Page 99 of Caught in a Storm
Caleb has a microfantasy about being with someone so smart that he’s intellectually depleted at the end of the day, like he’s taken a standardized test. Sometimes a crush is just a crush, but sometimes it’s aspirational.
“Okay, yeah,” he says. “Maybe not fine fine.”
“Same with my mum.” Poppy swears and pushes that same strand of hair off her face. “I’m worried about her. She was happy. Now she’s not again, and I don’t know what to do.”
“I understand,” says Caleb. “My dad was pretend-happy. Then he was happy happy when your mom was here. But now he’s just miserable.”
“They miss each other, don’t they?”
“Yeah.”
“But they’re both too stupid to do anything about it.”
Caleb leans back in his desk chair. “My dad played one of your mom’s songs on the street yesterday.”
“Oh my God,” says Poppy. “Like, by himself?”
“Yeah,” says Caleb. “Well, no. A twelve-year-old boy joined him, and a kid named Daquan who plays Home Depot buckets.”
Poppy shakes her head. “That’s sweet, but also the most depressing thing ever.”
Which was exactly what Caleb thought as he watched the impromptu performance yesterday on Thames Street. Caleb, LaVar, and Lincoln chased after Caleb’s dad and Jackson as they speed-walked to where Daquan was set up across from Charm City Rocks. Jackson was hauling the electric piano; Caleb’s dad had his Fender and amp. Daquan was up to jam with them, and Jackson looked thrilled, like he was on a musical adventure. Caleb’s dad, though, after running inside the Horse You Came In On to borrow an extension cord from Beth, played Margot’s song like he was performing at a funeral, like he might start to cry.
“Trust me, it looked even more depressing than it sounds,” says Caleb. “I shot it on my phone. I’ll text it to you. Warning, though, my dad’s voice is pretty terrible.”
“Sounds delightful,” says Poppy. “Oh, by the way. What’s this bullshit I hear about you picking Baltimore over Stanford?”
“What?”
“I mean, none of my business and all, but, dude, it’s California.”
Chapter 54
Tonight, Billy and Caleb finally got around to watching the final episode of the Netflix documentary, which covered the twenty-teens up to the current day. There were a few bright spots, but Billy found it hard to care. The music seemed corporate, and the fashion looked downright dumb. Even the deep-voiced announcer seemed to be straining for enthusiasm as he shoehorned words like “iconic” and “irreverent” into his narration. Not enough time has passed, apparently, for any of it to be interesting.
Toward the end, Caleb said what Billy was thinking. “Margot’s way cooler than any of these posers, huh?”
Billy agreed that she was and is.
And now, in a nice reversal of their roles, even though it’s not even nine o’clock yet, Caleb is asleep on the couch with his laptop on his chest, and Billy is wide awake. He’s committed to finally getting his new kitchen in order. Transition mode has gone on for too long; it’s time to make the place feel like an actual home. He found a nice spot for the espresso machine, and he set placemats out on his kitchenette table. As he unpacks a last box of dishware, he looks over at knocked-out Caleb.
With their son in summer limbo until college starts in September, Billy and Robyn have fallen back into their old co-parenting routine in which Caleb volleys back and forth between them. When he’s here, he prefers sleeping on Billy’s couch next to the Steinway instead of in the little extra bedroom upstairs. He went to his first orientation event at Hopkins the other day: incoming first-year bowling night. When Billy asked if it was fun, Caleb said yeah, “But, you know, I’ve been to Mustang Alley’s a hundred times, so it wasn’t exactly special.”
Billy gathers takeout cartons and soda cans, a few broken-down moving boxes, and shoves them into the yellow bin under his sink. Tomorrow is recycling day.
There’s a quick knock, then the door opens. Robyn says, “Knock, knock,” and enters carrying a box of new Tupperware. “Just wanted to drop this off,” she says. “I told you it was the world’s shittiest housewarming gift.”
“Thanks,” he says. “I’ve seen worse, though. Cay got me a Darth Vader spatula that says ‘Who’s your daddy?’ on it.”
“We’ll call it a tie.” She looks down at their son. “Is he asleep already?”
“I think he’s faking to get out of helping me unpack.”
She looks around at the mess. “Smart move. I’d stay and help, but I don’t think it’s possible to be parked more illegally than I currently am.”
Billy pulls the recycling bin out from under the sink. “Come on,” he says. “I’ll go out with you.”
It’s humid outside, so it still feels as hot as it did at high noon. He sets the bin at the curb next to his neighbors’ bins. Crushed cereal boxes and empty Natty Boh cans as far as the eye can see. He instinctively looks right, down toward his old apartment. It’s brighter in that direction, more signs of life. Robyn’s SUV is double parked halfway down the block, near a fire hydrant and two clearly labeled no-parking signs. “You weren’t kidding,” he says. “That is very illegal.”
