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Dave looked forward to quiet solitude as he also left the restaurant on foot. He needed time to consider this opportunity. His landlords, who lived in the rest of the house, had children, but the muffled noise didn’t bother him. They’d still be in school for a little while, anyway. The house was fairly large, with a dramatic curved porch featuring gingerbread trim that swooped from the front to the side. He couldn’t decide if it had once been a grand house or had just aspired to be, but he suspected the latter. The neighborhood didn’t seem like it had ever been prosperous. His walk took him first by the hulking old mill buildings, then the food pantry, where he often saw (and, truth be told, considered joining) long lines trailing up the sidewalk. Past that was the liquor store, an abandoned old school, and several sagging apartment buildings, wooden three-story structures with flattish roofs that were ill-advised in a place with heavy snowfall.
His house had been built as a single-family dwelling, but by knocking holes for doors in some places and walling over others, a cobbled together studio apartment had appeared in one large dormer. His dark, steep, narrow staircase divided the space up into a “kitchen” on the left, where he had to stoop to fry eggs on his hotplate, and a living room/bedroom, where he slept on a futon that by day became his couch. At the head of his stairs was a compact bathroom.
It was small, but all that he needed, and cheap, so he was happy. He enjoyed the company of his landlords and that was, after all, priceless. Kim was slight with straight brown hair that hung just below her jaw, dark bangs in a stark line across her forehead. She was very quiet except when she needed her kids and they were in another room. Because she was shy and still getting used to Dave being around, she tried to avoid running into him, but was very kind when she did. Her shoulders pulled forward and in a bit, like she was protecting her heart, and her demeanor suggested that she wasn’t sure she was worth knowing or that anyone wanted to hear what she had to say.
Her husband was something else entirely. Phil was tall and handsome with a dark beard and gray eyes. He always wore a hat outside, leather with a broad brim. He had a lot of interesting ideas about economics and politics, but Dave avoided him when he had his head under the hood of one of his broken-down vehicles. “Craigslist specials,” he called them. The slightest greeting in that case might suck you into a long lecture about anything from fuel efficiency to transfer cases. Phil was highly intelligent on any subject he deigned to talk about. When Dave had begun his tenancy with the Bilodeaus, it was following a long meal, which was their way of evaluating applicants. Phil had held forth eloquently on a number of subjects and Kim said softly and without irony, “My husband is pretty much a genius.”
“I see what you mean,” Dave answered, smiling, and adding a bit impulsively to the master of the house, “I’m surprised you’re not in professional field instead of . . . of . . .” He floundered as he fruitlessly tried to define Phil’s life work without insulting him.
“Instead of a jack-of-all trades and two-bit auto mechanic?” Mr. B. guffawed, “Instead of a grimy landlord? Ha!” His face turned suddenly sober to comic effect and he added, “I’d rather die than work an office job. In fact, it would kill me.” Dave realized he wasn’t completely joking as Kim looked at him and nodded vigorously in agreement.
Mr. and Mrs. B. seemed like an odd couple in both body and mind, but when you caught them together, the chemistry was visible in their banter and earnest discussions. She sparkled in his presence, and Dave suspected that Phil had been a different man before his wife came along as well.
The Bilodeaus weren’t in that afternoon when Dave got home. The cars were gone, so he guessed that they were on errands or that one of Mr. B.’s odd jobs had popped up. (“I like to put the ‘odd’ in ‘odd job’,” he had quipped one time after returning from a frantic call from a woman whose home was being terrorized by a rogue squirrel. “Picked it off in one shot,” Mr. B. said. “Didn’t even nick the clapboard.” Dave hoped that the family had not been inside the house at the time, even if Mr. B. was a sharpshooter.)
Inside, Dave dropped his keys on a still unpacked box, did a few stretches as was his habit, and settled onto the futon. Let’s see; it was a Friday, almost 2 o’clock. Dad should be off work. Dave picked up his phone and dialed.
“Hello?” Did Dad’s voice sound quavery? Weak? Tired? Dave was always trying to evaluate him from afar, worried because he was still alone in Tremain.
“Hi, Dad, it’s Dave.”
“Oh hi, Dave! How are you?” Dad’s voice was now unmistakably joyful.
“I’m good. How are you? Were your feet ok at work?” Dave wished that Dad could retire. Someday. Maybe if this business took off.
“Oh sure, I’m fine. How was your meeting today?”
Dave drew a deep breath. “I . . . I’m not sure. We talked a lot, but a lot of it wasn’t about the business. I don’t know what happened. She drew me out.”
“She? She did, did she? Interesting, interesting . . .” Dad was always trying to find Dave a partner in life.
“Please, Dad.”
“I’m sorry, son. What was she like?”
“Well, she was nice enough, but I don’t think she’s too enthusiastic about my studio. She doesn’t want to give me false hope.”
Dad’s voice went instantly from teasing to defensive. “Don’t you let that get you down, son. You can do this.”
“It’s not a matter of bravado or boldness, really, though, is it? If the market isn’t there, it’s not there.” Dave pulled a blanket around his shoulders and looked out over the tops of houses towards the mills.
“Who knows what will happen unless you try?”
“The data knows. I kinda wish we lived before all this data when you could just not know you were doomed from the start.”
“What data did she show you?” Dad’s concern was tinged with genuine curiosity.
“Well . . . I suppose she didn’t actually show me any. She just talked a lot. But you know what they say, 80% of new businesses fail or something like that.”
“That’s not data. You just made it up.” Dave could hear the smile in Dad’s voice.
“Well . . . but you know . . . people are always saying something like that.”
“That’s a far cry from real information, you know that. So why has it got you down?” Dad was unfailingly gentle and concerned, even when correcting him.
Dave sighed, “I just don’t know. I just feel like the odds are against me.”
“It’s emotions that have you down, son. Not data.”
“I could help you more if I just got a normal job working for someone else, maybe.”
“You’re a good son, Dave. I’m ok. Don’t worry about me. All I want is to know my son is all right.”
“I don’t know if I am all right.”
“You’re all right by me.” A silent current of emotion quivered between them. Finally, Dave needed to break it.
“What are you doing tonight?”
“I think I’ll cook some pasta that I brought home from the store today. Then I’ll probably put my feet up and see what’s on.” Dave pictured Dad in his creaky recliner with a plate full of spaghetti and the light of the TV on his face. It made him homesick.
“Maybe I’ll come home.”
“You can always come home, son.”
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