"Yeah, I think so, Doris. I learned a lot on that weekend, but the best thing I learned is that Jacob Perez-Sullivan is a good person. He's got a good core. You put it there, Doris, and maybe I did, too. So I think maybe we didn't mess up so badly, after all."

Doris startles me by falling into my arms for the first time, perhaps, since that terrifying day in the playground when we thought our son was gone for good. I once saw a photo of one of the j.a.panese pilots who bombed Pearl Harbor shaking hands with one of the Americans who dropped the big one on Hiroshima. Two old warriors, fifty years later, showing there were no hard feelings. That's Doris and me, hugging at the airport.

"I am am proud of him," she says. proud of him," she says.

"So am I."

The hug evaporates, and we continue our walk toward the exit. The three of us had taken a car service to the airport, but now we'll have to get in line for a cab.

But I'm not quite ready to leave. I feel a little bit dizzy, and the very idea of getting into a stinking New York City yellow cab makes me feel nauseated.

I tell Doris I'm not feeling right, that she should go ahead without me. She actually seems relieved. We've had a decent time today, and spending any more time together could only wreck it.

Doris goes off to the cab line. I get myself a c.o.ke, find myself a seat, and sip it slowly to settle my stomach, happy to watch people and planes come and go. I don't have any appointments. n.o.body expects anything of me. My ex-wife is heading home, and my son is in the sky, and I have absolutely no place to be.

And then it hits me how wrong I am. There's someplace I want to be, all right, and I get up and begin the journey my bones knew I'd be making before my brain did.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX.

The Train to the Plane carries me to the subway system, and from there it's easy to get to Flushing. It's a warm day, even though we're halfway through October. Autumn doesn't really exist anymore in New York. It seems that we go straight from summer to winter, air-conditioning to steam heat, with no room in between to open the window and breathe fresh air.

I actually work up a sweat on the walk to the house, where the cobblestone path my father and my son have built is a sight to behold. They didn't use any mortar-the stones are set down deeply in the dirt, holding each other in place. Over time they can only become more deeply and tightly set, so what would be the point of cementing them?

I walk over the stones on my way to the front door. They are freckled with little white circles, rims of calcium that are the remains of the barnacles my father could not sc.r.a.pe away completely. Will those circles be there forever, or will time, rain, and footsteps wear them away? I'd like to think they'll be there forever, mysterious little markings for the mailman to puzzle over on his daily deliveries....

Before I reach the front door I'm jolted by a sc.r.a.ping sound on the other side of the house. I look up and notice that the clapboards out front are pretty much down to bare wood, and that the lawn and shrubbery are covered with paint flakes, like yellow snow. I walk around to the back of the house. My father is up on a ladder, sc.r.a.ping dead paint off the clapboards. His hands and face are peppered with paint flakes. He does not wear a dust mask. I wouldn't expect him to wear one. He thinks dust masks are f.a.ggy. A real working man breathes the air that's in front of him, and takes his chances.

I stand behind him for a while, waiting to be noticed. He's going at the clapboards hard and fast with a sc.r.a.per, and when he's out of breath he takes a break, wipes his face with the shoulder of his T-shirt, and at last sees me standing there.

He doesn't seem in any way surprised. He takes a few deep breaths before saying, "Kid's plane get off all right?"

"Yeah. He's over the Atlantic as we speak."

"What are you doin' here?"

"I don't know, Dad. I really don't know."

He climbs down the ladder, tosses the sc.r.a.per aside, and claps his hands clean. I figure he wants to shake hands with me, but he doesn't. He puts his hands on his hips and stands in front of me. He doesn't seem glad to see me, but he'd not unhappy about it, either.

"Jake really liked that compa.s.s you gave him."

"Yeah, it might just come in handy for him."

"You guys did a good job on the path."

"Yeah, he seemed to enjoy the work. h.e.l.l of a project. Lot of fussin' around to get the thing level. No two cobblestones alike, you know? But he didn't get impatient about it."

"That's good."

"Might as well tell me what the h.e.l.l you came here for, Sammy."

I shrug, spread my hands. "Thought you might need a hand painting the house."

"Yeah, right. You didn't even know I was gonna paint the house today!"

"I had an inkling."

"The h.e.l.l you did!" He laughs out loud, squeezes my shoulder. "Your son just took off for the other side of the world. You're feelin' a little lonely, so you went to see your old man. You can admit it, Sammy. It's not such a terrible thing."

My red face tells him what I don't have to say in words. But there is something I do have to say, and it comes out in a burst, like a bolt of lightning.

"Could I sleep in my old room tonight?"

He's stunned by my request. He's trying to act as if he isn't, but he is. "Sure," he finally says. "You certainly may. Provided you give me a hand with this paint job." He c.o.c.ks his head, squints one eye. "Big job. There's all the clapboards, then the trim and the windows. Might need you to stay more than one night."

"I've got no plans, Dad. Believe me, I've got no plans."

There's a tickle of a grin on his face. "What about the color? You okay with the color?"

"Canary yellow? Well, like you said, Dad-b.u.t.tercups and sunshine. Nothing wrong with b.u.t.tercups and sunshine."

He digs out an old pair of gym shorts and a ragged T-shirt for me. I get changed and resume the sc.r.a.ping job, while he goes inside and makes lunch for us, cheeseburgers and french fries he heats up on a pan in the oven. We wash it all down with lemonade. No beer until later, when the day's work is done.

After lunch my father goes to the paint store to pick up a couple of new brushes while I finish the sc.r.a.ping job on the back of the house. When he gets back he examines my work with a critical eye, finding a spot or two of loose paint that I somehow missed. Other than that, he says, I have done a good job.

