Three Blue Hearts

I knew the evening wouldn’t go like I’d planned when Dad told me to wear a tie.

On the way to dinner we sat in the back seat together, which looked ridiculous. No one in my neighborhood rode around like that. Dad’s driver, Louis, let me ride shotgun whenever I was the only passenger. It seemed weird to ride in the back when there was a perfectly good seat up front.

“Where to, young man?” Dad asked.

Usually he’d ask me what I wanted for dinner, then choose his own favorite restaurant anyway. He’d want a place that was “Big Max–friendly.” That meant an expensive place most people couldn’t go to. Maybe this time he’d actually let me choose.

“I saw this new food truck,” I said. “It’s called Nutter Your Business and they make peanut butter sandwiches.”

Dad chuckled. “Sandwiches?”

“Not just regular peanut butter sandwiches. I mean, unless you want that. They have all kinds of toppings and breads. You could get one with bacon. I want to try the grilled peanut butter and banana on chocolate-chip bread.”

“You can get a sandwich anytime, Max. This is a special night, just us men going out to dinner. It’ll be a while before I see you again.”

Soon I’d be leaving for the summer. The whole summer. My mom was in grad school, working on her geography degree. She had a research project at this place on the Gulf Coast called Lafitte Island, about a four-hour drive from our home in Houston. She also said it’d be a chance to get away to a place where no one knew us. That part sounded good to me.

“What would people think if they saw us at a food truck?” Dad continued.

Well, they’d think we liked food trucks, and peanut butter sandwiches. Dad asked that question a lot: “What would people think?”

But there was no point in arguing. Dad had made up his mind. “No one says no to Big Max” was another thing he liked to say.

“How about Hawthorne’s,” he said. It didn’t sound like a question.

I slumped back against the leather seat. “Hawthorne’s is fine,” I said, wondering why he’d even asked me what I wanted.

“Louis, take us to Hawthorne’s,” Dad said.

Louis caught my eye in the rearview mirror. “Yes, sir.”

I was always afraid I was doing something wrong at Hawthorne’s. At a food truck, you don’t have to worry about picking up the wrong fork or sitting up straight. You can hold a wad of paper napkins or wipe your mouth with your shirt and no one will care. You can have a conversation without being extra uncomfortable in a tie and a straight-backed chair.

“Good evening, Councilman Conway,” the host said when we walked in. “Right this way.” He led us to a table for two in the back corner.

Chicken strips weren’t on the Hawthorne’s menu, so I ordered the closest thing--the baked chicken breast. The chef did cut it into strips for me, though, and the server brought a side of ranch dressing.

“So, how are things, son?” Dad asked.

I took a big sip of my sweet tea. What could I possibly say? Sir, things are super awkward and weird, thanks for asking was the first thing that came to mind.

“Big Max!”

A smiling couple approached our table, and I silently thanked them for interrupting.

It took just a second for Dad to switch from Dad Face to Councilman Face. His smile matched the couple’s as he shook hands with each of them. “Hey there, Dan, Connie. They let riffraff like you into this place?” The three of them laughed, and then Dad said, “Max, you remember the Mortons.”

No, I did not remember the Mortons. I shook their hands and said, “It’s good to see you.”

“My goodness, Little Max,” said Mrs. Morton. “Look at you, growing up!”

“Bet you’re a linebacker, right?” Mr. Morton laughed and added, “Maybe football will work out better than soccer.”

My face burned, and probably matched Dad’s reddening face. At my last soccer game of the season, I’d scored the game-winning goal. Normally that’d be something to celebrate, but the goal was for our rival team, the Water Bears. I got turned around and kept running and kicking the ball as the crowd cheered. I didn’t notice until after I’d scored that the cheering was coming from the parents of the other side. Of course it was all on video, and everyone on the planet had seen it. The Water Bears were just on the news for winning the state championship.

Mrs. Morton gave her husband a playful smack on the arm and said to me, “Oh, don’t listen to him. Bless your heart, you try so hard. Don’t worry about that soccer game. Folks will move on soon enough.”

