining facilities. When Oliver grew weary of Mattie calling him a big chicken, he took a caffeinated swig of courage, pointed toward a nouveau-hippie girl at a nearby table, and said, “That’s the one.”
Mattie followed his gaze and said, “She is cute. But I thought we were here to complete your bucket list, not help you score chicks.”
The hippie girl finished bussing her own table, shrugged into her messenger bag, and headed for the exit. “We’ll follow her and sneak into whatever class she’s going to.”
“No, you will. I’m going to stand guard.”
Oliver was almost disappointed when he saw the enormity of the auditorium-style classroom. He’d missed the name of the class, but the lecture was peppered with profuse amounts of polysyllabic scientific jargon. Oliver had nestled into his seat and was nodding off when he heard a loud knock at the door. The professor looked more befuddled than Oliver felt when Mattie strode purposefully toward the lectern.
“Please pardon the interruption, Professor,” she said, very stern and professional. “My name is Matilda Holmgren from Admissions, investigative branch. We have it on good authority that your class may have been infiltrated by an interloper.”
The professor responded by scratching his bald spot. Oliver slunk further into his seat.
“This should only take a minute,” Mattie said. “Do you have your roll sheet handy?”
The professor looked around for a teaching assistant, who did eventually step forward with an orange binder. She flipped to a particular tab and waited.
Mattie said, “Do you show an Oliver Miles registered for this class?”
A thousand eyeballs tracked along with the assistant’s fat finger as it traced the long line of names. “Nope, no Oliver Miles.”
“Just as we suspected,” Mattie said like a bad actor in a worse movie. Then she cocked her chin toward the darkened auditorium. “Okay, Mr. Miles, you can make this easy on yourself. Or we can do it the hard way.”
Oliver considered ignoring her and trying to see how she wormed her way out of the public spectacle she was making. But she was looking right at him, which meant that, one by one, everyone else in the room was too. So Oliver stood, excused himself down a long line of students, and shuffled down the steps. When he slipped his hands into his pockets, Mattie said, “And please keep your hands where I can see them.”
This created a wave of suspicious murmurs that ended as Oliver approached the double doors. That’s when Mattie grabbed his arm and started running for the exit.
Once outside, Oliver faced Mattie and said, “Why on earth did you go to all that trouble to sneak me into class if you were just going to barge in and drag me out again?”
“For the thrill of it,” she said. “Besides, you looked totally bored in there. I think you may have even nodded off a time or two.”
“Does that mean you were watching me?”
“That was strictly research, Oliver Miles.”
Now here she was, four hours later, asking him to trust her with another of her harebrained schemes. Oliver shook his head and said, “I’m afraid this idea might be worse.”
“Don’t make me call you a sissy.” Mattie reached across Oliver’s lap and opened the passenger door of her mother’s borrowed minivan for him. He had to resist competing urges to sniff Mattie’s hair, run his finger along the curve of her neck, and kiss the back of her head. “Look,” she continued, “all you have to do is go flirt with the new receptionist a little. And keep one eye on the beefy security guard.”
“Maybe you should go flirt with the security guard and keep an eye on the new receptionist?”
“I don’t believe in flirting, remember?” she said. “Besides, you really think you’re up for sneaking upstairs and breaking your mother out of this place all by yourself?”
“Never mind.”
“It will be fine, Oliver. Just play it cool.”
“But I already am playing it cool.”
The grin started on the right side of Mattie’s face this time. She planted the tip of her tongue into the smiling corner, as if trying to stem the laughter welling up behind it. But it was no use; she cracked up anyway. As she finally shooed him out the door, Mattie said, “Hate to tell you this, but that may be the funniest thing you’ve ever said.”
Oliver wandered into the lobby in time to watch the changing of the guard, literally. The regular daytime security officer stood towering over his diminutive replacement, delivering an official briefing of the many security concerns the night watchman might encounter. They intentionally ignored Oliver for what seemed like five minutes, which was fine with him. Finally, the big guard acknowledged Oliver’s presence with a curt, “Can I help you?”
“Just here to see my mom.”
“Visiting hours just ended.”
Oliver looked at his watch, then feigned surprise. “Huh, would you look at that?” Then he lifted the watch to his ear, proving again that his vapid improv skills were obviously not limited to the stage. It was a digital watch.
The skinny guard alternated his anxious gaze between Oliver and his bulky comrade, his hand absently fingering the can of mace on his belt. Oliver suppressed an overwhelming urge to whistle something tuneless and banal. Instead, he said, “Mind if I use the restroom then?”