"You ready to start painting, Sammy, or are you too tired?"

"Of course I'm not too tired. Are you tired?"

"I don't get tired anymore, Sammy. Ain't got the time for it."

We're going to paint the front of the house first, he explains, because the late afternoon sun is shining on the back and that's the worst way to paint, in full sun. I already knew this, of course, because when I was a kid he'd tell me things like this countless times, but I don't let on that I've heard it before. Truth is, it's good to hear his advice again, the same way it's good to hear a golden oldie rock 'n' roll song you haven't heard in a long time. Like a visit from an old friend.

I bring the ladder around to the front of the house, and set it up at the highest peak. The plan is for me to work up on the ladder, while he paints whatever clapboards he can reach from ground level. It'll be three days' work for the two of us, easily. I feel warm and gulpy, knowing I'll be spending the next few nights in my old room. Later on I'm going to have to walk to Kmart to buy some underwear and a toothbrush. A razor, too. I can't borrow his razor, because he shaves with a straight-edge blade, and that thing always terrified me....

My father comes out of the garage carrying a can of paint. He pries the lid off to stir the stuff, and it's a good thing I'm not on the ladder when he does this, because I would have fallen off at the sight of it.

It's Benjamin Moore exterior house paint, but it's not canary yellow. It's robin's egg blue.

I don't say anything. I can't can't say anything. My father doesn't say anything, either, about how he took all those cans of canary yellow and brought them back to the paint store to exchange them for this new color while I was finishing the prep work. say anything. My father doesn't say anything, either, about how he took all those cans of canary yellow and brought them back to the paint store to exchange them for this new color while I was finishing the prep work.

He doesn't ask my opinion about the new color. We both know whose favorite color this was, and there's no reason in the world to talk about it.

He stirs the paint with a flat wooden stick for five minutes before pouring some of it into a small plastic container and pa.s.sing it to me, along with a brand-new three-inch paintbrush.

"I'm not being cheap with this stuff," he says. "I just don't want you goin' up there with a full can, in case you knock it over."

"Makes sense, Dad."

"I'm not sayin' you would would knock it over, but anything can happen up on a ladder, you know?" knock it over, but anything can happen up on a ladder, you know?"

"Dad. I'm not offended."

"Can't screw around at these prices. Twenty-eight bucks a gallon! Not to mention the d.a.m.n primer. And that's a sale sale price! Do you believe that?" price! Do you believe that?"

"I'll be careful, Dad."

Paint and brush in hand, I slowly climb the ladder until I am facing the peak of the house. I dip the brush into the paint, pat it on the inside of the container, and touch the wood with my first stroke. The stuff spreads beautifully and it's a lovely color, like the sky on Easter Sunday, obliterating the bare wood and the few remaining shards of yellow. The newly painted wood looks to me the way a soul is supposed to look after confession-clean and shiny and beautiful, ready to face the elements. I feel ridiculously happy about what I'm doing. Maybe I'll become a housepainter. There would be worse ways to spend my time.

I go back and forth with the brush, getting the paint deeply into the grooves of the wood, then dip the brush back into the paint container.

"Don't put it on too thick," my father says. "Gonna need two coats anyway."

"I know that, Dad."

"All right, then, I'll get started down here."

He begins to paint the lower areas, and we fall into the wordless rhythm of two workmen getting a job done. I know I am going to be tired tonight, a good tired, a delicious tired, and I'll fall asleep beneath my old Debbie Harry poster and dream blank dreams.

But first, I'll watch some TV with my father. Maybe we'll catch an old black-and-white movie, something with Humphrey Bogart or Robert Mitchum. There won't be much variety, because my father doesn't get cable. That's okay. If nothing good is on maybe we'll just eat Napoli's pizza and drink beer.

My daydreams are interrupted by the sound of his voice, directly below me.

"Jake's in Paris by now, isn't he?"

"Should be."

"I've never been to Paris. You ever been to Paris?"

"Dad. When would I have gone to Paris?"

"Maybe the paper sent you there to cover a story. You were never a foreign correspondent?"

"Please. The farthest the Star Star ever sent me was the Bronx." ever sent me was the Bronx."

This gives him a good laugh. "Hey, you wanna call him? Feel free to call him from here."

"He wants to wait a few days before he calls us. I think I have to respect that wish."

My father chuckles. "Kid's got b.a.l.l.s, Sammy. You got 'em, too."

It's the nicest thing he's ever said to me. Actually, he says it to the clapboards directly in front of his face, not to me, but still, it's quite a thing to hear, and when you're not expecting words like that, they go right through you. I have to grip the ladder for a moment, until the tingle pa.s.ses.

"Thanks, Dad," I manage to say.

"Sammy?"

"Yeah?"

"You're drippin' on me here. Try not to drip on your father."

"I'll do my best."

We work for a few more hours in silence, a silence my father breaks with a sentence that goes straight to my core.

"Well, anyway," he says, "she'd have gotten a kick out of this."

He says it as if the two of us had been having a long conversation about my mother, a conversation he wanted to wrap up.

I don't say anything. There's nothing to say. At last, it has all been said. The only sound is the sweet, whispery slide of paintbrushes over wood, a healing sound neither of us wants to violate.

We paint until dark, then step back to examine the front of the house. It gleams in the moonlight like a promise that will be kept.

My father puts a hand on my shoulder, and I'm shocked when he leans on me for support. He's tired. He's an old man. In the darkness he seems vulnerable, maybe even a little frightened. He stares at the house, nodding in what seems to be approval.

"Looking good, Sammy," he says. "Second coat'll take care of anything we missed the first time." Without taking his gaze off the house he gives my shoulder a squeeze. "We'll get there. Don't you worry, we'll get there."