I never knew how to respond when people said that to me. Somehow it was supposed to make me feel better, reminding me that things I did were best forgotten. I’d embarrassed Dad again, without even doing anything.

Dad changed the subject. “And he’s the top student at his school.”

“Ooh, impressive!” said Mrs. Morton.

Mr. Morton clapped me on the shoulder. “You’ll be ready to take over your dad’s business in no time!” In addition to being a city council member, Dad owned a car dealership. It had been in the family for a long time. Mr. Morton must’ve forgotten I’d been in a commercial for it, or he wouldn’t have made that linebacker comment. In the commercial, I was supposed to catch a football that Dad threw to me. He liked doing stuff that reminded everyone he had been a star football player in high school. I had my hands out to catch the ball, telling myself, Don’t drop it, don’t drop it, as Dad said his line: “Don’t let these deals pass you by.” I’m still not sure how it happened, but the ball pelted me right in the face, then bounced onto the floor. Of course they didn’t air the commercial like that, but the video got around anyway.

It was kind of nice to hear Dad brag about me, but I wished he could say something true. The way he talked about me in front of other people was different from the way he talked about me when he thought he didn’t have an audience. I didn’t want to embarrass Dad, but I didn’t want to lie, either. Even though he’s the one who said it, going along with it felt like lying.

“Oh, I’m not really the top student,” I said. Not even close.

“And humble too!” Mrs. Morton said. The three of them laughed, and Mr. Morton added, “Guess that’s one thing he didn’t get from his dad, right?”

“No, ’fraid not,” said Dad.

“We were hoping to talk to you sometime about that bayou expansion plan you’re promoting,” said Mr. Morton.

“It just doesn’t seem wise, does it?” said Mrs. Morton. “Such an expensive project--won’t it raise our taxes? Plus our granddaughter is worried about some--turtles, I think? A turtle that’ll lose its habitat if the expansion goes forward.”

Dad pulled a business card from his shirt pocket. “Oh yes, no one knows more about that than Big Max. Those turtles might interfere with the project, but we’ll see.” He handed Mr. Morton the card and said, “For now I want to get back to my dinner with Little Max, but call my office anytime.”

“Oh yes, of course,” said Mr. Morton. “Just hoping when it’s time to vote, you’ll think about the construction’s impact on the community.”

“And the turtles!” added Mrs. Morton.

“I’ll take that into consideration,” he said. That was goodbye.

After more handshaking and shoulder-clapping, the Mortons returned to their table.

“Dad,” I said. “I’m not the top student at school.”

“You’re tops in my book, kid.”

I wondered if that was okay, since the Mortons didn’t know that’s what he meant. “I’ll get a perfect-attendance certificate, though.”

“Well, that’s something.”

Sometimes when people said “That’s something,” they meant it in a good way, like “Wow, that’s impressive.” I think Dad meant it more like “Well, you showed up, which is better than nothing.”

After the server set our plates down and refilled our glasses, Dad asked, “What’s on your mind, Little Max?”

“Sir?”

“You’ve been awfully quiet. More than usual, I mean.” He sliced into his steak as he talked. “So, out with it.”

Dad always noticed more than he let on. He was good at watching people without looking like he was watching.

I took a bite of chicken while I thought. Actually, what I’d been thinking about right then was the conversation with the Mortons. People liked making plans for me, even while I was standing right there. Their ideas about what I’d do when I was older made me want to stay twelve years old forever.

Dad glanced around the restaurant, then raised a hand and snapped his fingers to get the server’s attention. People at nearby tables turned to look. One couple glared at me as if I was the one snapping, just because I was sitting with Dad and looked like a slightly smaller version of him. I wanted to slide out of my chair and hide under the table. The server smiled as she walked over to us, but also looked annoyed.

“How can I help you?” she asked.

Dad held up his plate and said, “Sweetheart, does this look medium to you?”

She tilted her head like she was thinking of what to say, or maybe trying to get a better view of Dad’s steak.

He didn’t wait for an answer. “I’ll help you out,” he said. “It’s not. Last time, the steak was so pink it was practically mooing at me, and now there’s too much brown in the middle.”

