Leaving New York

Chapter 35

It felt like the roofing supplies gained weight overnight, but Phillipe and I managed to get everything to the attic the next day.

At one point, I said, "Let's take a break." We trundled down to the kitchen, where Chloe read the paper, and Khalil colored and watched cartoons.

"Uncle Jack, look at my collie." I looked at the purple and orange dog as Khalil smiled up at me. I patted him on the back, "She is beautiful."

"She's a 'he,' and his name is George."

"Oh, okay. Hello George."

Chloe looked at sweaty Phillipe as he walked in, "Looks like you guys need a snack. How about I make you a grilled cheese?"

In unison, we said, "Awesome."

"Phillipe, how long will it take to get everything done?"

"Two weeks or so, Madame Chloe, like I said in the beginning."

"Cool."

Chloe could cook only one thing—the best-grilled cheese in the world with lots of cheddar and butter. She set two plates down with a jar of pickles.

"Merci, Madame Chloe."

"It's just Chloe."

Phillipe looked at Khalil, "So, maybe one day you have a dog, n'est ce pas?"

"We had a dog . . ." He bore down on the crayon, looking away from Phillipe.

"Well, many dogs need homes. They have them at the animal shelter. Cats too."

"Really? Could we get a dog, Chloe?"

"Well, I . . ."

Phillipe jumped up, "I almost forgot—I have to go to my nephew's soccer game! Did you want to come, Jack?"

"Okay."

"Do you like soccer, Khalil?"

The little boy squirmed. He preferred to read and draw; sports scared him. His brother was the soccer player. "Not really."

"Okay, but maybe you come another time—my nephew is excellent." Khalil just kept coloring.

As we slipped our hoodies on, Chloe said, "Khalil is an artist. He also made an "A" on his spelling test last week--didn't you have to spell something hard?" He smiled, "Yes, Division, d-i-v-i-s-i-o-n."

Phillipe high-fived Khalil as he crammed in the rest of his sandwich. "Very good. I can barely spell my name."

The little boy said, "Madame Coulon said we'd have a spelling bee."

Phillipe said, "Great—I'm sure you'll do well. We do need to get moving, Jack."

Trotting to his truck, Phillipe swelled with pride about his nephew. "You know Adam is a star. Saint Germain is interested in him for their Youth Academy."

"Great." I pondered what he'd just said while we listened to Fleetwood Mac's "Never Go Back Again."

"Been down one time, been down two times, I'm never going back again."

We got to Belleville's high school stadium, where thousands of people were watching a game.

"We go find my brother on the sidelines." I followed him through a crowd to the fence surrounding the field.

Phillipe yelled, "Etienne!" A tall, thick guy wearing a black toboggan waved. We caught up with him at the halfway line.

"Etienne, this is Jack. He is the help on the roof near Parc Monceau."

"Nice to meet you." He yelled, "Get the ball, Adam!"

Phillipe pointed, "Number twelve, see . . ."

A young man with long black hair kicked the ball toward the goal, but the goalie intercepted it.

Etienne said, "I thought he had it." Then he yelled to his son, "It's okay, you get the next one."

The big man whispered to his little brother, "The scout is here. They sent him a letter last week to come to practice with the Youth Academy in two weeks." Then he yelled, "There you go. You got it." Adam ran like an antelope past the guy covering him then made a magnificent goal. Etienne and Phillipe jumped up and down like little boys, so I jumped too. Phillipe yelled, "Good man." His nephew gave him the thumbs up while busily covering his opponents. It struck me how kind Etienne was with his son; there was no, 'Well, you blew it' shaming crap I heard from my dad when I played Little League and wrestled. Phillipe was cheering him on, building him up—loving him.

The game ended; Adam trotted to his father and uncle, hugging and kissing them. I was introduced, saying, "You did great out there."

"Merci Monsieur—I wanted to do more."

Etienne looked around, "Where did the scout go? I thought we could talk to them."

"No, Papa, Benjy said they are just watching. You're not supposed to talk to them. Everyone knows who they are, but they're supposed to be anonymous."

"Oh."

Adam said, "Pops, I want to go home—I'm freezing."

"Okay."

We all walked to the parking lot, splitting off to our respective vehicles, but not before Phillipe grabbed Adam again, "I am so proud of you."

We finally found his truck. As we were driving away, I said, "You're fortunate to have such a family."

He smiled, "I got a chicken about to go bad—do you want to eat it with me? In Belleville."

"Okay."