Chapter 41

We talked about my Father on the drive back to my house. Jeff seemed optimistic we could find a way to get to him based on Dad's concern with his image. I was not convinced.

I parked in my driveway and we headed up to my room. I closed the door and took Jeff to the closet, which was open.

"This is what you'll wear," I told him.

"Khakis?" he asked, surprised.

"They probably work better than jeans for my purposes, and they'll give you another look."

"Ashley knows best."

"And wear those Danskos with them. You can wear socks and that's appropriate for your surprise."

"We're volunteering at a hospital?" he asked.

"I won't answer any questions. You'll just keep asking until you get it right so my answer is: you'll see when we get there."

We got into the car and I headed towards Lancaster Avenue.

"Very mysterious," said Jeff.

I changed the subject, not just to change the subject.

"I've been thinking about what you said about attacking my Father's image. You're bad for his image in his mind. It's a shame, because he could do a lot worse."

"I hope that's not meant to be a compliment."

"We're talking about his view. You know I think you're not bad at all.

"Anyway, I was thinking he could do a lot worse. I could come home with a Goth boyfriend. I could come back with tattoos."

"Please don't," said Jeff.

"I'm just talking about possibilities. I have no intention of marring this flawless skin. But I could bring home a biker. 'Hi, Dad. Meet my boyfriend Spike.'

"And I can do much worse than that. 'Hey, Dad. This is Sputum. He's my dealer, but he is just the baddest guy.'"

"No. What you need to do is bring home a seriously butch, black woman. 'Hey, Dad. This is my old man, Nancy. Don't worry. She's Jewish and I don't have to spend any of my trust fund for her drugs, she turns tricks for that.'"

After the laughter died down we still had to stop the intermittent giggling before we could continue talking.

I turned right onto Wynnewood Road.

"There is one problem with bringing in somebody way more unacceptable," said Jeff. "You need to sell it, and you need to maintain it long enough for it to sink into every pore of their bodies and start to rot them from the inside out before they'll be ready to jump at me as the far superior choice. That could take a long time."

"I hadn't thought of that."

"We need something quick and deadly," he said.

"What did you have in mind?"

"I have no idea."

I turned left onto Haverford Avenue, drove past the light and parked at Wynnewood Lanes.

Jeff was looking at me strangely as I slowed down and parked.

"We're going bowling?"

"What gave it away?" I asked.

He started to answer and laughed.

"When did you learn to bowl?"

"I've been taking lessons."

"I could have given you a book," he said, deadly serious.

I smiled, shook my head and closed my eyes.

"Once a nerd, always a nerd."

I opened the trunk and told him he needed to take his bag with his balls and shoes.

"Where did you get these?" he asked.

I would have thought the answer was obvious.

"I stopped by your house earlier."

He was even more surprised that I had my own bag, shoes and ball.

I'd made a reservation more than a week ago. Summer is a prime time for leagues and they don't have many lanes available. It wasn't a big deal, but he was amazed by the detail of my planning.

If that surprised him, he was even more surprised by my level of skill.

Jeff had a killer hook. The ball would sometimes teeter on the edge of the lane, seemingly about to fall in the gutter, then, almost miraculously, sweep into the one-three pocket and scatter the pins like a stick of dynamite.

The power of the rotation is what scatters the pins so savagely. The rotation causes the hook. It also makes accuracy more difficult.

I had a baby hook which got me a decent mix, but not the kind of explosion that would take down all ten pins when the entry point was not precise.

We bowled three games. Jeff averaged 211. I averaged 142.

When we finished the last game, he sat on the bench and just looked at me. It said, wow! Wow, is she great. Wow, am I lucky. Wow, I can't believe she did this.

That look was the kind of reward that compels you to try to keep giving this kind of gift.

Jeff put his hands up in front of him as if to say, "I'm speechless." And, suitably, he was speechless. It was amazing praise, but I wanted more.

I moved toward him and leaned my chest against his, no hands. My voice and my face spoke seduction.

"Did you enjoy your birthday present?"

"Amazing."

"Let's go back to my house and shower so we can have a leisurely dessert."

Jeff needed no prompting on the drive back to my house. My Father was forgotten.

Jeff talked about bowling and how I always put such thought into not only gifts, but our relationship generally. I think he was a bit off the mark on the latter unless he was counting my devious machinations, but I accepted the praise.

I was slowly moving toward the belief that I did deserve him and that we could last. Occasionally, I would encourage him to continue.