Class - Cecily Von Ziegesar [57]
13
Nick lost his zen the hard way. It was taken from him. He flew into New York’s LaGuardia airport from Portland, Maine, the night before Thanksgiving. Holiday backlog delayed his flight for nearly three hours. Then he couldn’t get a cab. By the time he arrived home, the apartment was dark and his mother and his sister were fast asleep.
All the way home Nick had been thinking about how good his bed would feel when he finally crashed on it. For the past week and a half he’d been sleeping on the plank floor of his yurt. Tom, the asshole, had basically locked him out, insisting that he couldn’t “work” when anyone was in the room. Home at last, Nick fumbled his way through the dark to his room and turned on the light. His bed was gone, replaced by a futon. A large black filing cabinet stood beside his desk, and on his desk was a Macintosh computer that was very definitely not his. The futon had been made up with fresh sheets and an old blanket. On top of the blanket was a note from his mom. Welcome home, babe. Sweet dreams. I’ll explain everything in the morning. xxoo Mom.
Thanksgiving morning he awoke to the pungent smell of frying bacon and the sound of opera. A man was singing loud, obnoxious arias and laughing his head off. Nick got up and put on his cords and his Dexter sweatshirt. He opened his door.
“Mom?” he called, rubbing his eyes. “Mom?”
“We’re in the kitchen, babe!” his mother called back. “Come and meet Morty!”
Nick went to the bathroom first. He suspected that Morty was not a kitten or a puppy or a goldfish; the pair of muddy running shoes in the bathtub confirmed it.
“Hi.” Nick stood in the kitchen doorway scratching his head. His mom looked beautiful in her indigo-colored caftan, her blond curls spiraling down to her waist. His sister Dee Dee was in her lap, eating bacon—real bacon. A man in sweaty running clothes was at the stove, frying up more bacon. He wiped his hands on his T-shirt and strode over to Nick.
“Hello there.” He held out his hand for Nick to shake. “Welcome back. Happy Thanksgiving. Have a seat. I’ve got more bacon coming up.”
Nick stared at Morty’s hand and offered his own limp-wristed one. “I don’t eat meat.”
“I do,” Dee Dee said, stuffing bacon into her mouth. “I love it.”
Morty was still holding Nick’s hand. Nick pulled it out of his grasp. “So are you, like, living here?” he asked rudely.
“Morty and I have known each other since college.” His mom pushed Dee Dee off her lap and breezed toward him, arms wide, the deep V in her caftan spilling open. Nick averted his eyes. She wrapped her arms around him and pulled him toward her. Nick had always allowed her to kiss him all over, nuzzle his hair, press his face into her bosom. He liked it. But this time he arched his back, trying not to get too close.
“There’s my hug,” she said, squeezing him even tighter.
“Hi, Mom.”
She ran her hands over his chest and felt his arms. “Wow, babe. You feel all muscular.”
“Mom,” Nick protested.
“I knew you were still growing! And don’t worry,” she murmured into his ear. “I’m making your Thanksgiving tofu.”
Dee Dee ran over, a piece of bacon flapping from her lips, and wrapped her arms around their thighs. This would have been cute if Morty wasn’t looking on with a smug, paternal smile.
He ruffled Dee Dee’s curly blond hair. “This kid kills me,” he told Nick. “I have another daughter out in California. Grows artichokes. She was never as cute as this one.”
“I like artichokes,” Nick said, trying to remain positive. Another daughter?
“There’s no future in artichokes, especially not those organic ones with worms all over them,” Morty insisted.
He was bald, Nick realized. He’d grown out the curly fringe around the base of his skull to give the illusion of hair. He looked like he was wearing one of those rubber clown masks—big nose, crab apple cheeks, and a ring of hair around a bald rubber pate.
“Morty’s an accountant,” Nick’s mother explained. “Freelance. He’s using your bedroom as an office.”
That was only part of the story. His mom had left out the crucial elements,