How to Talk to a Widower

chair in front of me.
    “So,” I say, sitting down. “What’s the deal here?”
    “The deal is that Russ took on half the football team this morning and, as you can see, he got his ass kicked.”
    “They ganged up on him?” I say, feeling a hot band of rage tighten in my belly.
    “According to witnesses, one of the guys made a remark and Russ just went off on him. The other kids were just trying to pull him off.”
    “Wow. What’d the guy say?”
    “No one’s talking.”
    “Was anyone badly hurt?”
    She shakes her head. “Just the usual. But unfortunately for Russ, the high school enforces a zero-tolerance policy on violence. It’s a mandatory three-day suspension.”
    “Ms. Hayes.”
    “Call me Brooke, please. And I’ll call you Doug, okay? I mean, for God’s sake, we’re both under thirty, right?”
    “Right,” I say, somewhat disconcerted by her easy, casual manner. “Brooke. You realize that I’m not Russ’s legal guardian. That he lives with his father.”
    “Yeah,” she says slowly, biting down on her lip thoughtfully as she sizes me up. “I had Jim in here the last time Russ got into a fight.”
    “It’s happened before?”
    She gives me a curious look. “It’s pretty much a regularly scheduled event these days,” she says. “Anyway, Jim gave me a fairly incoherent speech about kids needing to fight their own battles, and how he didn’t raise his son to back down from bullies.”
    “He didn’t raise him, period,” I say.
    She nods, peering intently at me. “Then he asked me when I got off.”
    “Jesus.”
    “Yeah. So this time I figured it might make sense to try another avenue. Russ speaks very highly of you.”
    “He does?”
    She grins and holds up her hands. “Okay, I might be reading between the lines there. I mean, you have to do that with a kid like Russ. He doesn’t say very much. But from what little he has said, I can tell that he likes you. Also, I hope you’ll forgive me for saying it, I read your column in
M,
and … ” Her voice trails off. “Okay. Never mind that part. It’s not relevant.”
    “What?” I say.
    “I don’t want to overstep my bounds.”
    “You don’t strike me as someone who is very big on boundaries, Brooke.”
    “Sensitive and intuitive,” she says with an approving smile. “Okay. What I was going to say is that, in addition to sounding smart and sad, you strike me as a deeply angry person.”
    “Angry,” I repeat. “Who am I angry at?”
    “Take your pick. Angry at the world for letting what happened to you happen, or at God, if that’s your thing. Or maybe at your wife for having the nerve to die, or at yourself for not stopping her.”
    “You’re psychoanalyzing me based on my column?”
    “The very fact that you’re writing that column is proof enough. You’re lashing out, trying to hold the world accountable. It’s perfectly natural to feel that way.”
    “I’m so relieved. Now, can we actually talk about Russ?”
    “But I am talking about Russ,” she says, ignoring my hostile tone. “When we are in the anger stages of grief, we will often subconsciously push away anything or anyone that we associate with the person we lost. And the tragedy is that the two of you are going through the same thing. He’s as sad and angry and confused and alone as you are, plus he’s a teenager, which means that on his best days his life is a shit storm. He needs someone to talk to, to help him through this, and there’s no one better equipped to understand him than you.”
    “You’re saying that I’m pushing Russ away?” I say, pissed. “You don’t know a goddamn thing about me.”
    “You’re right,” she says, leaning forward in her chair. “I just know that he’s not going to get the help he needs from his father, and he won’t open up to me. He’s a good kid, you know that. A little introverted, but very bright and compassionate. And when a kid like that starts acting out and getting into fights, generally speaking, he’s trying to get someone’s attention, and you can be damn well sure it’s not Jim’s.”
    Through the window behind her I can see a group of kids hanging out on cars in the parking lot, laughing, flirting, chasing, grabbing, kissing, and groping, and I would give anything to be any one of them, even if just for a few minutes, to feel the unspoiled future splayed out in front of me again as far as the eye can see.
    “Doug,” she says after a bit, and I realize that I zoned out for