The Linnet's Wings | Page 38

WINTER ' FOURTEEN “You’re the one going on about living. Well, I want to fucking live tonight.” I turned my back on her. “I want to get drunk like the guys, ride around.” “Is that your opinion? Or what your friends think?” She pursed her lips. “Your friend, Frank Lawrence.” “Mother, I’m going to that party. Merry Christmas.” I whirled around, bathed in the warmth of the lights inside. “Fine. Have your goddamned party. You’re so like your father,” she said. I knew she was displeased. Not with me, but with something indescribable, something I can’t put my finger on, even now. The door was slightly ajar. There was a large Christmas tree in the living room. The room smelled of pine needles and tomato soup. Half-empty martini glasses lined the coffee table and the top of the television. The Drifters were singing White Christmas on a hi-fi. The man who’d been staring out the window sat on the couch. He waved at my mother, a crooked smile lining his face. Sylvia stood frozen, as though she were a stranger, caught between two worlds and uncertain of which to choose. “Hello,” she finally said, frowning. “Sylvia, I didn’t think you’d make it,” he said, his voice reminding me of Gregory Peck. He had jetblack hair that was neatly parted at the side, the traces of a beard growing in. He looked like he was Sylvia’s age. He thumbed through a ripped Time magazine, shaking his head, and his legs were propped up on the coffee table. “I suppose that’s a surprise to both of us.” Sylvia looked down at the carpet, squeezing her hands together. “This is my son, Matthew. Matthew, this is Nicky Schmidt.” “Is he a friend?” “Nicky teaches at the college, sweetheart,” she said. “English. We know each other here and there.” He nodded, but didn’t speak. He took a long gulp of his Pabst, belching. His sleeves were rolled up, and I could make out a long V-shaped bruise across his right elbow. This was a man who had fought. He knew something of the world. I knew that then. “Out charming the ladies, are we Nick?” “No. Not much.” He laughed. “That’s good to know. I’m going to get a drink,” Sylvia said. She slipped into the kitchen, stopping to talk to a group of women huddled around the dining-room table. Nicky looked at me again. He twirled the bottle cap again, staring at it in fascination. He smelled of grime and Old Spice, mixed with a hint of grease, something I’d only noticed now. “Nobody bothers you out here,” he said, looking at a large crucifix on the wall. “That’s what I like about this place. Bet you’d like to get the hell out, wouldn’t you?” “I’d like to be a lawyer,” I said. “A lawyer,” he said, shaking his head. He laughed. “I would have said a football player. You’ve the build for it. I used to play at Notre Dame.” “I don’t like football,” I said. “Sylvia says it’s a gladiator sport. It’s the downfall of the United States.” Nicky smiled, raising his Pabst in a salute. “Damned good beer,” he said. “Pabst. Nothing like beer, while we rot in football hell, according to your mother. Do you drink?” “A little,” I said. Sylvia had occasionally let me have a glass of wine, which I know did not constitute The Linnet's Wings