The Difference Between You and Me(54)

Mike looks crestfallen. Then brightens again: “Or like, free tape? I could probably get you free tape or something from here. Mr. Murray would probably be into helping.”

Jesse smiles. “We could maybe use free tape.”

“Or other supplies, tacks, glue—whatever you wanted. Just keep me posted. Let me know what I can do.” Mike bobs his head up and down, then says searchingly, “I’m not, like, generally this guy. I’m the guy who’s like, ‘It’s none of my business to tell anyone else how to live their life.’ I never even do the Juvenile Diabetes Walk, even though my brother has it and my whole family does it every year. But this, I don’t know. It just feels, like, personal. I just think this is really important.”

“Yeah, it is,” Jesse agrees.

“So, seriously, come find me here if there’s, like, anything I can do. I work Tuesday and Thursday afternoons and weekends. Or, oh!” Mike’s eyes light up with a new thought. “I bet I could get the guys from baseball to participate in something. Maybe I could, I don’t know. If we had snacks for them or whatever.”

“That would be awesome.”

“Do you do athletics?” Mike asks, friendly. He shoves his hands into his pockets and shrugs them deep down into the legs of his khakis. “You’re not on softball, are you?”

Jesse smiles faintly. “Um, no.”

“You should go out for it. I bet you’d be great.”

“Thanks, but I suck at sports.”

“You?” Mike grins. “Naw. No way.”

“It’s true. Some lesbians actually suck at sports.”

Mike’s face goes up like a boiled lobster. He blushes so deeply he’s practically purple.

“I didn’t, I didn’t, uh—” he gropes helplessly.

At this moment, Arthur comes around the corner of the aisle.

“There you are,” he says to Jesse, and Jesse says to Mike, “My dad.”

“How are you, sir?” Aggressively, Mike reaches out and takes Arthur’s hand, shakes it too hard and too long. Arthur looks confusedly at Jesse.

“We wanted to build a birdhouse,” Arthur explains, and Mike stammers, “Birdhouse, yeah, yeah, we have kits for that!” before dropping Arthur’s hand and practically bounding off toward the back of the store.

“Nice fellow,” Arthur says. “Who is he?”

“My former nemesis,” Jesse says, and smiles.


***

An hour later, Jesse and Arthur are hunched over their half-constructed birdhouse in the dusty garage, trying to figure out how to slot Roof Part A into Wall Part B.

“There must be a part missing,” Arthur says tensely. His normally oceanic patience is starting to run out.

“I don’t think so.” Jesse consults the hieroglyphic line-drawing instructions. “See how this little pokey thing is supposed to go into that little gappy place?”

“I see that there in the instructions, yes, but I do not see it here in life.” Arthur points accusingly at the half-built box.

From across the room comes the sound of Fran clearing her throat. Jesse looks up to see her mother silhouetted in the doorway, haloed by afternoon sunlight, arms crossed in her typical fashion. “Cured, I see,” Fran observes.

“Oh. Hi. Yeah. I feel a lot better.”

“Yes,” Arthur says, flinging Roof Part A down onto the worktable a little harder than necessary. “A trip to the hardware store and a constructive hands-on project turned out to be just what the doctor ordered.” He wipes the sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand. “I don’t know why I’m sweating. The damn thing is only twelve inches high.”

“What are you guys making?” Fran strolls into the room and approaches the worktable.

“A birdhouse, allegedly,” Arthur says, the closest thing to gruff that he ever gets. “Though at this point it’s more of a bird pen.”

“We can’t get the roof to stick on,” Jesse explains.

“Interesting problem. Arthur, could I have a moment alone with my daughter?”

Arthur brushes off his hands and steps away from the worktable. “Of course,” he says. “Perfect timing. I need to wash up and get ready for clients anyway.”

“Ha-ha, don’t leave me alone with her,” Jesse half jokes.

“Ha-ha,” Arthur echoes, already on his way out.

“Yes,” Fran says archly. “Ha.”

After her father leaves the garage, Jesse stares deeply into the roofless birdhouse and sands its edge in vague swipes, afraid to meet her mother’s eye.

“So okay,” Fran begins, taking the floor. “First of all, I’m not going to ask for an apology from you about the cancer remark, even though I do think you should apologize to me for the very rude cancer remark you made earlier today.”