The Millionaires - Brad Meltzer [178]
“What do you think?” mom asks. “It’s just a little coming-home gift. I can put it in a frame or on a pillow—whichever you want.”
Like most of mom’s needlepoints, the slogan is mushy and over-sentimental.
“I love it,” I say.
“Me too,” Charlie agrees. Pulling out his notepad, he scribbles the words as fast as he can. Bloom where you’re planted.As he writes the words, he looks good with the pen back in his hand.
“By the way, I saw Randy Boxer’s mother in the yarn shop,” mom adds, turning to Charlie. “She was so glad you called—it just made her day.”
“Randy Boxer’s mom?” I ask. “What’re you calling her for?”
“I was actually trying to get Randy’s number,” he explains as if it happens every day.
“Really?” I ask, noticing the quickness of his answer. He’s not fooling anyone. He hasn’t seen Randy in at least four years. “So why the sudden high school reunion?”
He spins back to the groceries, refusing to say. “Not yet,” he explains without facing me. “Not until it’s all in place.”
“Charlie…”
He thinks about it again. Whatever it is, it’s got him nervous. But after a lifetime of telling me to eat the dandelions, he knows it’s time for him to finally take his first bite. “We were… we were thinking of maybe starting a little band…”
I can barely contain myself. “A band, huh?” I ask, wide smile across my face.
“Nothing big—y’know, just something loud but smart. We figure we can get together after work… start at Richie Rubin’s club over in New Brunswick… then maybe work our way into the city.”
“No, that sounds great,” I say, trying to keep it cool. “Of course, now you’re gonna have to find something to call yourselves.”
“Please—how d’ya think we spent our first three hours of practice?”
“So you’ve already got a name?”
“C’mon, baby, we look like novices? Coming to Shea Stadium early next summer—ladies and gentlemen… please give a Big Apple welcome to… The Millionaires!”
I laugh out loud. So does mom.
“You really gonna use that?” I ask.
“Hey, if I’m gonna be struggling to leap tall buildings in a single bound, I might as well be wearing a cool cape. Start low—aim high.”
“That’s very Power of Positive Thinking of you.”
“Well I’m a very Power of Positive Thinking kinda guy. Ask anyone. Besides, who wants to see a band called Pluto’s Severed Head? We do that, we lose the whole kiddie market.”
Back by the sink, mom turns on the faucet and washes the daily grime from her hands. She’s got Band-Aids on four of her fingertips. Behind her, I spot Charlie eyeing the Charlie Brown cookie jar. The paint’s scraped off the nose. He reaches out and taps the ceramic round ears. “He’s not nearly as big as he used to be,” Charlie whispers my way. “I don’t care how many drawings I have to do—this sucker’s gonna be empty within the year.”
“So you’re ready?” mom interrupts, focused on Charlie.
“Excuse me?” he asks. At first, he takes it as a typical mom question. But as he reads her face—as I replay it in my head—we both realize it’s not a question. So you’re ready.It’s a statement. “Yeah,” Charlie tells her. “I think so.”
“Can I come watch you practice?” she adds.
“Forget watching, we need star power like you on stage. Whattya say, ma—ready to bang some tambourines? We got our first tryouts tomorrow night.”
“Oh, I can’t tomorrow night,” she says. “I have a date.”
“A date? With who?”
“Who do you think, mushmouth?” I jump in. Cutting between them, I slide my arm around mom. “You think you’re the only one who knows how to cha-cha? Dance lessons wait for no man. Hit it, sweet momma—and a-one, and a-two—right-foot-first-now…”
Swinging mom out and banging her into the metal stove, I laugh loudly and bounce to my own imaginary beat.
“Did someone actually teach you how to move that awkwardly?” Charlie teases. “You dance like a fifty-year-old man in a bad wedding conga line.”
He’s absolutely right. But I don’t care.
After years of busting my ass at the nation’s most prestigious private bank, I—at this moment—have no job, no income, no savings, no girlfriend, no discernible professional future, and