He sat in a broad cushioned chair, keeping his Lazarus tasselled loafers off the vast Persian rug, and she settled across from him on a cream-colored sofa, draping one aerobicized leg over the other. She had become a stick person with breasts.
“About our son,” Will prompted, moving quickly past the uncomfortable small talk.
“Something’s wrong with him,” she said, sitting upright with her hands carefully folded in her lap, as if she were talking to a client.
“He’s a young man,” Will said. “I’ve always thought you should lock up the young men until they were thirty. The young women you can let out at twenty.”
Not even a smile.
“He’s so aimless,” she went on. “He wanted to go to Portland State, for god’s sake. So, okay. He ended up dropping almost every class so he wouldn’t get a failing grade.”
Will was tempted to say something about Cindy continuing to give him money, letting him live at home. He held the head of his cane tighter.
“He was out all Saturday night,” she went on. “Dragged himself in at eight the next morning. Thought I wouldn’t even notice! Wouldn’t say where he was. But I knew. I got a call around midnight from Heather Bridges’ mother. She had a date with him. We talked later, on Sunday, after Heather came home. Her mother said they were out on the river all night with some other kids from Summit.”
Atomic particles in Will’s brain wished he didn’t know this information. But hundreds of young people were on the river this time of year.
He said, “What does he do with his time?”
“He still reads all the time. He rides his bike.”
“Does he have a job?”
She shook her head.
“I had to work my way through college.”
“Kids are different now,” Cindy said. “They take longer to grow up. You can read it anywhere. Anyway, he doesn’t need money.”
“That’s part of the problem.”
Her voice rose. “You have no right to judge!”
“Okay.”
“Will, I’m afraid he’s into drugs again.” She leaned forward. “I want you to talk to him.”
“He came to see me the other night,” Will said.
“Did he say anything?”
Will shook his head. “We only had a beer and watched the city. If he had something to tell me, he kept it to himself.”
“William!” It was that familiar voice, harsh and frustrated.
“What do you want me to do, Cindy?” Everything was transactional with her. He felt the old toxic feelings returning. “Why haven’t you talked to him? Have Brad talk to him. What about his real father?”
She stood. “You are so…so much the same.”
He stood and left without another word. The walkway was slanted down. He was extra aware of it and wished he hadn’t enjoyed that second beer with Cheryl Beth. Next came the steps. Those would be more dangerous: Not even a shrub to hold onto. He did all the things he had been taught to steady himself and made the first step down.