Andrew know that he is examining the black BMW in the driveway. He whistles appreciatively. "You must be doin' OK," he says. "Hey, I thought
I
was doing good, but a BMW. Whadda they go for nowâtwenty, thirty?"
Actually Andrew is embarrassed by his car and has been since arriving at the farmhouse. It sits in the drive looking as out of place as a woman in a mink at a garage sale. It also makes him anxious in a way he can't precisely define.
"To tell you the truth, I'd rather have your Prelude," says Andrew, lying graciously, since he would not for one minute own a bright red car. "The BMW's too temperamental," he adds, compounding the lie; the understated black vehicle runs as smoothly as a panther.
He leads the way up the back stoop and into the kitchen. With relief he sees that there are three Heinekens on the top shelf of the fridge. T.J. takes the tan jacket off and drapes it
carefully over the back of a white kitchen chair. He rolls his neck, squares his shoulders and leans against the sink. He pops open his beer. Despite his lack of interest in working out, Andrew is impressed by T.J.'s flat stomach.
"So what's it been? Ten years?" asks T.J., taking a long swallow.
Andrew, leaning against the fridge, calculates. "I think it's more like fifteen or sixteen," he says. "I think the last time we got together was seventy-one or seventy-two. We went to see Tom Rush over Christmas break. I think."
"Sixteen years!" says T.J., exclaiming. "Jesus H. Christ. It sounds like something my old man used to say." He shakes his head. "Holy shit."
He runs his fingers up and down the beer can, making patterns in the condensation. "So whadda you do now?" T.J. asks. "You in business or what?"
"I'm with a pharmaceutical firm in the city," Andrew says. "I'm vice-president in charge of marketing and advertising." In this farmhouse kitchen, his job description sounds absurdly pretentious, but T.J. nods his approval.
"You were gonna be a writer," T.J. says.
"And you were going to be a musician. Keyboards."
"Yeah."
"One thing leads to another," says Andrew, for something to add. He doesn't particularly want to go into the specifics, however, of how smoothly he was "led" into moving to New York and taking his first job with the pharmaceutical firm. Nor into the specifics of how quick Martha was to see, in that move, certain financial possibilities.
"Yeah," says T.J. "Right to the bank."
The two men laugh.
"To money," says T.J., raising what's left of his beer in Andrew's direction.
Andrew raises his can in response.
"You married?" asks T.J.
Andrew shakes his head, "I was. We were separated about a year ago. I have a son, Billy. He's seven."
"Hey, man, I'm sorry," says T.J. "About the split, I mean. That's rough. Your idea or hers?"
Andrew reflects that this is the second time in ten minutes T.J. has said he is sorry for Andrewâthree if you count the scolding over not working out.
"I guess it was mutual, the way those things are," he answers evasively.
"Yeah, right," says T.J., draining the last of the beer. He puts the can on the counter.
"Have another," offers Andrew.
"No. Can't. Thanks anyway. I got a corporation this afternoon wants to see the Gunther farm. For condos. Could be a fantastic deal."
"You're in real estate," says Andrew.
"For now," says T.J. "But developing is where it's at. The old farts are selling their landâthe kids don't want to farm anymore. So what else is new, right? It's condos nowâworking couples, retirees, they don't want to have to mow the lawn. I had a deal about a month agoâa developer who bought the Gorzynski place and is putting in a country club with condos, a golf course, a pool, the whole nine yards."
T.J. picks up the empty beer can. He puts it back on the counter. "You gonna be around awhile?" he asks. "I'd like to get you out to the house to meet the kids. I married Didi Hanson, by the way."
"My mother wrote me that," says Andrew. He has an image of Didi
I
was doing good, but a BMW. Whadda they go for nowâtwenty, thirty?"
Actually Andrew is embarrassed by his car and has been since arriving at the farmhouse. It sits in the drive looking as out of place as a woman in a mink at a garage sale. It also makes him anxious in a way he can't precisely define.
"To tell you the truth, I'd rather have your Prelude," says Andrew, lying graciously, since he would not for one minute own a bright red car. "The BMW's too temperamental," he adds, compounding the lie; the understated black vehicle runs as smoothly as a panther.
He leads the way up the back stoop and into the kitchen. With relief he sees that there are three Heinekens on the top shelf of the fridge. T.J. takes the tan jacket off and drapes it
carefully over the back of a white kitchen chair. He rolls his neck, squares his shoulders and leans against the sink. He pops open his beer. Despite his lack of interest in working out, Andrew is impressed by T.J.'s flat stomach.
"So what's it been? Ten years?" asks T.J., taking a long swallow.
Andrew, leaning against the fridge, calculates. "I think it's more like fifteen or sixteen," he says. "I think the last time we got together was seventy-one or seventy-two. We went to see Tom Rush over Christmas break. I think."
"Sixteen years!" says T.J., exclaiming. "Jesus H. Christ. It sounds like something my old man used to say." He shakes his head. "Holy shit."
He runs his fingers up and down the beer can, making patterns in the condensation. "So whadda you do now?" T.J. asks. "You in business or what?"
"I'm with a pharmaceutical firm in the city," Andrew says. "I'm vice-president in charge of marketing and advertising." In this farmhouse kitchen, his job description sounds absurdly pretentious, but T.J. nods his approval.
"You were gonna be a writer," T.J. says.
"And you were going to be a musician. Keyboards."
"Yeah."
"One thing leads to another," says Andrew, for something to add. He doesn't particularly want to go into the specifics, however, of how smoothly he was "led" into moving to New York and taking his first job with the pharmaceutical firm. Nor into the specifics of how quick Martha was to see, in that move, certain financial possibilities.
"Yeah," says T.J. "Right to the bank."
The two men laugh.
"To money," says T.J., raising what's left of his beer in Andrew's direction.
Andrew raises his can in response.
"You married?" asks T.J.
Andrew shakes his head, "I was. We were separated about a year ago. I have a son, Billy. He's seven."
"Hey, man, I'm sorry," says T.J. "About the split, I mean. That's rough. Your idea or hers?"
Andrew reflects that this is the second time in ten minutes T.J. has said he is sorry for Andrewâthree if you count the scolding over not working out.
"I guess it was mutual, the way those things are," he answers evasively.
"Yeah, right," says T.J., draining the last of the beer. He puts the can on the counter.
"Have another," offers Andrew.
"No. Can't. Thanks anyway. I got a corporation this afternoon wants to see the Gunther farm. For condos. Could be a fantastic deal."
"You're in real estate," says Andrew.
"For now," says T.J. "But developing is where it's at. The old farts are selling their landâthe kids don't want to farm anymore. So what else is new, right? It's condos nowâworking couples, retirees, they don't want to have to mow the lawn. I had a deal about a month agoâa developer who bought the Gorzynski place and is putting in a country club with condos, a golf course, a pool, the whole nine yards."
T.J. picks up the empty beer can. He puts it back on the counter. "You gonna be around awhile?" he asks. "I'd like to get you out to the house to meet the kids. I married Didi Hanson, by the way."
"My mother wrote me that," says Andrew. He has an image of Didi
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