Mikey and the Chickadee

Chapter 17 - Part 1

Nostalgic feelings came easily to me these days, brought on by encounters with everyday minutia like the sun-dried black leather of my mom's rumbly old Legend, which crackled underneath me as I shifted my weight in the back seat. I surmised that like any other car, this Acura must have rolled paint-glittering-new off a lot once, but that was before I was around, and long before my mom owned it. It was the first car I ever drove, and because bus transit to my high school had been impractical, I shared it with her for a couple years before leaving for college.

"Twist your keys up so they don't jingle like that," she said to my dad as he steered onto the highway. When he couldn't manage it she reached over and did it for him. She moved halfway around in her seat and said, "Wyatt, thanks for making time for us. I know you must have a lot to do before you leave."

"Not that much," I said.

"Still. It's nice."

"I got the money for the moving van credited to my stipend," I told my dad, "so we can just use the truck."

"Great," he said. "I'm glad that worked out."

"When is your last day of work in the city?" my mom asked.

"Next Wednesday." I paused. "Can Mikey come to dinner next week?"

"That's your new friend, right? Of course he can come."

I watched as she exchanged a look with my dad; they were at it again, ever-superseding, assuming to know exactly what was going on. I hadn't seen it in a while, actually. Back when I lived at home, the condescending pageantry of it all would have left me fuming, but now I just laughed it off inside my head. Whatever conjecture they had assembled probably wasn't far off.

"Just so you know," I added after a pause, "his parents passed away a few years ago." My decision to bring it up beforehand was policed by a wish to prevent rehashing the brief awkwardness we had slogged through with Marie and Sloan. With this in mind I had also bothered to text Stephanie about it the day before, somewhat out of the blue.

"Oh no," my mom said. "That's terrible." She kept silent for another moment as this new, unfathomable detail sank in.

"Sorry to hear that, bud," said my dad.

"Don't worry," she said, making up her mind. "We'll just leave the subject alone."

Awhile later I sat facing my parents in an old booth near the front of a Vietnamese restaurant. We had been here many times; my dad maintained a rapport with the owner who, as a ritual, would bring around the most recent pictures of his young children each time we visited.

To rid them of imaginary splinters, my mom rubbed her disposable chopsticks against one another as we waited for our food. "So," she said, "should we treat Mikey just as we would any of your other friends? Or is he more than just a friend?"

"I don't know," I said. "You can treat him however you want."

"Do you think you guys will stay in contact after you move?"

"I don't know," I said again. I wanted to leave it at that, but worried she would think I was being short with her, which I was not. I lifted my head a little and added, "I hope so."

Dinner carried on without incident and my parents dropped me off after dark. I texted Mikey to let him know I would be over.

"See you soon," he replied.

I packed a bag to sustain me for the better part of the week. I wasn't sure where I would end up. The day before we had discussed spending multiple nights at his place in order to make the most of my time left in the city. We would commute together each day into work. Mikey said nothing about the swollen state of my duffel and garment-bag as I entered, nor did he question the worn gray Toms I carried in my left hand, to replace my work shoes in the evenings should the weather remain warm and dry.