The Brutal Language of Love (18 page)

Ellsworth stands up then. “I'm afraid I'm imposing on both of you,” he says shakily. “I'm going back to Tampa to enroll in community college. I promise I'll do lots of research on what it really means to be a veterinarian, taking into account what you've said here today. Thank you very much for your help.”

With that he picks up his bags and heads over to a chair with a coin-operated TV attached. Farrell and I watch as he takes several deep breaths, then puts a quarter in the slot and begins watching
Oprah.

“Let's get out of here,” I say to Farrell. He nods, and before we know it, we're in TV chairs, too, on either side of Ellsworth.

“Hi, Ellsworth,” Farrell says.

“Hi,” Ellsworth says.

“We're going to leave soon,” I assure him. “My husband, Cyrus, and I have a ballroom-dancing class tonight and Farrell is tracking a storm.”

Ellsworth nods politely.

“Watcha watchin'?” Farrell asks.

“This is
The Oprah Winfrey Show,
” Ellsworth says.

Farrell nods. He offers Ellsworth the
PROS
and
CONS
napkin he created earlier, except now the word
VETERINARIAN
has been crossed out and replaced with
HAIRDRESSER
. “You can keep this if you like,” Farrell says. “It might help you to make up your mind later on.”

Ellsworth takes the napkin, reads it, then places it inside his jean jacket.

“Ellsworth,” I say, trying to sound sincere, “I'm sorry I couldn't be of more help.”

He nods again, keeping his eyes on the TV and Oprah's special guest, a child who is meeting his long-lost father for the first time.

“Do you have any other career-related questions?” I ask him.

He shakes his head so that the black shiny hair catches the fluorescent lights above and nearly glitters. On the other side of him, Farrell can't seem to resist as he reaches out to stroke the boy's head. A couple of tears spill from Ellsworth's eyes, though he refuses the tissue I offer him.

Suddenly Farrell stands up. “Bon voyage, kiddo!” he says, then turns and walks away. We both watch him lope out of the station. For a second I think about following him, but then we'd have to talk to each other and I'm not sure what we'd say. Anyway, my work now is with Ellsworth—cleaning up the mess my family and I have made of his juvenile life.

In the end he decides to take my tissue. “This wasn't even my idea,” he says. “I was going to stay in New York and try to get a job until your mother gave me those stupid pictures. She said I would ruin my mother's life if I didn't go home. She doesn't even know my mother!”

I nod.

“I didn't have to do this, you know!”

I hand him another tissue. He tells me a little about his family in Tampa and, to his surprise, I counsel him not to go back there. I charge him a ticket to New York instead, then give him all the cash in my wallet, a little over eighty dollars. I instruct him to stay away from my mother and not to ride his bicycle in the rain, if he ever gets one. Everything I say seems to make sense to him. When his bus pulls away at 7:00
P.M.
, he smiles at me and waves, while I imagine him sleeping in a cardboard box beneath the Brooklyn Bridge.

Outside in the parking lot, Farrell's truck is long gone, while his storm is rollicking overhead. It will follow me home, briefly threaten my safety and sense of well-being, then move on to harass someone else. Meanwhile, Cyrus and I will dance the fox-trot to the Abba music our instructor likes to play, and I will tell him a modified version of what happened at the bus station—one that doesn't make me and Farrell look quite so bad. I will tell him I can't wait for Double X to be born because I just have this feeling I'm going to be a great mother. Three months later, when she finally does appear and I scan her eyes for any memory of my transgressions, I will see only hunger and rage.