Found (Not Quite a Billionaire Book 3) (32 page)

Eugene stared at me for a long moment. “Man, I can’t believe I got to tell you this again, but I guess I do. Listen up, hard head. You love somebody, you’re
there.
That’s not some extra thing, something nice to do. That’s
the
thing. And no, you don’t got to tell me you had meetings, ’cause I already know. You got your work, oh, yeah. Big, important things to do. Big man. So here’s what you do, big man. You take that laptop of yours and do your work while you sit on the chair and wait for her to be done. And then she comes out and you put the work away, ’cause she’s more important, and she needs to know it. You bring her home, you get her comfortable, you tell her she can call you anytime she needs you, and if she does, you’ll be comin’ right back home. And
then
you leave her with Inez and go back to work.”

I would’ve protested, but I didn’t have much answer for that. “Right,” I finally said. “Could be.”

Did he let it go? Of course he didn’t. “’Could be,’ hell. You keep screwing up like this, you ain’t going to keep getting chances. You could think about something else, too, if you can ever get your mind in the unique spot of you not being right every single time. You could think about how you’re going to go about letting them two into your life more, and how you’re planning to get to know that baby. And I don’t want to hear about no quality time. That didn’t work so good for you before, I noticed. I want to hear about
time
time.”

“I’ve told you. I’ve told Hope. I don’t have that kind of time, and she knows it. She said she needed more attention, and I’m paying more attention.”

Looking impressed had never been Eugene’s specialty, and nothing had changed. “Well, congratulations, that’s all I got to say.” It wasn’t. “I’d say you got yourself set up to get all the time you want, because pretty soon, you won’t have no family at all.
Again.
And when that baby of yours gets a little bigger and asks about daddy and how come he ain’t around, his mama can talk about daddy’s big job and explain how it was more important. If that sounds good to you, that’s just fine, ’cause you’re right on track to get it. If it don’t sound so great, then maybe for once you could try learning one single solitary thing without doing it the hard way. Might be easier on you, and it’d be a
whole
lot easier on that family you’re tryin’ to make. Specially on that woman you love, ’cause that’s what love is. Making it easier on her.”

I tried to think of an answer, but I couldn’t come up with much. I’d achieved exactly one thing so far that evening. My heart rate was up.

Eugene shook his grizzled head. “For a smart guy, you sure can be dumb. Get off that bike and hit the bag, then. Might as well do you some good somehow, seeing as I hauled my bony ass all the way over here.”

Hemi

I’d done it wrong, so I tried harder. That was the only possible response. I started coming home in time to eat dinner with Karen most nights, and I did encourage her to have her friends over, exactly as I’d promised.

That bit wasn’t too bad. Her time in New Zealand seemed to have helped along those lines. I wouldn’t call my home “pristine” anymore, but at least she was making her bed and putting her dishes in the dishwasher, and her shoes generally got left in the entryway. The rest of it, I could live with.

I made the supreme sacrifice, too. Two weeks after school started, I suggested that Karen invite Noah the Unattached Buddhist to join us for dinner on Saturday night, since he didn’t seem to be going away. That would give me a chance to meet him, and it would give Karen a chance to cook and to be a real hostess in her home. I was fairly proud of thinking of it, actually.

As for Noah . . . I wasn’t sure what I’d expected, but it had probably involved more listening and definitely more deference, the kind I’d have got from a nephew. Unfortunately, Noah wasn’t Maori, and I wasn’t too sure about the Buddhist bit, either.

He turned out to be good-looking in a soulful-WASP sort of way. Tall and lean and beach-and-ski-slope tanned, with dark hair that fell over his collar and tended to drop into one dark-lashed gray eye. I’d have bet he played the guitar, and that he’d look into a girl’s eyes while he sang her a song.

You could say that I met him and hated him and not be too far off, but I did my best. I asked him about his plans for university and the future, for example, which made Karen sigh and say, “Old-fashioned much, Hemi? I mean, for Question
One?”

I just looked at her. None of the responses I could have made seemed particularly helpful. Noah didn’t seem fazed, though. He said, “I’m going into medicine.”

“That what your dad does?” I asked.

He looked at me pityingly. It wasn’t a look I got very often, and I wasn’t enjoying it now. “Both of my parents, actually. Women can be doctors, too, you know.”

“Mm,” I said, not rising to the bait. “Takes a bit of doing, medicine.”

“If you mean I’ll have to go to med school, well, yes, obviously.”

“Takes getting in as well,” I said dryly. “A few stages of that, I reckon.”

“Noah’s in the top twenty percent in his class,” Karen put in. “He’s built houses for the poor in Central America. He’s got an amazing resume.”

“Aren’t you in the top ten percent?” I asked her.

“It’s a lot easier as a freshman,” Noah said. “Before most of your class gets serious.”

I’d had practice controlling my temper, and I called on it now. “Not too easy with a brain tumor, though. And I’ve thought at times that universities might want to look a bit more at students who’ve been poor themselves and less at ones who’ve built houses for them. Two different experiences, eh.”

