Page 82 of Idle

“I’m sure you did a good job on it. You love whittling, and carving is along those lines.”

I’m done with that too. “Well, those days are over for me. I’m returning to my job in banking. I only called to say thank you for all your help and support. I wish I had better news to share.”

“Don’t quit because one set of stupid judges couldn’t see the value you bring. You’re a great carpenter. The world needs your talent. Remember, a man can be destroyed but not defeated.” When I don’t respond, he adds, “At least keep on whittling. Can you do that for me?”

My heart sinks. I’m not sure I can go cold turkey on all things having to do with carpentry, so maybe this little hobby will be enough. “Sure.” After a few more platitudes, we hang up.

In the silence, it’s as if all my dreams have evaporated, yet my life is set. Return to the office, take the promotion, and continue on as before. Forget my foolish idea of making a go of it with my carpentry. It was all a pipe dream anyway.

Since it’s only three o’clock in the afternoon, I decide it’s time to clean up from the competition. I drag my ass over to my desk and boot up my computer, then enter the Etsy shop interface. Twenty orders came in while I was filming. Inhaling, I respond back that I won’t be able to fulfill their orders. When I’m done, I delete my shop and close the account.

There.

Handmade by JD is no longer.

Pain slashes through my heart, but I ignore it. No more dwelling on what could have been.

I only have one last task to complete. Since it’s a weekday, my parents will be in their city apartment rather than their weekend house in Connecticut. After Diana was killed, Homer decided to move us into the city, but Marge wanted to be able to go out with her friends, so he bought them a “weekend” house there. None of us wanted to remain in the family residence after the accident.

Following a quick shower, during which I refuse to dwell on my former partner’s interest in having sex in one, I put on some clean clothes and head over to my parents’. I arrive a little before six, and stare at their doorway a full five minutes before I’m able to knock.

Marge answers. “Jesse? You look great. Come on in. Your father got home about ten minutes ago.” She sweeps the door open, and I enter.

Guess my face and body language aren’t betraying how I feel. Or my mother isn’t all that observant. I kiss her cheek. “Hi, Marge.”

My father makes his appearance. “Jesse?” He shakes my hand.

“We were going to order dinner from a Thai place we like. Want to join us?”

Marge used to be one of the top cooks in the neighborhood. All the kids would bang down our doors when she made a pie or cookies. Another casualty of the drunk driver’s actions.

Her question makes me realize I haven’t eaten since yesterday. “Sounds good. Thanks.” She hands me the menu and I circle what I want, although “want” might be too strong a word.

Once the order is placed, Homer leads us into their living room. It has a good view, although not as nice as the ViewPad or even 1626. I’m sure Paige could make this place sing.

“So, what brings you by?”

Of course he didn’t mention the show. I decide to give them the news they most want to hear first. “My promotion starts next week.”

Homer’s smile could stretch from here to our weekend house. “A real chip off the old block.”

Marge adds, “We’re so proud of you.” She addresses my father. “We should’ve gone out somewhere special to celebrate.”

The word “celebrate” together with my job at the bank is discordant. “Nah, this will be fine.”

“Executive director at only twenty-eight. This is fantastic, son. You’re a shooting star.”

His phrase reminds me of Paige with the “Walking on Moonbeams” statue on the High Line. I semi-successfully stifle a sigh. “Yeah, the youngest in the bank’s history.” So exciting.Not.

Screwing up my courage, I say, “There’s one more thing I need to tell you.”

Our conversation is interrupted by the intercom. Marge raises her finger. “Hold that thought. Dinner’s here.” She scampers to pick up her purse and goes to the door.

Ignoring my previous statement, Homer peppers me with questions about the bank and my impending promotion. I try to sound upbeat, like I know he wants, yet it’s difficult. Guess my time on the show helped with my acting skills, as he never questions my lack of enthusiasm. Or doesn’t care to notice.

Another thing the drunk driver killed. Our family’s communication.

Seated around the dining room table, eating my pad Thai, I wait for a lull in the conversation. “The Renovation TV show wrapped today. My team made it to the final round—the primary suite.” Why did I tell them which room? Not like it matters. Shrugging, I stare at my full plate. “We lost.”

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