VIOLET
Saturday
The next morning when I come downstairs, Theodore
Finch is sitting at the
dining-room table with my parents. His red cap is hooked on the back of his
chair and he’s drinking orange juice, an empty plate in front of him. His lip is
split and there’s a bruise on his cheek.
“You look better without the glasses,” he says.
“What are you doing here?” I stare at him, at my parents.
“I’m eating breakfast. The most important meal of the day. But the real
reason I came is that I wanted to explain about yesterday. I told your parents it
was my idea and that you didn’t want to cut class. How you were only trying
to keep me from getting in trouble by talking me into going back.” Finch
helps himself to more fruit and another waffle.
My dad says, “We also discussed some ground
rules for this project of
yours.”
“So I can still work on it?”
“Theodore and I have an understanding, don’t we?” Dad serves me a waffle
and passes my plate down.
“Yes, sir.” Finch winks at me.
My dad fixes him with a look. “An understanding not to be taken lightly.”
Finch composes himself. “No, sir.”
Mom says, “We told him we’re putting our trust in him. We appreciate that
he’s gotten you back in the car again. We want you to have fun, within reason.
Just be safe, and go to class.”
“Okay.” I feel like I’m in a daze. “Thank you.”
My father turns to Finch. “We’ll need your phone number and contact info
for your parents.”
“Whatever you need, sir.”
“Is your father the Finch of Finch Storage?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Ted Finch, former hockey player?”
“That’s the one. But we haven’t spoken in years. He left when I was ten.”
I’m staring at him as my mom says, “I’m so sorry.”
“At the end of the day, we’re better off without him, but thank you.” He
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gives my mom a sad and wounded smile, and unlike the story he’s telling her,
the smile is real. “My mother works at Broome Real Estate and Bookmarks.
She isn’t home much, but if you have a pen, I’ll give you her number.”
I’m the one who brings him the pen and the paper, setting it down beside
him,
trying to catch his eye, but his dark head is bent over the notepad and
he’s writing in straight block letters:
Linda Finch
, followed by all her
numbers, work, home, and cell, and then
Theodore Finch, Jr.
, followed by his
own cell. The letters and numbers are neat and careful, like they were drawn
by a child expecting to be graded. As I hand the paper to my dad, I want to
say,
That’s another lie. That’s not even his real handwriting. There is nothing
about this boy that is neat and careful
.
My mom smiles at my dad, and it’s a smile that means “time to lighten up.”
She
says to Finch, “So what are your college plans?” And the conversation
turns chatty. When she asks Finch if he’s thought about what he wants to do
beyond college, as in with his life, I pay attention because I actually don’t
know the answer.
“It changes every day. I’m sure you’ve read
For Whom the Bell Tolls
.”
Mom answers yes for both of them.
“Well, Robert Jordan knows he’s going to die. ‘There is only now,’ he says,
‘and if now is only two days, then two days is your life and everything in it
will be in proportion.’ None of us knows how long we have, maybe another
month, maybe another fifty years—I like living as if I only have that two
days.” I’m watching my parents as Finch talks.
He is speaking matter-of-
factly but quietly, and I know this is out of respect for the dead, for Eleanor,
who didn’t have very long.
My dad takes a drink of coffee and leans back, getting comfortable. “The
early Hindus believed in living life to the fullest. Instead of aspiring to
immortality, they aspired to living a healthy, full life.…” He wraps up a good
fifteen minutes later, with their earliest concept of the afterlife, which is that
the dead reunite with Mother Nature to continue on earth in another form. He
quotes an ancient Vedic hymn: “ ‘May
your eye go to the Sun, To the wind
your soul …’ ”
“ ‘Or go to the waters if it suits thee there,’ ” Finch finishes.
My dad’s eyebrows shoot up toward his hairline, and I can see him trying
to figure this kid out.
Finch says, “I kind of have this thing about water.”
My father stands, reaches for the waffles, and drops two onto Finch’s plate.
Inwardly, I let out a sigh of relief. Mom asks about our “Wander Indiana”
project, and for the rest of breakfast, Finch and I talk about some of the places
we’ve been so far, and some of the places we’re planning to go. By the time
we’re done eating, my parents have become “Call me James” and “Call me
Sheryl,” instead of Mr. and Mrs. Markey. I half expect us to sit there all day
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