She took the plate from him and said, “My apologies,” even though it wasn’t her fault. It wasn’t like she cooked the steak, or could see inside it when she brought it out. “Be right back with a new one, cooked medium.” She turned to me and asked, “Everything okay with yours?”

“Oh. Yeah. Everything’s great.” I held up a french fry, soft inside with the perfect amount of crisp on the outside. “My compliments to the chef.” I’d heard that in a movie and thought it sounded good.

After the server walked away, Dad turned back to me. I was hoping his steak emergency made him forget what we’d been talking about, but no such luck.

“Kids at school bothering you?” he asked. “Is that what this is about?”

“No, no one’s bothering me.” That wasn’t true, but it’s what I had to tell him.

Dad really wanted me to play sports. Sports build character. Sports teach you how to be strong. I’d tried them all, and soccer was the one I was the least terrible at—which is saying something, since people at school were calling me Wrong Way Max after my messed-up goal. Last year when I played basketball, I missed a pass because I was watching a monarch butterfly that had flown into the gym. I was worried it would be stuck there all night. It might have a family to get back to. Then I tried to remember when monarch butterflies migrated. What if the rest of the monarchs were flying to Mexico, and this one would never catch up to them?

My team was mad I’d missed an important pass. That didn’t bother me. The important thing was, the butterfly flew out the door when Dad walked out before halftime.

“You know there’s a place for you at Layton,” said Dad. He was always trying to convince me to switch schools. Layton was the school he’d gone to, like his own dad and grandfather and every boy in the family for the past thousand years. I didn’t know anyone at Layton. And they had to wear uniforms with ties. Ties, every day.

“Layton would help you get ahead,” said Dad.

He’d said that before, and when I asked, “Ahead of what?” he answered, “Ahead in life, young man. Life!” How was I behind already?

Back to what was bothering me, what I was hoping to tell Dad. I didn’t want to play soccer anymore. Not because of the wrong-way goal. I just didn’t like it. I’d rather read a book or hang out with my dog. Dad didn’t think those were worthwhile activities, but I wasn’t doing anyone any favors by staying on the soccer team. Well, except for the opposing teams. If I did go back, I’d be riding the bench all season anyway. Whenever I tried to bring it up to Dad, I couldn’t get the words out. I decided then to just say it. That was what he always did, and people listened to him.

I set my fork down and took a deep breath. “I want to quit the soccer team.”

Dad waved a hand, like he was sweeping my words away from the table. “Don’t worry about that. I’ll make a call. You’ll get more time on the field.”

“No, but—”

“No one says no to Big Max,” he said.

I didn’t know if he actually thought I was worried that Coach wouldn’t let me play, or if he was pretending to misunderstand so he’d get his way. But I’d been dismissed, like the Mortons.

Dad changed the subject again. “So, what will you be doing at the beach while your mother stares at clouds all summer?” He seemed annoyed that I’d be away all summer while Mom did her research. Usually I saw Dad every other weekend and spent a little more time with him over the summer, but I wasn’t sure why it mattered to him.

“That’s not . . . She’s doing more than that.” I wasn’t sure exactly what my mom would be doing, so I didn’t know what else to say. Something about how weather events changed the island. “I’ll swim and hang out on the beach, I guess. I don’t know.”

“Well, try to do something productive,” said Dad. “Find out if they have some sports camps. I’ll call and get you in if you need me to.”

We didn’t say much for the rest of the meal. I was thinking about that bayou expansion Mrs. Morton mentioned. I’d have to look it up later.

“Dad?” I said. “Are those turtles going to be okay?”

He sighed and looked up, as if the answer to How did I end up with this kid? would drop down from the sky.

“Yeah, son,” he said. “The turtles will be fine.”



“Shotgun?” Louis asked after we dropped off Dad.

I got out and hopped into the front passenger seat, then Louis drove down the long driveway and out the gate.

On the way to my house, the homes shrank and the trees grew. When Dad’s neighborhood was built, all the old trees were cleared out and replaced with new ones. The home where I lived with Mom could fit into my dad’s house three times, but there were tall trees to climb and books scattered everywhere.