30. Marsh

THIRTY

Marsh

Here's the thing you need to know about Data: yes, he has a great ass, but underneath dat ass is a heart even bigger than dat ass.

"How're you feeling?" he asks.

"Dandy. You don't happen to have a Costco-sized bottle of Pepto Bismol on your person, do you?"

A month after our daring escape from Marshmallow Mountain, we're back in the car on a Wednesday morning for another trip, this time up to Westchester. Data lets me take his hand as I drive. He gives me a squeeze of support, a gentle tightening of his calloused fingers around my sweaty palm. They provide the warmth only found from nesting in your favorite blanket on the couch watching your favorite comfort show on a sick day. That's where Data brings my soul—home.

He gives my hand another squeeze as we pull into the parking lot of Harmony Pianos' modest headquarters. The long row of offices is capped at the end by the warehouse. As a kid, it reminded me of a lollipop, and I'd joke that only suckers worked there. I was still sharpening my comedic muscles back then.

The place used to be more bustling before the days of work from home, but a smattering of cars dot the parking lot still. The Harmony Piano logo hangs above the front door, causing a vice of anxiety to clutch around my heart.

I park the car and heave out a breath.

"You're scared. That's a natural feeling." Data rubs my hand with his thumb and the pressure attempts to soothe me. Unemployment suits him. He's become more relaxed, a breezier smile flitting on his kissable lips.

"He's going to be pissed."

"It's going to be okay." Data gives me a half smile. "Whatever happens, we're in this together."

We.

Has there ever been a more wonderful word? Those two letters and Data's two bottomless brown eyes provide all the confidence I need. I'm not going through this alone anymore.

Data plants a soft kiss on my lips, firming up my resolve. I rustle my hands through his prickly beard as complete calmness takes over.

"Hey, Marsh," Data says when I exit the car. He nods at the backseat. The manilla envelope sits there peacefully. "You forgot something."

"Right." I grab the envelope. A few pieces of paper have never felt so heavy in my hands.

When we enter the office, Harriet, Dad's longtime administrative assistant, greets both of us with a big, motherly hug. Her maternal warmth is offset by her hard New York accent and raspy voice—smoking a pack of long skinny menthol cigarettes a day will do that to you.

"Always love seeing you boys," she gushes. Harriet holds up the figurine Data carved of her Siamese cat Misty. "See. I still have it."

Data admires his handiwork for a second. Our apartment window sill is filling up quickly with new woodworking projects he's been making in his spare time between applying for jobs .

"How's he doing today?" I ask Harriet. Her buoyancy dampens.

"Today's been an okay day. Some days are better than others." The stress of helping Dad shows in the creases on her forehead, but as a loyal employee, she keeps it to herself. "We hear there's an offer to buyout the company."

Other employees peek up from their desks. Only ten or so people remain on the corporate side of the company, down from years past. Empty desks dot the space.

"There've been discussions," I say.

"Are we going to keep our jobs?" she asks.

I look to Data, nerves getting the better of me. Because of Dad's declining health and lack of replacement, the offer from Albie's friends is looking like our only option. We have to consider it seriously, which is why we're here today.

"Nothing's been discussed yet. It's still very early stages, but we're doing everything we can to ensure Harmony Pianos stays intact." Data swoops in, saving my tongue-tied ass. "Or rather, Marsh and Joe are."

"Is he in?" I ask.

"Warehouse." Harriet nods down the long hall, which ends with double doors.

We march through the office, saying hi to my old coworkers, who also know Data from years of company gatherings and holiday parties. I push through the double doors and into the warehouse. Workers build pianos. The familiar smell of cut wood wafting through the air. Dad talks with one of the team leads. As soon as he sees me, a surprised smile takes over his face.

My breath catches in my throat. This isn't the same kind of nervous I get before I go on stage. That's more adrenaline, nerves that can fuel me. Today, there's a lead weight of fear in my stomach.

"You can do this." Data squeezes my hand. Having him by my side makes me feel a little better, but still, the lead weight of fear remains.

"Marshall! And Other Marshall!" He gives both of us hugs. "I didn't expect to see you here."

"Hey, Dad. Can we talk?"

Dad tells the team lead he needs a moment, and the three of us walk into an empty office off the warehouse. It has remnants of life. A desk with a few remaining office supplies like pens and paper clips. A broken-in couch by the door.

I gesture for Dad to sit down on the sofa. I sit next to him rather than across from him, so he knows we're on the same team. Data hangs by the windows into the warehouse.

I look to Data, who gives me a supportive nod. He fiddles with one of the orphaned paper clips, a tell that while he's the strong one in our relationship today, he's also a little nervous.

"I spoke to Albie, and he said you're seriously considering the offer from his friends, to buy the company."

Dad stiffens. "I'm considering it. I'm meeting with them on Friday. If you were still part of this company, I would've looped you in."

