Sunday 8:47 A.M.
The next morning Brian wore a pair of his fitted, pristine clean white silk boxers as he clumped about making an orange version of his extra-lean protein glop. He got out vegetables, fruit, and raw eggs from the refrigerator and began chopping and stuffing things into a blender. Paul finished dumping the ground beans into the coffee maker and pressed on. He sat down across from his son.
“You okay?” Paul asked.
Brian didn’t look his dad in the eye. He said, “Sure.”
“You were listening to Blues music on your iPod, and you were drinking from the blue bottle. Sometimes you’re down when that happens. Anything you’re down about?”
Brian finally caught his dad’s eye for a second or two then looked down. “I’m okay.”
Paul let it go. If it were a teenage secret or a teen tragedy or a teen love affair or some other storm in his son’s life, he’d have to wait to hear about it.
“Did your brother apologize?”
“Yeah. I feel bad for him lots of times.”
“You know he doesn’t like pity.”
“I know. I don’t show it to him. I don’t say it to him, but I feel bad for him. I wish I could make it so he wouldn’t have to be in a wheelchair.”
Every day since the boy was born, Paul had felt the same thing.
Sunday mornings were quiet newspaper reading time. Brian read the New York Times Sunday sports section as well as going out and buying the final editions of the Chicago papers so he’d have the most up to date articles and in depth coverage especially of local high school teams.
Jeff did the New York Times crossword puzzle. In ink. Much to his brother’s annoyance. Although this Sunday before starting on the puzzle, Jeff completed one of Brian’s weekly chores. The youngster dusted all the downstairs, then vacuumed. Paul was glad to see that Brian, without being asked, helped his younger brother by moving the larger pieces of furniture so he could vacuum under them. He liked watching the boys work together.
Ben concentrated on the Week in Review section and the front page. Paul started with the Style and Travel sections. He still read the entirety of all the same-sex marriage announcements every week. Eventually, he and Ben and Brian would switch sections of the paper. Jeff clutched onto the puzzle and stayed close to his Internet connection sometimes for hours in his quest for completion.
They’d resolved the going to church issue a few years before. The two boys had asked to speak with Paul and Ben together. They’d presented theological, philosophical, and logistical arguments.
Paul wound up chatting with Mrs. Talucci about her attendance. She’d been feuding with various parish priests and pastors for years. She was too liberal for them. But on that bright, humid, July, Sunday morning, she’d patted his cheek and said, “I don’t go because I don’t believe in imaginary invisible beings in the sky who can angrily or benevolently influence our lives.”
“The boys talked to you.”
“Some time ago. Jeff especially expressed lack of belief. He was looking for an excuse for years to stop going to church. When Brian stopped going, he saw his opening. Brian is a sweet, smart boy. Jeff is smart and sensitive.” Her smile widened. “But you know that.”
“Why didn’t they tell me they talked to you?”
“You could ask them that.” She smiled. “I’m afraid I corrupted your sons.”
“Who better?” Paul said. “At least you were there for them. Thank you.”
“My dear, that was just religion. You’re there for them as their dad. So is Ben. They love you both.”
When he was younger, Paul himself hadn’t made the break with the church he’d grown up with. As an adult, he decided it wasn’t an issue worth fighting his kids about. And the need for belief in a supreme being, he now found childish.
So they spent Sunday mornings quietly.
Before he left for work just after noon, Paul and Ben met in their bedroom.
Ben said, “Kids seem normal. Has Brian been into his secret stash?” Several years ago, Paul had found the box with Brian’s old baseball gloves, souvenirs, baseballs, and trophies in the garage. At the bottom in an old cigar box was Brian’s secret stash.
Of candy bars.
Brian never mentioned their existence. If the boy felt a need to cheat on his self-imposed health food regimen, Paul and Ben agreed they didn’t need to bring it up. They both knew that the supply got depleted when the boy was under stress.
Paul said, “I checked a few minutes ago. Nothing in it has passed its expiration date so it’s reasonably fresh like it always is. It looked the same as it did after he got over the break up with Mary Ann what’s-her-name a few months ago.”
“That was serious.”
“I know the supply was down a lot then, and way down after they lost the baseball championship last year. Last time I looked it was full. I haven’t checked it in a while.”
“Me either.”
Ben said, “It’s down a lot now.”
“So he could have been munching for months.”
“He’s pretty faithful on his health food diet. I just don’t check it that often.”
“I never felt the need.”
“Level of candy as a sign of a teenager’s state of mind?”
“Good as any. Better than some.”
“If it’s accurate.”
“It’s another indicator that tells us we need to be watchful.”
“So what do we do?”
“Worry.”
Ben sighed. “Like every parent ever.”