Empire Falls

easy.”
    “Would’ve been less fuss over a lot of kids,” Max recalled. “You’d think I had run over a child the way everybody carried on.”
    “I don’t—”
    “If your mother was still with us, she’d tell you to marry that crippled girl, same as me. And if she told you to …”
    Miles couldn’t help smiling at this. Mrs. Whiting had used the same tactic.
    “… you’d do it. Then we’d have ten million to split up.”
    “That’s what you think,” Miles said. “If Mom was still alive, she and I would have ten million. You’d be shit out of luck.”
    Max considered this possibility. “You know, the way you don’t like me, I’m surprised you won’t pay me to go away. I would , you know. I had five hundred dollars in my pocket, I’d head down to the Keys right now. That’s all I’d need.”
    “Then how come you’re always calling me for money when you’re there?”
    “You’re my son. You’re supposed to help me out a little every now and then.”
    Again, Miles couldn’t help smiling. “Did it ever occur to you that you’ve got it backward, Dad? Aren’t parents the ones who are supposed to help their kids?”
    “Works both ways,” Max said.
    “Not in this family,” Miles assured him. “In this family it only works one way and we both know which way that is.”
    Max managed a ten-count silence. “Five hundred is all I’d need,” he finally said. “Once I get down there, I’m fine. All the tourists think I’m a Conch. You know what a Conch is?”
    “Yeah. It’s the local term for a bum who won’t bathe, right? An old reprobate who wears food in his beard and goes around sponging off strangers.”
    This time Max was quiet for a good twenty beats, causing Miles to look over at him. Experience had taught him that it was impossible to hurt his father’s feelings, but sometimes he worried that one day he’d go too far.
    Finally his father chuckled. “Funny you should mention sponges,” he said. “That’s what they called the old sponge divers. Conchs. They were Greeks, most of ’em. I could maybe swing it on four hundred.”
    Miles had to admit that getting rid of his father for an entire Maine winter for four hundred dollars was tempting—not to mention a bargain. The first problem was that Miles didn’t have it; the second was that he knew Max. You could pay him to go away, but that didn’t mean he’d stay away. No, paying Max to go away would be like giving money to a blackmailer; once he’d determined your ability and willingness to pay, he’d be back. Eventually you’d have to murder him or go broke.
    “Bookstore and café with adjacent two-bedroom cottage. Idyllic setting. Bicycle to town and beaches,” Max read from the ad Miles had circled.
    “Eye-dill-ick,” Miles said slowly, correcting his father’s pronunciation. After returning from Mrs. Whiting’s house earlier in the month, the horror of having asked Cindy out still burning in his mind, he’d made two mistakes, the first out of fear, the second out of carelessness. He’d called the realtor to find out the asking price of the property, and then he’d written it down above the listing. Actually, he’d written only the first three digits, which may have been what was now confusing his father. He hadn’t intended to write anything down, of course, but the figure the realtor had quoted him had taken his breath away, and he’d written down those first three digits to make it seem real. By the time he stopped writing, he’d already known the truth—that even if Mrs. Whiting were to will him the restaurant, and even if he managed to sell the grill and Janine turned their house at a profit, the sum realized from both sales wouldn’t make the down payment on the Vineyard property. And even if he could finagle the down payment, he’d be saddled with a mortgage he could never meet by selling books and espresso. The broker had offered to put him in touch with the current owners to discuss the whole issue of profitability, but Miles had thanked him anyway and hung up, gut-shot by those first three digits.
    Unfortunately, Miles Roby was not like Walt Comeau, who could easily indulge such a fantasy. Over the last few weeks, the idea of opening a health club on Martha’s Vineyard had actually grown on Walt, who, the more he thought about it, didn’t see any reason why he shouldn’t. If the new club made money, maybe he’d open another on that other island, Nantucket, or whatever. Miles