“I’d rather you not.” It was the guard with the muscles. “Cleaning crew just left.”
“It’s kind of an emergency.”
“Just be quick about it. Like I said, visiting hours are over.”
Oliver ambled toward the restroom, turned, and pressed his shoulder blades against the door. He was halfway inside when he saw headlights flash, then the front of Mattie’s mother’s Odyssey appear under the portico. Oliver was walking—entirely too quickly—toward the exit when the big guard (with the equally big voice) said, “I thought you needed the men’s.”
“I can hold it.”
“I thought it couldn’t wait? That it was some big emergency?”
“It comes and goes.” Oliver walked quicker now. “Anyway, guess I’ll see you guys laterhaveagreatdaygoodnight!”
He sprinted the last few steps, bounded out of the lobby, and leapt into the already open van door. When he finally caught his breath and snapped his seatbelt into place, Oliver noticed his mother perched in the captain’s chair behind Mattie, belted in and smiling at nothing in particular. It dawned on him that, as far as he knew, she hadn’t ridden in a car in years.
“That was fast,” he said.
“I had a key.” Mattie eased the van out from under the portico, then looped around the building.
“Where are you going?” Oliver said.
“Back around to the gate.”
“Did you forget something?”
“Sort of, yeah.” Mattie eased to the curb and put the van in park. Then she got out and motioned for Oliver to climb across to the driver’s side. Through the open window she said, “You guys go ahead. I’ll catch up later.”
“Wait, no, we’re not leaving you behind.”
“Of course you are,” she said, taking a quick inventory of her backpack purse. “I just need to check on a few things. Besides, Roscoe’s expecting you with cake, and ice cream that’s probably melting as we speak.”
“Please tell me you’re not going back inside?”
Mattie shrugged, as if helpless against her own illicit instincts. There was no fear or exaggerated pride in her flushed expression. She was simply doing what needed to be done. Oliver’s imagination suddenly leapt forward a half decade to a placid scene—him sitting sidesaddle in an idling getaway car outside an old-fashioned bank, one hand on the wheel, the other extended into the backseat feeding a baby bottle to the cooing form in the bulky car seat, as a ski-masked Mattie comes running out of the bank with a backpack full of money, firing scattershot over her shoulder while cradling her pregnant belly with her free hand.
She said, “That doctor’s name is Strahan, right?”
“I don’t think this is such a great idea.”
“Trust me, Oliver. It will all work out fine.”
As he pulled away he wondered what it would be like to do stand-up in prison.
• • •
Oliver had no idea what to expect as he escorted his mother through the darkened foyer of Downers. She hadn’t said much since leaving her Shady Grove cocoon, and he didn’t try to push it. So far, her outward reactions had been limited to a single expression—marvel. She wore the blissful look of some interplanetary explorer experiencing the sensory rush of an exotic new world for the very first time. In the movies though, that wondrous expression never really lasted. Things always grew weird or dark or some of both.
Most unnerving though was that she kept calling him Wayne.
Roscoe was nowhere in sight, probably still hiding in his office trying to work up the nerve to come out and face an old friend. Oliver steered his mother toward an elongated table near the back of the restaurant. The word “reserved” was printed on a series of homemade table tents. By the time he had his mother seated, Oliver’s expectations had flatlined and he was wondering if this was such a great idea. He sat beside her, unsure what to say or do next, silently reviling Mattie for talking him into this ridiculous scheme and Roscoe for not talking him out of it, then both of them for abandoning him to do the heavy lifting. Mostly he was surprised how sitting alone with his mother in public made him so uncomfortable.
Delores’s attention seemed riveted on a flurry of activity near the stage. A large crowd had materialized and apparently caught the wait staff off guard. Oliver wondered if one of the stand-ups had invited everyone he knew to come see the show. Then he remembered that Downers didn’t do comedy on Wednesday nights.
He faced his mother and said, “Are you okay to stay put here for a few minutes?”
She nodded, still fascinated with all the bustling activity. Oliver picked his way through the labyrinth of tables toward Roscoe’s office. He didn’t knock.
Roscoe sat behind his desk, thick-veined hands gripping the armrests of his chair, eyes closed.
“You’re not dead, are you?”
Roscoe shook his large head.
“Sleeping?”
“Praying, actually.”
“For what?”
“Courage, I think. Maybe a sign?”
“I guess it just did.”
“How’s that?” Oliver said, genuinely curious.
“You showed up.”
“Funny, I don’t think I’ve ever been an answer to prayer before.”
