Chapter 3.

3.

My name is Frank Szatowski and I am fifty-two years old. I’ve spent most of my adult life driving a package car for the United Parcel Service. You know those big brown trucks rumbling around your neighborhood full of goodies from the internet? UPS calls them package cars, even though they’re technically large step vans. I started driving young, straight out of the army, and I was recently inducted into the Circle of Honor, an elite group of UPS drivers who’ve worked twenty-five years without an accident.

I make a decent living and I’ve always liked the work, even though it keeps getting harder and harder. When I started, back in the late nineties, most of the parcels were still boxes. The heaviest thing you’d lift might be a Gateway computer. These days, forget it. Any given shift, we’re hauling futons, file cabinets, artificial Christmas trees, flat-screens, even Ping-Pong tables. And car tires, holy mother of God, those are the worst. Did you know you can buy car tires online? They ship in packs of four, strapped together and bundled in cardboard, so we can’t even roll the damn things.

Still, if I pulled enough overtime, I could usually clear a hundred grand. My Jeep was all paid off; my mortgage was close, and I didn’t owe a penny to Visa or Mastercard. I was three years away from early retirement with a decent pension and comprehensive healthcare. Not bad for a guy who never went to college, right? Up until my wife passed, and all my troubles with Maggie started, I used to say I was blessed. I used to feel like the luckiest bastard on earth.

So now listen to what happened:

“The wedding’s in three months,” Maggie told me. “July twenty-third. I know I’m calling super last-minute but—”

“I’ll be there,” I said, and my voice cracked because I was starting to cry. “Of course I’ll be there.”

“Okay, good. Because we’re mailing the invites tomorrow and—I wanted to call first.”

And then the conversation sputtered out. Like she was expecting me to say something, but I was too choked up to answer. I made a fist and thumped my breastbone, three hard whacks to keep myself from blubbering. Come on, Frankie. Keep it together! Don’t be such a baby!

“Dad? Are you still there?”

“Tell me about Aidan,” I suggested. “My future son-in-law. Where did you meet him?”

“At a costume party. Back on Halloween. I went as Pam, from The Office ? And Aidan came as Jim. So as soon as he showed up, everyone wanted us to stand together. We started doing scenes from the show, and his impression was totally spot-on.”

I had trouble focusing on her story because I was too busy doing the math. “You met last Halloween? Six months ago?”

“But it feels like I’ve known him forever. Sometimes we’re talking and I swear he can read my mind. Like we have a telepathic connection. Did you and Mom ever feel that way?”

“Sure, I guess? When we first met?” But then we got older and wiser and realized these were just signs of youthful infatuation. I didn’t bother pointing this out. I loved hearing the happiness in Maggie’s voice, the sweet music of hope and optimism.

“What’s Aidan do for a living?”

“He’s a painter.”

“In the union?”

“No, not a housepainter. He makes art.”

I was determined to sound supportive, but you have to admit this was a curveball.

“He makes art for a living?”

“Well, he has a couple things in galleries? But right now he’s building up his name. Growing his reputation. That’s how it works. Plus he teaches a class, at MassArt.”

“What does he get for that?”

“I’m sorry?”

“How much does he make?”

“I’m not going to tell you.”

I couldn’t understand why not, but I heard her taking a deep breath and getting annoyed so I decided not to push it. Maybe Maggie was right. Maybe her future artist-husband’s salary was none of my business. Besides, I still had plenty of other questions:

“First marriage?”

“Yes.”

“Any kids?”

“Zero kids and zero debt, don’t worry.”

“What about his mother?”

“I love her. She’s got some health issues right now? Lots of migraines. But she’s started a new medicine and it’s really helping.”

“And his dad?”

“Fantastic. Amazing.”

“What’s he do?”

Maggie hesitated. “That part’s a little complicated.”

“How is it complicated?”

“It’s not complicated . It’s just more of a conversation than I want to have right now.”

What the hell was that supposed to mean?

“It’s a straightforward question, Maggie. How does he make a living?”

“The headline is: I’m getting married and I want you to come to the wedding. July twenty-third in New Hampshire.”

“But you can’t tell me what his father does?”

“I could tell you, but you’ll have more questions and I need to go. I have a dress fitting at ten and the seamstress is a total psycho. If I’m a single minute late, she’ll make me reschedule the whole appointment.”

Clearly she just wanted to get off the phone, but I couldn’t resist making one more push: “Is Aidan’s father in jail?”

“No, it’s nothing bad.”

“Is he famous? Is he an actor?”

“He’s not an actor.”

“But he’s famous?”

“I told you: I don’t want to get into it.”

“Just give me his name, Maggie. I’ll google him.”

The line seemed to go dead for a moment. Like the call had been dropped, or perhaps she’d muted the phone to confer with someone. And then she was back.

“I think we should talk about it over dinner. Me and you and Aidan. Could you maybe drive up to Boston?”

And of course I could drive up to Boston. I could drive all the way to the North Pole, if that was what Maggie wanted. She suggested Saturday night at seven o’clock, and she gave me the name of an Irish pub on Fleet Street, near the Old State House. Then she insisted she had to end the conversation and get to her dress fitting. “I’ll see you this weekend. I’m really looking forward to it.”

I said, “Me, too,” but I couldn’t end the call without one more attempt at an apology: “And listen, Maggie, I am so sorry for everything, okay? I’ve felt so awful these past few years. I know I screwed up. I should have handled things better, and I wish—”

And then I was interrupted by a soft click.

She’d already hung up.