Aristotle and Dante Dive into the Waters of the World (Aristotle and Dante #2)(17)

“No,” I said. “All our company needs is a signed statement from a parent or legal guardian.”

There was quiet again on the other end of the phone. “And we’ll spend all that time alone?”

“Yes,” I whispered.

“You are the most incredible human being who ever walked on planet Earth.”

I smiled into the receiver. “You might not think so after spending three days with me. Maybe that’s the antidote for falling for a guy like me.”

“I don’t need an antidote. I don’t happen to have a sickness.”

I do, I thought. I’m as love-sick as you can get.





Twenty-Eight


Dear Dante,

I went down to the basement to check out the camping gear. My dad has it all perfectly organized. After every camping trip, he airs everything out before he puts it all away. And he makes sure all the gear is clean and ready to go for the next time—except we haven’t gone camping in a long time. I had a good look at all the gear: a tent, two kerosene lanterns, sleeping bags, a small propane camping stove, an empty propane tank, and a couple of tarps. Everything neatly stacked on a shelf he built himself. I remember helping build the shelves when I was in fifth or sixth grade. I didn’t actually help very much. I mostly just stood there and watched him. The only thing I really remember about building the shelves was my father’s quiet lecture on having respect for saws. “If you like having fingers, you better pay attention and stay focused.” Of course, he really didn’t teach me how to use the saw. He didn’t ever let me come too close when he was cutting the wood. I think that maybe my mother gave my father a lecture of her own regarding me and the saw.

When I think about it now, I think my mother has always been a little too overprotective of me. I used to think she was just bossy. But now I don’t think she’s bossy at all. I think she’s always been afraid of losing me. I think that fear comes from her experiences with my older brother.

I remember you telling me that you were always analyzing your parents. And now I’m beginning to analyze mine. When did we get our degrees in psychology?



I shut my journal and looked down at Legs, who was lying down at my feet. “Legs, do you remember your parents?” Legs looked up at me and put her head on my lap. “Course you don’t. Me, I’m your dad. And I’m a good dad too, aren’t I?” Why the hell did we talk to dogs as if they understood the stupid things we were saying to them? I lifted her head and kissed her on her dog forehead.

My mother walked into the kitchen and shook her head. “It’s sweet that some people kiss their dogs. But me, I love a dog by feeding it.”

“Maybe it’s because you like cats more than dogs.”

“I like cats. I like dogs, too. But I don’t like them in my bed—and I don’t go around kissing them.” And then she looked right at Legs. “And lucky for you that you have Ari as your master. Otherwise, you’d be sleeping out in the yard like any good old-fashioned self-respecting dog.” She cut a piece of cheese, walked up to Legs—and fed it to her. “That’s how you love a dog,” she said.

“No, Mom, that’s how you bribe a dog.”



* * *



My dad and I looked over the camping supplies. “So, you and Dante are going camping?”

“What’s that grin you’re wearing?”

“It’s just that I’m trying to picture Dante on a camping trip.”

I couldn’t help but laugh. “I have my work cut out for me. He’ll do all right.”

“We used to go camping all the time.”

“Why did we stop?”

“I don’t know. You loved going camping. You were always such a serious boy. But when you went camping, you seemed to loosen up. You laughed a lot and you were so in awe of everything around you. You’d pick up anything you could—and you’d turn it over and over in your hands as if you were trying to get to the bottom of its mystery.

“I remember the first time I lit a campfire with you. That look of wonder in your eyes. You were maybe four years old. And you grabbed your mother’s hand and shouted, ‘Mom! Look! Fire! Dad made fire!’ It was easier for me when you were a little boy.”

“Easier?”

“A man like me.” He stopped. “A man like me can show a child his affection, but it’s harder…” He stopped. “You get used to not talking. You get used to the silence. It’s hard, you know, to break a silence that becomes a part of how you see yourself. Silence becomes a way of living. Ari…” He looked down at the floor—then looked back up at me.

I knew there were tears running down my face. I didn’t even try to fight them off.

“It wasn’t that I didn’t love you. It’s just that, well, you know.”

“I know, Dad.”

I understood what my father was trying to say. I leaned into him, and I was trembling. Trembling and trembling—and I found myself crying into my father’s shoulder like a little boy. He put his arms around me and held me as I cried. I knew that something was happening between me and my father, something important—and there weren’t any words for what was happening, and even though words were important, they weren’t everything. A lot of things happened outside the world of words.