behavior. And Dr. Aiken's preposterous allegation that Steven may also have been dyslexic -- clearly, he panicked. I take that as a sign he may be scared enough to offer a settlement.
Steven dyslexic? Can that possibly be true?
Nonsense. And the notion that Steven had been so desperate to please his novelist father that he would conceal a reading disability -- nothing more than a cheap shot.
I
had
pushed Steven to read, though -- as I had with Paul.
Damn Aiken. Damn him to hell for sowing this doubt.
As I write this, it occurs to me that getting Paul to agree to testify would greatly bolster our chances. Somehow, I've got to get him to trust me.
Yes, it all makes sense to me now. The silence between us has gone on too long. We need to talk.
I just don't know what I'll say.
Five days later, he finally worked up the courage.
He asked Paul if he'd like dinner. To John's surprise, Paul said yes. John made spaghetti, with both marinara and alfredo sauces -- the former for Paul, the latter for him. Paul was uncharacteristically helpful, tossing salads, toasting garlic bread, setting the table. Twice, John noticed him looking in his direction. Each time, Paul quickly shifted his gaze elsewhere.
Half an hour later, they sat to eat at opposite ends of the little dining room table.
John took a deep breath. "I saw your guidance counselor the other day."
Paul paused with a forkful of spaghetti. "Yeah?"
"He tells me you skipped your last appointment."
"I guess I did." He resumed eating.
"You want to tell me why you did that?"
"He would have wanted to talk about Mom. I didn't feel like it."
The snake tattoo across Paul's face kept distracting John. "I know you miss her," he said. "You might have a hard time believing this, but I miss her, too. I wish she were here."
On another day, Paul might have made a sarcastic rejoinder. Today, he only sipped from his glass of cola.
"She knew you so much better than I do. But she's gone, and it's just the two of us now. We hardly know each other."
Paul wiped his mouth with his napkin. "Yeah. I've been thinking about that a lot lately."
John smiled, slightly amazed. "I'm glad to hear you say that. Do you have any ideas?"
"Keith says I could come live with him."
John set his fork on his plate with a clank. "Pardon me?"
"He says he's going to talk to his parents. He's sure they won't mind. And I can get a job to pay for --"
"You want to move out?"
"Well . . . yeah."
"Paul --"
"Like you said, we don't know each other. Neither one of us wanted this. You spend all day in your office. And I'm always over at Keith's."
"Your moving out isn't exactly the solution I had in mind."
He pushed his plate of food aside and sat back in his chair, arms crossed. "What, then?"
"Ah . . ." John's hopes of getting Paul to testify dissipated like smoke. "I don't know, exactly. I thought we could maybe spend more time together. Talk more often. Maybe go to a movie now and --"
"You're kidding, right?"
"Let's not get into an argument."
"Fine." He stood and picked up his plate.
John rose, too. "Where are you going?"
Wordlessly, he took his plate to the kitchen.
John followed. "Hey, we're not done talking here, are we?"
"
I
am." He dumped the plate, still half full of pasta, into the sink, then shouldered past John and returned to the dining room for his glass.
John stood in the entryway. "I really think we need to --"
Paul glared, and the words died in John's mouth. Paul retrieved his glass and headed back toward the kitchen. John stood his ground, blocking Paul's path.
"Get out of my way," Paul said.
John took a breath. "You're not going to bait me into a fight. This is too important."
Paul hurled the glass at him. John ducked; the glass hit the kitchen floor and shattered. Cola and ice cubes splattered across the tile. Slowly, John straightened. He looked from the mess in the kitchen to Paul, standing at the dining room table, flushed and panting.
"I don't want to be here! Don't
Steven dyslexic? Can that possibly be true?
Nonsense. And the notion that Steven had been so desperate to please his novelist father that he would conceal a reading disability -- nothing more than a cheap shot.
I
had
pushed Steven to read, though -- as I had with Paul.
Damn Aiken. Damn him to hell for sowing this doubt.
As I write this, it occurs to me that getting Paul to agree to testify would greatly bolster our chances. Somehow, I've got to get him to trust me.
Yes, it all makes sense to me now. The silence between us has gone on too long. We need to talk.
I just don't know what I'll say.
Five days later, he finally worked up the courage.
He asked Paul if he'd like dinner. To John's surprise, Paul said yes. John made spaghetti, with both marinara and alfredo sauces -- the former for Paul, the latter for him. Paul was uncharacteristically helpful, tossing salads, toasting garlic bread, setting the table. Twice, John noticed him looking in his direction. Each time, Paul quickly shifted his gaze elsewhere.
Half an hour later, they sat to eat at opposite ends of the little dining room table.
John took a deep breath. "I saw your guidance counselor the other day."
Paul paused with a forkful of spaghetti. "Yeah?"
"He tells me you skipped your last appointment."
"I guess I did." He resumed eating.
"You want to tell me why you did that?"
"He would have wanted to talk about Mom. I didn't feel like it."
The snake tattoo across Paul's face kept distracting John. "I know you miss her," he said. "You might have a hard time believing this, but I miss her, too. I wish she were here."
On another day, Paul might have made a sarcastic rejoinder. Today, he only sipped from his glass of cola.
"She knew you so much better than I do. But she's gone, and it's just the two of us now. We hardly know each other."
Paul wiped his mouth with his napkin. "Yeah. I've been thinking about that a lot lately."
John smiled, slightly amazed. "I'm glad to hear you say that. Do you have any ideas?"
"Keith says I could come live with him."
John set his fork on his plate with a clank. "Pardon me?"
"He says he's going to talk to his parents. He's sure they won't mind. And I can get a job to pay for --"
"You want to move out?"
"Well . . . yeah."
"Paul --"
"Like you said, we don't know each other. Neither one of us wanted this. You spend all day in your office. And I'm always over at Keith's."
"Your moving out isn't exactly the solution I had in mind."
He pushed his plate of food aside and sat back in his chair, arms crossed. "What, then?"
"Ah . . ." John's hopes of getting Paul to testify dissipated like smoke. "I don't know, exactly. I thought we could maybe spend more time together. Talk more often. Maybe go to a movie now and --"
"You're kidding, right?"
"Let's not get into an argument."
"Fine." He stood and picked up his plate.
John rose, too. "Where are you going?"
Wordlessly, he took his plate to the kitchen.
John followed. "Hey, we're not done talking here, are we?"
"
I
am." He dumped the plate, still half full of pasta, into the sink, then shouldered past John and returned to the dining room for his glass.
John stood in the entryway. "I really think we need to --"
Paul glared, and the words died in John's mouth. Paul retrieved his glass and headed back toward the kitchen. John stood his ground, blocking Paul's path.
"Get out of my way," Paul said.
John took a breath. "You're not going to bait me into a fight. This is too important."
Paul hurled the glass at him. John ducked; the glass hit the kitchen floor and shattered. Cola and ice cubes splattered across the tile. Slowly, John straightened. He looked from the mess in the kitchen to Paul, standing at the dining room table, flushed and panting.
"I don't want to be here! Don't
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