41. Nathan
forty-one
“Mr. Thatcher?Aren’t you supposed to be in class?”
Rocco wanders into my office with tentative confidence. His swagger has died down a bit since Lucy and Claire started him on the mentor program. I tilt my head and put down my pen.
“Yeah. Well, no. I’m supposed to meet with Russo but he ain’t in his office like he usually is.”
It’s Thursday—his day to meet with Aaron for a reward if he’s had a good week.
“Congratulations on meeting your goal. That’s excellent.”
His cheeks pinken, and his chin dips. He isn’t used to being acknowledged in a positive way, and that shows.
“Mr. Russo is attending a conference this week. Did he not make you aware?”
He tilts his head, and the recollection dawns on him.
“Oh. Yeah, he did. Crap.”
I hate to leave him hanging, especially since he has been working so hard. He also came to me instead of wandering the halls.
“This paperwork can wait. What do you and Mr. Russo usually do?”
He shrugs. “Play games in the gym and stuff.”
“Well, I’m no sports afficionado, but I do have this.”
When I pull the chess board from the bottom drawer of my desk, Rocco’s interest is clearly piqued.
“Would you be interested in a couple of rounds?”
“How do you beat me every time, bro?!”
I chuckle.
Rocco and I have played three games. I went easy on him the first two, reminding him of the rules, and giving him pointers up until I moved in for the kill. He’s catching on quickly.
“Practice.”
He puts his head in his hand, surrendering his queen with a thud to my side of the table. I grin triumphantly, aligning it neatly with the rest of his pieces that I’ve claimed.
“How am I supposed to practice? I don’t have one of these things.”
He indicates to my chess board—the one I had commissioned with custom, weighted pieces to remain in my office.
“Hold that thought.”
I stand, and head to my storage cabinet, procuring one of the standard boards with plastic pieces, and hand it to Rocco.
“Now you do.”
He holds it like it is made as preciously as the one I gifted myself upon college graduation. The one thing I ever did for myself.
“I can keep this?”
I nod. He hugs the box to his chest.
“How am I supposed to practice with it though? My mom don’t play chess.”
I hesitate, then remember meeting Claire and Zoey at the library, and it sparks an idea.
“Do you think you could find a few friends who would like to learn how to play?”
He shrugs. “Yeah, maybe.”
“If there is enough interest, I could host something after school.”
“Like a club?”
“Yes. Like a chess club.”
“Psht. Harding, that’s for nerds.”
“That might be so, but you are the one looking for a place to practice.”
Rocco’s eyes widen, and he dips his head at me in shock. I smile. Smirk. And he laughs.
“Alright. Bet. Let me ask around.” He stands with his chess set—one I probably picked up from Goodwill back in my early days of teaching to keep around in case of indoor recess—and pauses.
“So like, a club means I get to stay after school, yeah?”
“Yes.”
I can read between the lines, the hesitant hope in his question and the one that follows.
“You gonna bring snacks? Snacks might make it less nerdy.”
“Yes, Mr. Thatcher, I can provide snacks for the chess club.”
“Cool.”
He exits my office, and I make a mental note to go easier on Rocco Thatcher.
Cal’s unannounced call, as I’m sitting in my office after five-p.m. finishing up some emails, is alarming. We talk on the first Sunday of the month, and today is Thursday. I answer immediately.
“Cal? Is everything okay?”
“Hey! Yeah, everything’s fine, why?”
“You don’t call me.”
That sentiment only gets to sting for a moment before he answers.
“Yeah, I know it’s not Sunday or whatever. I just uh… Listen, would you be okay if I didn’t come for Christmas this year?”
I swallow. There’s heavy silence between us. It doesn’t come as a surprise. I always knew there would be a time when Cal would spread his wings and want to do things his own way.
“It’s just that some of the guys had plans in the city for the holidays, and I’m trying to log as many hours at the hospital as possible. Christmas is hectic, and a good opportunity to learn. Plus, I just came home for Thanksgiving. I might be able to pick up some extra shifts?—”
“I understand.” I cut him off before he can pile on any guilt.
He deserves this. To have the life I was never allowed. He deserves all the good things life has to offer him. Especially after I ripped our family apart.
“We can get together afterwards, when things slow down for you.”
“Okay. Thanks, Nate.”
I cannot stand the remorse that tinges his words. All of the regret in our world should be on my shoulders. We hang up, and I blow through the email I’d been in the middle of sending before pulling up my demons that circle me fresh from that phone call.
Bank statements. The taxes on my parents’ house that I took on. The status of my inheritance that has been collecting dust and interest since I turned eighteen. Combined with my monthly pay stubs and my own bills, I spend about fifteen minutes crunching numbers. Numbers that I know by heart now.
I can’t continue to pay the property taxes on my parents’ million-dollar home, no matter the pay increase I gained by stepping in as an administrator. I don’t know where I got off thinking that picking up a few basketball games here and there would cover anything. It was a fruitless thought.
Sell the house, my subconscious whispers. It’s a mausoleum anyway.
Use your inheritance to keep it for Cal, the other side argues. You don’t deserve it anyway.
I’ve considered it time and time again. Using my cut of the inheritance that is left over after paying for my education, to pay for the house. It would lift the boulder from my chest.
I’ve also debated selling the house. The multi-million-dollar estate that at one point housed four people more than comfortably, that now stands like a tomb, because I try my best to not be there.
Until recently.
Because Claire has been inside that tomb and has filled it with life.
And just today, Claire told me how much she loves that house.
I can’t sell it. Can’t take something else from her. Not when she feels so lost. Not when she’s working so hard to find herself.
But in the same breath, the property taxes are nearing on drowning me. Even with my dad’s hefty life insurance policy invested just right and only taken out for such things. Even with my administrator pay bump.
I stare at the alphabet soup before me, willing the numbers to make sense, to give me an answer, before they drown me.