How to Talk to a Widower

a bold new social experiment. We buy sack-loads of frozen chicken nuggets and french fries. We will need a second freezer.
    The left side of my face has a wine-colored, kidney-shaped welt that throbs continuously, and I feel compelled to trace this new topography in my flesh every few minutes, like a tongue worrying a loose tooth. There’s something undeniably satisfying about being marked by violence, some manly validation, even if it was an errant blow from the very boy I was supposedly defending. I’ve been blooded in a violent rite of passage and have earned a new standing in the tribe. It’s been one day since our epic battle with Jim, and all parties, speaking through me, have agreed that it would be best if Russ moved in with me, effective immediately. I am now in charge of this sad, confused, angry boy, this long-haired, tattooed bundle of rage and grief. Me, a stepfather. It’s a sick joke, an abomination, an accident waiting to happen. It’s perfect. As we shop, we banter, a particular brand of softly ironic wit laced with affection that is entirely our own. We will perfect this repartee over time, until it becomes our trademark, like Hepburn and Tracy, and even though I’ve never actually seen Hepburn and Tracy, I’m sure we’re infinitely funnier. I pull food items off the shelves and toss them like footballs to Russ, and our record is perfect until he misses the cellophane-wrapped watermelon half, which hits the floor with a juicy thud and the corner crumples.
    “Fuck,” Russ says.
    “I can’t believe you missed that.”
    “Dude. That was nowhere near me.”
    “I thought you were cutting left.”
    “I was faking left.”
    “Good job.”
    “Let’s just take a different one.”
    “We can’t put this back. Didn’t you ever hear the expression, you break it you bought it?”
    “Didn’t you know that the customer is always right?”
    “What would Jesus do?”
    “Jesus wouldn’t have thrown it like a little girl.”
    “Just put it in the cart.”
    And therein lies the tricky part. We can talk like buddies and live like roommates, be the brothers we never had, but at some point, my role as guardian has to kick in. If ever there was a kid in need of a decent male role model, it’s Russ, and, qualified or not, I’ve landed the job. Granted, it was a battlefield promotion, but my shabby credentials notwithstanding, I’m hoping I’ll surprise myself by divining a heretofore untapped well of maturity that’s been accumulating somewhere inside of me like unspent interest, that will enable me to dispense a variety of wisdom and discipline that will in no way impede my overall coolness. And while I haven’t yet figured out exactly how I’ll navigate the more challenging terrain of issues like sex or drugs or truancy or internet porn, by God, I can do the right thing by this dented watermelon, and I allow myself a few seconds of warm and fuzzy for starting things off on the right foot, for passing our first ethical challenge with flying colors.
    As Russ drives us home, we have our first official stepfather-stepson talk.
    “Can I get a car?” he says.
    “You don’t have a license.”
    “I will soon.”
    “Let’s deal with it then.”
    “It’s not like money’s going to be an issue,” he says, looking away uncomfortably.
    “Actually, I suspect money is going to be a huge issue.”
    We have never discussed the airline settlement, the unfathomable amount of money headed our way.
    “Why’s that?”
    “Because you’re a sad, angry kid who lost his mother and hates his father, and now you’re going to be rich, and if there was ever a recipe for screwing up a kid, this is it. And it’s my job to make sure you don’t become one of those assholes who jet-set around with other rich assholes, dating skanky celebrities, investing in nightclubs, doing your first stint in rehab before you’re twenty-five.”
    “It’s heartwarming how much faith you have in me.”
    “You’re a kid, Russ. It’s a lot to deal with. You know, it wouldn’t be a bad idea for you to start seeing a therapist. There are probably some who specialize in exactly this sort of thing.”
    “It’s just a car, Doug. Jesus.”
    “Watch the road.”
    “I am.”
    We ride in silence for a few minutes, and gradually the panicked feeling in me starts to fade. “Then again,” I say, “it’s entirely possible that I’m overreacting. Let me think about it a little, okay?”
    “Cool.”
    You swear you’ll