8. Paul
8
PAUL
When they told me that a reporter from their local paper wanted to interview me, I have to admit that I was hesitant. We live a very public life, but some things need to remain private. However, Mr. Jacobson said this reporter was something special and that I should meet with her, so I made the arrangements. She wanted to meet down on the dock. The minute we get there, she kicks off her shoes and dangles her toes toward the water, so I do the same.
She’s tall and wiry, and the look in her eyes reminds me a lot of the way Edward looked when Pete first brought him home. She looks hungry, and I don’t mean just for a story. She’s hungry for validation, for belonging, and maybe even for guidance.
“Can you tell me what your early life was like?” she asks, her pencil poised over her notepad as she looks at me. “We know what your life is like now because we see it on the show,” she says. “Or at least we see what you want us to see.”
“You see a lot,” I say, “but no, you don’t see everything.”
“Like when Edward’s wife got pregnant, and no one knew until she posted pics of him wearing the baby in a carrier at the garage. Or when Sam bought his second restaurant, and no one knew until they did that cook-off show on the Eats Channel.”
“Do you know why they started the show at the tattoo shop?” I ask her.
“Five hot guys with tattoos,” she says with a nod and a grin. “What’s not to like?” Her cheeks turn pink, and it’s impossible not to smile along with her.
“No, that’s not why,” I explain. “It was the camaraderie between all of us,” I think. “Aside from my wife and kids, my brothers are the most important people in my life. The show saw our bond, and they wanted to share it.”
“And Friday,” she reminds me. “They liked how she griped at all of you. She never took a lot of crap.”
I chuckle and rub my jaw. “Friday has never taken any crap at all, that’s for sure. The first time I ever met her, she told me I needed to fix the tattoo on my neck because it looked terrible.”
“I’m sure she didn’t say it like that,” she says. “Friday’s language is more colorful.”
“You are correct,” I say. “I’ll let you fill in the blanks.”
She scribbles, and then she closes one eye and stares at me with the other. “What has it been like going from nothing to what you have today?” she asks.
I hold up a hand. “Who told you we came from nothing? Whoever told you that was wrong.”
“But you grew up really poor,” she rushes to say.
“We did, but it didn’t mean we had nothing. We had all our needs met, and we got some of our wants met. But we were rich in a lot of ways that other people weren’t.”
“You mean your family?” she asks.
I nod. “Yes, our mom and dad gave us what we needed. And they probably kept us from getting a lot of what we wanted, which made us better people. But to say we had nothing would be inaccurate. We had everything growing boys need.”
“Until they died,” she says quietly.
“Even after they died, really,” I explain. The wind brushes my hair back as a gentle breeze blows across the lake. “They had set us up to love one another, and after they were gone, that’s what we did.”
“You told a story one time, the first time you did the Christmas dinner in your community, where you said that you guys were too poor to buy a Christmas tree.”
“True.” I let her continue.
“How did that make you feel?” Her feet swing absently.
“It made us feel like we didn’t have a tree,” I explain with a shrug. “But remember that we had everything that mattered. Remember what I said about wants and needs. We had one another. Family is what’s important—not the little things you don’t have.” I hold up a finger. “One thing to keep in mind is that we did get a tree that year. Our neighbors knew about our situation, and we woke up to find a four-foot fir tree with lights and Christmas balls all over it. There were presents for each of us under the tree.”
“How did that feel?” she asks.
“There was also a Christmas ham. Sam and Pete ate ham for a week.” I can still see their faces in my memory. They were thrilled. We had gotten a small turkey from the food bank, but our mom had always made a Christmas ham.
“How did it feel to know that your neighbors did that?” she asks.
I find myself getting misty-eyed and blink it back. “That’s what community is for. We take care of one another. When we started making money from the show, endorsements, commercials, and all that stuff, the first thing we did was give back to the people who gave to us.”
“But what you give is so much bigger than a tree and a ham.”
I shake my head. “Not really. It’s all pretty much the same—giving what you can when you can any way you can.”
“Can we switch gears?” she asks.
“Sure.”
“Did Hayley’s mom leave because she wanted to be with someone with more money? You were still broke back then.”
“You’d have to ask her that,” I reply. I have a rule that I won’t speak poorly of Kelly. Not ever.
“In an interview she did recently, she mentioned that you guys broke up because your lifestyle didn’t agree with her.”
I bark out a laugh. “And you think that lifestyle means money?”
Her brow furrows. “Doesn’t it?”
“Again, if you have questions for Hayley’s mom, you’d have to ask her. I can’t speak for her.”
“When you look back at your life, do you take note of any big mistakes you’ve made?”
I rock my head from side to side. “I take note of them.”
“You’ve made a lot of mistakes?” she asks.
“Don’t we all?” I reply, a smile tugging at my lips.
“Mr. Reed,” she complains with a sigh, “you’re being awfully cryptic.”
“Did you think being a reporter is easy?” I reply. “And you can call me Paul.”
She sighs and sets her pad down. “Paul,” she says. She stops for a moment like she’s mulling over her words. “Let’s be real here.”
