The Prospect Park Senior Outreach Center was done in so many cheery pastels that the overall effect was depressing, the way a clown can be. The liniment in the air didn’t help. Prior to pleading with Grudzev for a one-day extension, Charlie had listened to Helen’s voice mail message, called her back, and gotten the rundown. If it hadn’t included “durable power of attorney”-which would allow him to administer his father’s finances-he almost certainly wouldn’t be here now.
He almost didn’t recognize the man hunched on the couch across the lobby. Usually Drummond sat straighter than most flagpoles, a function of rectitude as much as posture. His hair threw Charlie too. Charlie had correctly anticipated that, in the time since he’d seen him last, it would have turned fully white. The shocker was that it was unruly; Drummond used to keep it close-cropped, and practically regimented, by a standing weekly appointment at the barbershop.
The pajamas also surprised Charlie-not so much because of the incongruity of pajamas in a public place but because he simply couldn’t remember having seen his father in nightclothes before. When Charlie used to get up for school, no matter how early, Drummond was gone. Often, the faint scent of talc was the only evidence he’d come home from the office the night before. More often, he was out of town, singing the praises of his beloved washers and dryers.
“Hey,” Charlie said.
Drummond looked up, and Charlie saw the biggest change in him. His eyes had always been clear, sober, and sharp. Now they were the eyes of a man gazing into deep space and without a flicker of recognition.
“Dad, it’s me,” Charlie said.
“Oh,” Drummond said pleasantly but without familiarity. “Hello.”
Charlie felt as if an icy finger ran up his spine. “Charles,” he tried.
Drummond looked him over, his eyes settling on the Meadowlands Racetrack logo on the sweatshirt peeking out of Charlie’s jacket. Charlie wondered if, subconsciously, he’d put on the sweatshirt to provoke the old man. Although Drummond dabbled in the horses, the track had been their undoing, specifically when Charlie wound up at the Big A instead of staying at Brown for his sophomore year. There was a track axiom Charlie thought perfectly summed up Drummond’s censure: “The gambling known as business looks with austere disfavor upon the business known as gambling.”
Charlie decided now that the sweatshirt was merely a function of probability-a third of his wardrobe was racetrack giveaways.
“Charles!” Drummond exclaimed, as if aware of his presence for the first time. “What are you doing here?”
“Helen called-”
“The social worker?”
“She thought I ought to come pick you-”
“I see. Completely unnecessary.”
“She said that you-”
“No, no, I’m fine. Completely fine.”
“That’s not what-”
“It’s nothing you need to concern yourself with. Also, you should be in school.”
Charlie was given pause. “You don’t mean Brown, do you?”
“Clara Barton,” Drummond said as if the question were inane.
“I graduated from Clara Barton twelve years ago.”
Drummond rubbed his eyes. The vacancy remained.
“Oh,” he said.