Roscoe blinked at Oliver, then again. “I think you might be surprised.”
“And I think you’d better get out there. Looks like a chartered bus just broke down on your doorstep.”
Roscoe did not look rattled. He never did. However, when he pushed back from his desk, Oliver noticed that he did look old. And weary. And a little frightened.
They emerged from the short hallway together, paused to take in the peculiar scene unfolding in front of them, then regarded each other with equal measures of shock, confusion, and cautious delight.
Delores Miles stood at the end of the bar. And for one horrifying moment, when Oliver saw his mother’s arms hovering behind her back, he thought she was being arrested. Instead, she was tying apron strings into a bow. Two of her former colleagues appeared by her side. They seemed to be swapping pleasantries, waitressing strategies, and even a few jokes. It felt like watching an old home movie as she settled into what she used to refer to as her preflight routine. She popped a stick of Big Red into her mouth, scribbled on the back of her hand to make sure her ink pen worked, then checked her hair and makeup in the mirror behind the bar. Before taking off again, she lathered on some lipstick, then thumbed the excess from the corners of her mouth. Oliver wished he could pause the tape, or at least sit and watch it in slow motion for a while.
“Wow,” Oliver said. “Would you look at that?” But Roscoe was already huddled up with his assistant manager, no doubt trying to figure out what to do about their unexpected guests and uninvited waitress.
Delores narrowly averted colliding with a tray full of drinks as she quick-pivoted toward the activity down front. Instinct took over as she simultaneously pushed tables together, memorized drink orders, and politely bossed people around. She seemed incapable of talking to anyone without also touching them, from playful attention-getting jabs to lingering shoulder pats to scooching herself into already full booths to flirt with patrons. In an attempt to ward off a creeping sense of jealousy, Oliver averted his eyes. They landed on the front door, which only made him wonder what Mattie was up to.
With nothing better to do, Oliver sat at the table reserved for his mother’s party and watched. Eventually Roscoe eased into the seat beside him.
“So what’s the plan?” Oliver said.
“I guess we keep an eye on her. Lord knows, we can use the help tonight.”
At the kitchen window, Delores clothespinned an order to a sagging metal wire. She shouted something unintelligible at the fry cook. When an aging Korean busboy ambled by, she pinched his butt, then feigned innocence when he grinned up at her. On her way back to her section, Delores Miles detoured by the mostly empty party table and plopped onto Roscoe’s lap.
“Busy night, eh boss? Feels like I haven’t seen you in ages.”
“It has been a while,” Roscoe said.
She rested a hand on Oliver’s shoulder and squeezed. “Good to see you again too,” she said. He had no idea if she was talking to her son or her son’s former roommate or some other compensatory figment of her imagination. Frankly, he didn’t really care. She had initiated contact. And her hand felt warm again.
“So what are you boys drinking?”
Roscoe bleated out the word “coffee.” Oliver managed a “me too.” Delores accused them of boring her to death, then promised to put on a fresh pot.
Watching his mother was like looking into the sun. After a while it began to hurt, to make his eyes water. But Roscoe never took his eyes off her. Oliver was considering a field trip into the parking lot for some fresh air and a pointless look around for Mattie when she finally pushed her way into the foyer. He waved her over and introduced his newest friend to his oldest one. After they assured each other that they’d heard so much about the other, Mattie sat and followed their collective gaze to the bustling form of Delores Miles.
“She looks happy,” Mattie said.
The men nodded in unison.
“Who are all these seats reserved for, anyhow?”
Oliver looked at Roscoe who looked back, baffled. Even in her healthiest days, a party for Delores Miles wouldn’t warrant a dozen seats. She didn’t have friends; she had ex-boyfriends, co-workers, Roscoe, and Oliver.
Mattie and Oliver moved tables as Roscoe motioned for the hostess to start sending guests to all the newly available seats.
Then they sat and sipped their coffees and watched Delores Miles work. When she did stop by the table she called Roscoe and Mattie by name, but avoided calling Oliver anything. She did stare at him a lot though with a feline curiosity, as if trying to solve him. And at one point she said, “I haven’t felt this energized since, you know, since Oliver was …”
Her voice trailed off when she realized what she’d said.
Oliver sensed Mattie’s and Roscoe’s blatant attempts at not staring. It had been a small eternity since Delores Miles had said her son’s name. Finally he said, “I’m sure wherever he is right now, he’s got his eye on you. Probably both.”
“You think?”
“Yeah, I pretty much know.”
Delores winked toward heaven and said, “I’ll bet you’re right.”
