A few seconds later, Brian—the same Brian who’d shown up earlier that morning with Mr. Rosetti at Fischer Hall—hurries up to replace me at the microphone, murmuring nervously, “Uh, thank you? Thank you, Heather. Uh, thank you, everyone. Like, Dr., uh, Jessup said, if you want, there will be refreshments in front of the fitness office upstairs. So. That’s all. Good-bye.”
The youth choir, perhaps inspired by this news, bursts into song. Their choice?
“Kumbaya,” of course.
18
All the money in the world
Can’t buy this heart or ruin this girl
’Cause I know where I’m going and where I’ve been
And that’s a road I won’t take again
“Can’t Buy Me”
Written by Heather Wells
“You know,” Pam Don’t-Call-Me-Mrs. Veatch says, her eyes pink from tears. “Owen spoke very fondly of you. I believe that you and Garfield were probably the two people he was closest to in the world at the… end.”
“Wow,” I reply. Which seems inadequate. But what else are you supposed to say when someone tells you something like this? “Thank you, Pam.”
The thing is, if this is true, it’s completely unsettling. Until he’d been killed, I’d rarely, if ever, given Owen Veatch a thought outside of working hours.
But I smile at the Mrs. Veatches, who’d gathered around me as soon as the memorial service was over like a couple of hungry lionesses around a wounded gazelle. I tried not to look too desperate to escape.
“Owen once told me that you were the fastest typist he’d ever seen,” Mrs. Veatch Number One (Owen’s mom) says, with a watery smile.
Pam nods. “He did,” she confirms.
“Well,” I say. “Thank you, Mrs. Veatch. And… Pam.” Owen was obviously talking about someone else. I type like twenty words a minute.
I look around the atrium we’re standing in—the main floor of the student athletic center, which has been transformed into a temporary wake, with long tables set up for punch and cookies. Of course, no one has bothered to close the sports center off to the students, so there are still people in sweats walking through the mourners, showing IDs to the temporary security officers (provided by Mr. Rosetti, and looking quite unlike our own security officers, in that they are considerably larger and more menacing in appearance) in order to get in, then glancing curiously at the floral wreaths and asking, “Is this some kind of ice cream social?”
I am doing my best to avoid certain parties who have shown up, but I don’t seem to be having much success. This is made more than clear when Dad touches my arm.
“Um,” I say. “Hi, Dad.”
“Hi, honey,” he says. “Can I steal you for a minute?”
Great. I need this like I need… well, a bullet in the head.
“Sure. Pam—Dad, this is Pam, Owen’s former wife.”
“Pleased to meet you,” Dad says, pumping Pam’s hand. She’s changed from the creepy rag doll sweatshirt to a subdued black suit. I introduce him to Mrs. Veatch Number One, as well, then walk with him toward a large potted palm sitting by a huge glass wall, part of the atrium that overlooks the school’s indoor Olympic-sized swimming pool, below. The air smells pleasantly of chlorine. I have a feeling the scent is the only thing about this conversation that’s going to be pleasant.
“Thanks for coming, Dad,” I say. “You didn’t have to. It means a lot that you did. You didn’t even know Owen.”
“Well, he was your boss,” Dad says. “I know how much this job means to you. I don’t exactly understand why it means so much. But I understand that you love it.”
“Yeah,” I say. “About that—”
He holds up a single hand, palm out. “Say no more.”
“I’m really sorry, Dad,” I say.
I mean it, too. I am sorry. Well, for Mandy Moore.
“I have to say, if I hadn’t heard that speech you just gave down there about your boss,” he tells me, “I’d have thought—well, that you were making the biggest mistake of your life. But after what you said about why you people do what you do… I think I get why you like this job you do—sort of.”
“It’s just,” I say. “Writing about sippy cups? So not my thing. I did try. But I couldn’t make it work. I just think what you and Larry proposed? I don’t think it would make me happy. I want to break into songwriting someday, I think—but I want it to be on my terms. With my songs, about my experiences. Not stuff about sippy cups. And if that doesn’t happen… I’m okay with it. Because I like what I’m doing now. And I can wait. Really.”
“Well, I figured. But I thought it was worth a shot,” Dad says. “I’ll explain it to Larry. Anyway. I wanted to say good-bye. I took my last box uptown this morning, and I walked Lucy a half-hour ago. I won’t be back. Unless you invite me, of course. And I’ll always call first before coming over… ”
“Oh, Dad,” I say, giving him a squeeze. There’d been a time—not too long ago, actually—when his presence in the house had driven me to the brink of insanity. But now that he was leaving, the truth is, I was kind of bummed about it. “You know you can come over anytime you want. You don’t need to call first—or wait on an invitation.”
“I’m not sure Cooper would agree with that,” Dad says into my hair, as he hugs me back. “But that’s all right.”
“What do you mean?” I throw Cooper, standing over by the punch bowl with Tom, a startled look over my dad’s shoulder. “What did Cooper say?”
“Nothing,” Dad says, as he lets go of me. “You be good, now. I’ll talk to you later.”
“No, I mean it,” I say. “What did Cooper—”
“Heather?”
I fling a glance over my shoulder. Tad is standing there, smiling at me shyly. Talk about bad timing.
“I’ll call you,” Dad says to me, actually making a phone symbol out of his thumb and pinky, and holding it to his face. Geez. When did he get so Hollywood? To Tad, he says, “Later, dude.”
Okay, maybe it won’t be so bad having Dad move out.
“How are you?” Tad asks, stroking my arm.
“I’m fine,” I say. I’m staring after my dad so intently, I can’t help wondering if he can feel my eyes boring holes in his back. What did Cooper say? Why won’t he tell me? Why are all the men in my life conspiring against me? This isn’t fair!