“I never said Karen didn’t work hard,” Noah said, not sounding quite so Buddhist. “Admissions committees take family circumstances into account, too. Maybe too much. The scholarship students I know are some of the best prepared in the school. Lemuel Sanderson—he’ll probably be our valedictorian. He’s African-American, and everyone knows he’s on scholarship. Here’s another way to look at it. I’ve had more temptations and distractions than some people, and I’ve stayed focused anyway. Or maybe we should ask somebody who actually
is
poor and see what they say.”

Before I could tell him that “more temptations and distractions equals hardship” was the stupidest thing I’d ever heard in a lifetime of listening, Karen said, “Of course being poor is harder, Noah. I mean, geez. You don’t have any idea.” Which told me she hadn’t gone all the way over to the dark side. “Hemi knows that, too.
He
was poor, and so was I. That’s just
lame.”

“I’m just saying,” Noah said, digging himself in deeper, “that people should study the admissions criteria before they judge, like I have, and consider all the factors. I do realize I’ve had advantages. That’s why I plan to do some good in my practice.”

“Planning to work in the inner city, are you?” I asked. I’d bet not.

“No,” he said. “Cardiologist. My parents are dermatologists. I’m not going to spend
my
life making rich people’s wrinkles and zits go away. I want to fix real problems.”

I considered saying that there was another kind of problem that could be even more real. Things like untreated diabetes and high blood pressure, mums who sat in the emergency room for hours with their feverish babies. Or young women who couldn’t get anyone to order the tests that would diagnose their little sisters’ disabling headaches.

While I was working to set that aside, Noah said, “I’ve got a question for you, too.”

“Go ahead,” I said. Hope would have told me not to put Noah’s back up, or Karen’s, either, so I took another bite of Karen’s chicken and made an attempt to keep an open mind. Not easy. My mind tended to make a decision fast and stick with it, and that decision had already been made.

“Why isn’t Karen allowed to swear?” he asked. “She says it’s because of you. Don’t you think that’s an outdated vestige of the patriarchy?”

“No, but you do, clearly.” Maybe this kid was book-smart, but that was where it stopped. I reckoned “pathologist” would be a better career choice. That way, his patients would be dead already. He might have enough bedside manner for that.

“Women aren’t delicate flowers who need protection, though, are they?” he said, cheerfully going on to dig his grave. “Men who say they’re protecting women by treating them differently—aren’t they just holding them back, keeping them from full participation and equality? You could call it a virtual burkha.”

I wondered if he’d thought that one up all by himself. I’d have bet not. I looked at Karen. “Right, then. Participate fully. You don’t need Noah to speak for you. Tell me what you think.”

She was looking particularly pretty tonight. She hadn’t quite grown into her slightly oversized mouth and eyes, but once she did, she would be a striking woman. And a woman who deserved better than this bloke.

For once, she didn’t rush into speech. “I don’t know. I mean, I thought so before, that you and Hope were ridiculous. But I noticed that my cousins—I mean, not my cousins, but, you know, the cousins—they don’t swear around their parents, either. And
nobody
swears around Koro.”

“Why do you imagine that is?” I asked, keeping it calm. Keeping it deliberate.

“Well, a Maori thing, obviously,” Karen said. “And maybe a respect thing? You know, respect for your elders and all that. Which Maori are super big on,” she told Noah.

“Words are just words,” he said as if he’d invented that idea, too. “And people should meet each other on an equal playing field, not with all that status attached to them. Money, power, age, gender, race—it’s all the same thing. Artificial distinctions so people can feel superior.” Which would have made me laugh if he hadn’t been pissing me off so much. If anybody had ever felt more superior than this kid, I hadn’t met him.

I didn’t laugh. I said, “Right thought leads to right speech, which leads to right action. Seems to me I heard that somewhere. Seems to me it was Buddhist, too.”

“That isn’t what it means,” Noah said. “It means not saying hurtful things. It’s not about whether you swear or not. It’s definitely not saying you shouldn’t speak up and make your point directly instead of being all polite and passive-aggressive about it. Saying ‘fuck’ or ‘shit’ isn’t any different from the word Karen uses instead. ‘Geez.’ How’s that different? It would be one thing if you were calling a woman a cunt, but unless it’s a racial or sexual slur, a word only has power if you give it power.”

I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t think of anything better than, “Right, you. Out of my house now,” and I didn’t think that would meet Hope’s test.

Finally, Karen said, not sounding happy, “Hemi means it’s his house, so he gets to decide.” Which told me Karen was heaps smarter than Noah, but then, I’d already figured that out.

“It’s
our
house,” I said. “But you don’t make the rules in it, and neither does Noah. Hope and I do, and she’s in nobody’s burkha. Telling the truth doesn’t require bad language, and ‘respect’ and ‘politeness’ aren’t four-letter words.”

It wasn’t a brilliant evening, no, and Karen didn’t have much to say about it afterwards. But I might have made her think a bit.

Speaking the truth was only half the battle. The other half was giving it time to sink in.