Then she did the unthinkable.
First, she leaned forward and planted a soft, sweet kiss on Oliver’s forehead. In a stage whisper, she told Mattie, “Whatever you do, honey, do not let this one get away.”
Then she stood, cracked her back with a grimace, and announced to Roscoe she was going to take a smoke break. When Oliver tried to protest, both Mattie and Roscoe stared him down. As they watched her disappear into the kitchen, Oliver was struck again by how much she resembled her old self. And how that made him miss her even more.
Roscoe got up to go tend the business of his restaurant.
“Are you okay, Oliver?” Mattie said.
“I’m not sure. It’s been a long, long time.”
“Believe it or not, she says your name all the time. Just not when you’re around.”
Oliver nodded, then said, “So where have you been? And please don’t tell me you snuck back into Shady Grove.”
“You want me to lie?”
“Okay, then. Why did you go back?”
“Research.”
“What kind of research?”
“The kind we’re going to talk about later. You have more important things to occupy your mind tonight.”
Mattie could have no idea how right she was. She excused herself to the restroom and Oliver watched her go, able to observe the two women he cared most about in this world at the same time. That’s when he realized he’d reduced them both to props and punch lines. It was not a pleasant realization. And Oliver resolved once again to come clean. He was going to tell Mattie about her dad, confess to using her in his act without her consent, confront her about her breaking and entering, and maybe even tell her exactly how he felt about her. If, that is, he could actually figure it out.
Roscoe returned to the table first. “You up for doing a set tonight?”
“A what?”
“Comedy. You’ve been bugging me since forever to work this room. So how about it?”
“I don’t think so,” Oliver said, not sure if it was regret or relief that was making his insides tingle.
“You sure? I’ve been hearing some good things about your new material. And it might actually help her remember.”
“Wouldn’t that break your secret pact with my mother?”
Roscoe seemed to think about this, then said, “That was a promise to a friend. Tonight she’s my employee again.”
Oliver shook his head. “Even if I managed to get up there and open my mouth, I’m not sure I could actually squeeze the words out past the lump in my throat.”
“You too, huh?”
They sat in silence, watching Delores Miles in action. As it dawned on Oliver that he’d just casually dismissed his lifelong dream, it also occurred to him why. Aside from the obvious distraction of his mother waiting tables, Mattie had never seen him do stand-up. Plus, all his good material either impugned or incriminated everyone in the room that he actually cared about. Mostly though, Roscoe’s offer reeked of pity. And Oliver did have enough professional pride to actually still want to earn his spot at Downers.
“You think she’s really back to normal?” Oliver said, mostly to change the subject in his own mind. “Or that she could be someday?”
“Who knows? But before you get any ideas, Oliver, you know I can’t let her work here. Not after tonight.”
“Can’t? Or won’t?”
Roscoe’s face tightened. He kept his eyes on Oliver as he motioned toward the bar with his stubbly chin. “Have you smelled her breath?”
Oliver shook his head, suddenly mortified.
“She’s been sampling all night, just like old times.”
Mattie resumed her seat next to Oliver and said, “I don’t believe I’ve ever seen two more maudlin faces in my life.”
They didn’t argue. Nor did they pretend to snap out of it. All three simply sat and watched Delores Miles, each nursing their own thoughts. Finally, Mattie said, “Hate to break up this little party. But we do need to think about getting her back.”
It was true. Her complexion had gone waxy and pale. And as the night wore on she was moving much slower than before. Her playful banter had taken on a testy edge. And when she tried to blow her bangs out of her face, they remained pasted to her forehead in little ringlets.
“What about the party?” Oliver said. “And the birthday cake?”
“I’ll take care of that,” Roscoe said. He then intercepted a passing waitress and delivered a series of animated instructions. Moments later, Delores Miles was shepherded to the small stage as a candlelit cake seemed to float out of the kitchen and the entire room broke into song.
Back at the table, Delores seemed more interested in counting her tips than eating her cake. But she couldn’t seem to stop thanking everyone for remembering her birthday. She stared at the ceiling and did a few calculations, then slid a wad of bills across the table and made Roscoe promise to give the busboys their fair share of her tips.
After three or four small bites she said, “I’m really tired, boss.”
When it was time to actually leave, she hugged Roscoe. But he wouldn’t let go. They held on, swaying gently, slow dancing to a song nobody heard but them. By the time Oliver and Mattie had her strapped back into the van, Delores Miles had resumed that spaced-out look of marvel. Three blocks from the restaurant she was snoring softly in her seat.