“I thought we already were.”
“Are the good deeds some kind of martyr syndrome? A way to bolster yourself.”
I shake my head. “God, I hope not. That would be terrible, making myself feel better by helping other people.”
She grins when she realizes what I’ve said. “If you could look back and change one thing about your life, what would it be?”
“I would have taken a step back the time Matt dropped the toilet seat on my dick when we were kids.”
She barks out a laugh.
I shrug. “True story.”
“You’re a terrible interviewee,” she says with a growl.
I bump her shoulder with mine. “Ask me something else on your list.”
“How do you pick the people you help?” she asks. “What makes somebody worthy?”
“Oh, God, if we waited for people to prove they’re worthy of help, we wouldn’t be able to help anyone. What if the neighbors hadn’t helped us or gotten us that Christmas tree when we were younger? Sam and Pete were stupid little shits—shenanigans all the time. They were noisy and rude. They got away with it because they were adorable. But if those neighbors had to decide if we were worthy of being helped, we never would have been given anything. So, we never look at worthiness as a qualifier when we try to help people. We just do it.” I narrow my eyes at her. “Do you want to hear a story?”
“Yes, please,” she says, and she reminds me of what Hayley might look like when she’s older. I hope Hayley will be this eager and attentive.
“When I was nine, I fell off a slide at the park. I broke my arm. My mom had to take me to a hospital. A cabbie on the street turned off his light, put us in the backseat, and drove us to the hospital. He never charged her a dime.”
“Okay,” she says slowly.
“And when my mom learned that our older neighbor couldn’t see to read her favorite books anymore, she would make us go over there and take turns reading to her for an hour a day. Mrs. Bashar would make butter cookies, and when we arrived, she’d start the little timer on her stove. When it went off, we were free. But most of the time, we’d gotten to a good part of the story, and we’d stay. Mom would have to come and get us.”
“Can you give me a hint and tell me your point?” She growls a little as she picks up her notepad.
“The point is that you have to be grateful,” I say thoughtfully. “Instead of focusing on the bad things in your life, you have to have an attitude of gratitude.”
“Elaborate,” she says, which makes me chuckle.
“Instead of being sad that we didn’t have a Christmas tree that one year, we were grateful that we were all in the same home. There were doubts back then about whether someone my age could be responsible for four boys. And when I broke my arm, my mom was grateful it wasn’t worse. When Matt got sick, we were grateful when he stopped puking his guts out for a few hours. When Logan brought Emily home, we could have seen her as one more mouth to feed on an already stretched budget. Sure, we could have focused on the negative, but what good does that do you?”
I look up and find Friday walking toward us down the dock. “Am I interrupting?” she calls out.
“Come and join us,” I reply. She sits down next to me and leans forward to look at the intrepid reporter. “Did you get everything you need?” she asks her.
Jenni slides her jaw to the side. “Not sure yet.”
“What else do you need to know?” Friday asks.
“Let’s do five rapid-fire questions, shall we?” she asks. “All you have to do is say the first thing that comes to mind.”
Friday gestures from me to her and back. “Both of us?”
“Why not?” she replies.
“What’s your favorite curse word?”
We both say “fuck” at the same time, which makes me laugh.
“If you could be anywhere right now, where would it be?”
“Right here,” we both say at once. Friday looks at me and grins.
“If you could re-do one event in your life, what would it be?”
“Nothing,” we both say.
“Seriously?” she asks.
“Seriously,” we both blurt out.
Friday punches my shoulder. “Stop it,” she warns.
“You stop it,” I reply.
“What’s your favorite animal?”
I say, “A dog,” just as Friday says, “A sloth.”
“What’s your favorite genre to read?”
“Romance,” we both say at once.
Her eyebrows shoot up, but she doesn’t say anything about it. It’s true, though. Wise men read romance.
“Pizza or burger?”
I say “pizza” just as Friday says “burger.”
“White or black?”
Friday says black. I say white.
“Ebook or paper?”
“Ebook,” we both say at once.
“Thank you for meeting with me today,” she says as she gets to her feet. She holds out her hand to shake. I accept it. She looks down at it. “I’m never going to wash my hands again,” she says dreamily.
Friday laughs.
“Thanks again!” she calls as she walks away.
“What did you guys talk about?” Friday asks.
“Gratitude. Being poor. Having everything. Misconceptions about success.” I shrug. “Just the normal stuff.”
I look toward the hill where a line of cars has formed. “I had better go and get dressed,” I say. I’ve been in swim trunks all day, but I suppose it’s time for jeans and a t-shirt so I can look the part while passing plates of spaghetti to people in cars.
“Need some help?” Friday asks, waggling her brows.
I reach down and take her hand to hoist her up. “If you’re offering, I’m not declining.” I take her face in my hands and kiss her softly. “I meant what I said about gratitude,” I say quietly, my lips close to hers. “I’m grateful for you every day.”
She whispers back, “I’m awesome. Of course, you are.” Then she grins and runs ahead of me up the path.