at the end of the day people left your parties raving about the food, not just flowers and table settings. So essentially, I have you to thank as much as Aimee for my lifestyle, and you to answer to as much as her. That’s the truth, Ruth.”
I suddenly realize that whatever Aimee may have said to me about this weird arrangement, her explanation for Wayne must have been much different. Because of course, Wayne has no idea that I’ve never really liked him. Oh, boy.
“Well, I think she just wants us both to have time to heal and for us to help each other get through this.”
“Exactly.”
“How’s Noah?” I ask, desperate to change the subject. Wayne’s big face lights up.
“He’s great! I mean, he’s sad too, obviously, but I think it is more that he’s worried about me. He calls me every night to check up on me. I went up to Madison yesterday to see his soccer game, and he scored a goal, so that was amazing! He definitely gets his athleticism from his mom.” Wayne laughs, his pride obvious and unabashed.
Noah is a sweet kid. Polite, relatively low maintenance, the perfect stepson, Aimee always said. “Well, good for him. When do you get him next?”
“He’ll be with Josie and her family for Thanksgiving Day, but then I get him for the rest of the weekend. Then I probably won’t see him till Christmas break.”
Every time I hear Noah’s mom’s name I can’t help but think of Josie and the Pussycats. Figures Wayne would knock up someone from a comic book. At least she didn’t let him name the kid Luke. A lifetime of “Luke, I am your father,” and the bugger would be in a clocktower with a rifle by his fifteenth birthday.
“Well, that will fly by, I’m sure.”
“Yeah. I guess. What are you doing?”
“For the holiday? I’ll be with Andrea and her family for Thursday, the potluck at the Library on Friday, and probably working at the Library on and off the rest of the weekend to give the team a break.”
“That’s nice of you. Maybe Noah and I will stop by!”
“Absolutely. That would be great.”
“You’re doing terrific. See? This isn’t so hard.”
“I do need to bring up our first money discussion. There’s something I want to do.”
Oh. No. Too soon. I swallow the mouthful of burger that has suddenly turned to lead on my tongue.
“You know how Aimee donated a bundle of money to U of C a couple of years ago, to fix up the theater and the quad where they do the plays in the summer?”
“Yeah . . .”
“I want to commission a statue of Aimee for that quad. Right now there’s just a little plaque on a wall that no one can really see.”
“Um, I dunno, Wayne, the university might not . . .”
“They’re totally in! I talked to them today. I even get to pick the artist. And they’ll have an unveiling ceremony and stuff. We’ll have to make an additional donation, and pay for the statue, but I think it will be a great way to honor her, you know?”
“Did Aimee ever say anything about something like this that would make you think she would want it?” Because I know she would be MORTIFIED. Can you imagine? Some hulking bronze statue that undergrads can dress up for holidays, rubbing a boob for luck on their way to their Russian Lit class? Every summer having to either cover it up or incorporate her into the set design for the plays? Ugh.
“Well, not specifically, but she always really liked sculpture. And the guy that did the piece in the living room, the one we bought in Miami? He said he would be available to do it.”
GACK! The heinous sculpture of death. I try to stay calm, after all, this may set the tone for the rest of these discussions, and I have eleven months and sixteen days of them to get through.
“Well, how much are you thinking it will cost?” What the hell, if it is just four or five grand, I might as well let him do it.
“The artist said it would be sixty grand for the commission. And then there would be some installation costs, et
I suddenly realize that whatever Aimee may have said to me about this weird arrangement, her explanation for Wayne must have been much different. Because of course, Wayne has no idea that I’ve never really liked him. Oh, boy.
“Well, I think she just wants us both to have time to heal and for us to help each other get through this.”
“Exactly.”
“How’s Noah?” I ask, desperate to change the subject. Wayne’s big face lights up.
“He’s great! I mean, he’s sad too, obviously, but I think it is more that he’s worried about me. He calls me every night to check up on me. I went up to Madison yesterday to see his soccer game, and he scored a goal, so that was amazing! He definitely gets his athleticism from his mom.” Wayne laughs, his pride obvious and unabashed.
Noah is a sweet kid. Polite, relatively low maintenance, the perfect stepson, Aimee always said. “Well, good for him. When do you get him next?”
“He’ll be with Josie and her family for Thanksgiving Day, but then I get him for the rest of the weekend. Then I probably won’t see him till Christmas break.”
Every time I hear Noah’s mom’s name I can’t help but think of Josie and the Pussycats. Figures Wayne would knock up someone from a comic book. At least she didn’t let him name the kid Luke. A lifetime of “Luke, I am your father,” and the bugger would be in a clocktower with a rifle by his fifteenth birthday.
“Well, that will fly by, I’m sure.”
“Yeah. I guess. What are you doing?”
“For the holiday? I’ll be with Andrea and her family for Thursday, the potluck at the Library on Friday, and probably working at the Library on and off the rest of the weekend to give the team a break.”
“That’s nice of you. Maybe Noah and I will stop by!”
“Absolutely. That would be great.”
“You’re doing terrific. See? This isn’t so hard.”
“I do need to bring up our first money discussion. There’s something I want to do.”
Oh. No. Too soon. I swallow the mouthful of burger that has suddenly turned to lead on my tongue.
“You know how Aimee donated a bundle of money to U of C a couple of years ago, to fix up the theater and the quad where they do the plays in the summer?”
“Yeah . . .”
“I want to commission a statue of Aimee for that quad. Right now there’s just a little plaque on a wall that no one can really see.”
“Um, I dunno, Wayne, the university might not . . .”
“They’re totally in! I talked to them today. I even get to pick the artist. And they’ll have an unveiling ceremony and stuff. We’ll have to make an additional donation, and pay for the statue, but I think it will be a great way to honor her, you know?”
“Did Aimee ever say anything about something like this that would make you think she would want it?” Because I know she would be MORTIFIED. Can you imagine? Some hulking bronze statue that undergrads can dress up for holidays, rubbing a boob for luck on their way to their Russian Lit class? Every summer having to either cover it up or incorporate her into the set design for the plays? Ugh.
“Well, not specifically, but she always really liked sculpture. And the guy that did the piece in the living room, the one we bought in Miami? He said he would be available to do it.”
GACK! The heinous sculpture of death. I try to stay calm, after all, this may set the tone for the rest of these discussions, and I have eleven months and sixteen days of them to get through.
“Well, how much are you thinking it will cost?” What the hell, if it is just four or five grand, I might as well let him do it.
“The artist said it would be sixty grand for the commission. And then there would be some installation costs, et
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