111 Rhys
111
Rhys
I had a hell of an idea. It occurred to me while I was shopping with my mom, carrying the bags to the car. I saw my reflection in the store window and noticed something behind it. Two hours later, my father and I were next to each other at the coffee table reading the instructions to a model of the London Bridge, getting ready to indulge in a hobby we’d abandoned for years. He was surprised when he saw the box, but right away, he asked my mother to bring him his reading glasses.
And there we were, organizing the pieces. I remembered the first rule he always told me when I was little: Order comes first, Rhys; everything else is second. I was taking the glue, the paints, and some tools out of a little bag when my phone rang. I ignored it, as I had for weeks.
“Shouldn’t you pick that up?” my father asked.
“It’s not important,” I lied, feigning indifference.
“Rhys, don’t avoid things. Really, don’t.”
It sucked that he knew me so well, even if he’d barely seen me for a decade. I took a deep breath, got up, a little irritated, and answered on my way out to the porch. It was Daniel, the label’s PR chief.
“I’ve been trying to get ahold of you for days,” he complained. “Where the hell have you been, Rhys? Are you crazy? The single’s coming out tomorrow, and you’re missing in action!”
“So?” I leaned against the wall. I could see my father frowning as he read the instructions, his glasses perched on the tip of his nose.
I don’t know why, but at this moment, the least opportune moment conceivable, with someone yelling at me on the other end of the phone, it struck me that he wasn’t old enough to die. That he deserved to live much longer.
“Are you listening to me, Rhys, dammit?”
“I’m not going on tour.”
“I’ve already signed the contracts.”
“Well, call and cancel.”
“I can’t.”
“I already told Paul I wasn’t up for a bunch of commitments and radio interviews and festivals. If he didn’t communicate that to you, it’s not my problem.”
“Of course he told me, but I assumed he was kidding.”
“I’ve got to go; I’m busy.”
“Are you trying to bury your career?”
“No, just refocus it.”
“Fuck me, Rhys. Listen…”
I hung up. I stayed out there a while longer, watching my father through the dining room window, so concentrated on his model, so ready to start it, and, if we were lucky, to finish it too. I smiled for the first time in days. Then I went inside, sat down, and returned to what I was doing before I got up.
“Did you work it out?” he asked.
“More or less.” I shrugged.
“Was it that girl of yours? Ginger?”
“Nah. We hardly call each other.”
“Did you piss her off again?”
“No, Dad.” I laughed. “We normally email each other at night. Don’t look at me like that. It’s comfortable, and I have more time to think about what I really want to say…”
“Yeah, us Bakers, our mouths get us into trouble.”
My mother came in just then to see how we were.
“Why don’t you grab a chair and stick around?” Dad said. She nodded, seeing his pleading eyes. “We’re going to need help if we have any hope of ever finishing. Rhys bought an easy one,” he said sarcastically.
That was far from the truth, and I laughed again, noticing his frustration.
“I didn’t want you to just breeze through it.”
“I’ll get my revenge.”