I hang my head, insides crumbling in real time. Data pulls his lips in, smiles, and dips his chin.

I put the folder on the cushion between us.

"What is that?" Dad asks.

"Dad, I love you. I don't have a funny story to lead into this, so I'm just going to say it. You've been having some trouble lately … remembering things."

Dad heaves out a breath. "It's called getting old. It happens to everyone."

"Dad, it's not that. You'll forget you're talking to me in the middle of a conversation. You can't remember important details or people." My insides twist in knots. This is the shitty part of being an adult, having to have these tough moments, knowing that there's no way out. You just have to suck it up and do them. "It's getting serious."

"It's fine. I have it under control. There are guys my age who can't even go to the bathroom by themselves. I'm doing much better than they are."

"I'm glad I don't have to drag your ass to the bathroom. Thank you for that. But … you don't have it under control." When we're little, we want nothing more than to tell our parents that actually, they're wrong. But now, it's the last thing I want to do. I want Dad to be his infallible, all-knowing self.

I take his hand and squeeze. He's been strong for me my entire life. Now, it's my turn.

"Dad, you're in cognitive decline. And we can go back and forth on this all day, but it's happening." I want to burst into tears, but I can't do that to him. I'm the adult. "You're in the middle of selling your company, of making extremely important decisions that I don't think you should."

"What do you know about it? You quit the company. You couldn't hack it."

He knows how to land a punch. I remind myself that this isn't him. This is the disease making him angry.

I open the envelope, take out the documents.

"What the hell is this?" he asks.

"It's … " My throat goes dry.

"It's a request to name Marsh power of attorney," Data says, again swooping in to save me. "You would still have input on all important matters in your life and with the company. But this is a protective layer to ensure that your wishes are being carried out as you'd like them. Think of Marsh as your backup."

Dad's face drops. He flips open the file. The legalese is stark, a bucket of cold water on him.

I put my hand over his .

Dad side-eyes me, not liking the comparison. "I don't need this."

"Joe, you shouldn't be signing away your company in your condition. Let us help you. We only want what's best for you." My heart sings at hearing him use we and us .

Data underlines the statement with a nod, but there's something behind his eyes I can't place, a slight weakening in his support that throws me off.

"‘We only want what's best for you' is what every child says to their parent before they pull the plug."

"Dad." He starts to open his mouth to object. I give him a firm, gentle clap on the shoulder. "You spent your entire life looking out for me. I am so lucky that I get to call you my dad. I know my life hasn't gone the way either of us planned, but I haven't given up on my dream, and that's thanks to you. You taught me to keep fighting, don't let obstacles get in my way. You made me who I am today, all my best parts. Please, let me do this for you. I'm looking out for you the way you looked out for me."

Dad tears up, his resistance fading. I start to get choked up, but I hold myself back. I can see him focus intently, trying hard to stay in this moment, in this timeline so his mind won't slip.

"I wanted so badly to keep this company in the family, something I could share with my boys. Working with you … "

"It was one of the happiest times of your life."

"I know what these private equity jerk-offs are going to do. They're going to fire everyone in this building, keep the name, and make an inferior product. But … maybe it's time. Maybe we only have so much fight left in us." A weight Dad has been carrying slowly begins to slide off his shoulders. Behind his stubbornness is uncertainty. Like so many leaders, he's figuring things out as he goes along.

I glance to Data for another shot of support, hoping to actually get one this time. His eyes are a wild swirl of emotions and thoughts, wheels spinning at a furious pace that makes him unreadable.

I mouth Are you okay? He doesn't respond.

"I know this isn't how you wanted things to go, Dad. But you built an incredible company. You should be proud."

"I am proud. Of both my sons." He holds my hand and squeezes hard. Nothing gentle about it, though just as loving.

Something changes in his face, a flint of realization that he'd been putting off. Without saying another word, he signs the document.

"I think it's best that we call them and move up the meeting. Get this over with. I don't want my employees worrying about their jobs over the holidays. Whatever happens, I want them to be taken care of."

"I think I have another idea."

Dad and I look up at the sound of Data's creaky, but assured voice.

"Maybe you don't have to sell the company," my boyfriend says. What the hell is he doing? He is supposed to be the pragmatic one here. We talked about this at length and agreed that selling was the best option.

"That's what I love to see. Some ingenuity!" Dad slaps his hands together.

"Okay." I have no idea what's gotten into him, but I guess I can play along for a second. "What's your grand plan, Data?"

I expect an impromptu presentation on profit margins and restructuring, something that would be dry but helpful, and I'd mostly stare at his lips while he said it. Perhaps he would scribble some math on a piece of paper. Yet Data does none of those things nor scribbles a single number.

Instead, he gets down on one knee and holds out a paper clip twisted into a ring. "Marshall Goldberg, will you marry me?"