Well and Good

“You’re not going to eat?”

“She can’t,” Charlie said, “She’s going out with her family later.”

I sat across from his father. A man who stared as if fresh bought Pizza were too good for me.

“Oh,” his father said. He looked down at their paper plates and thousand-per-package napkins.

“I’m very thankful to have been invited to stay,” I said. We’d been watching a movie together, Charlie and I, and I was supposed to drive home after.

“So, what are you going to school for?” his mother asked. I was surprised by her interest.

“I’m pre-med,” I said.

“She’s going to be a surgeon,” Charlie said.

“Oh,” his mother said. Pizza slid into and out of plates with a faint paper-y sound as his brothers grabbed second and third pieces.

“That’ll be a lot of schooling,” his father said, “a lot of debt.”

“I guess so,” I said. The light fixture on the ceiling flickered, and the chair beneath me creaked as I shifted.

“Mom, can I have more,” one of his brothers asked.

“You’ve had three pieces, try to pace yourself.” she said, looking at the dwindling boxes on the kitchen counter.

“He’s a growing boy,” his father said.

“We’ve talked about this,” she said in a whisper.

His father chewed a little slower, looking down at the plate.

I took a sip of tap water from the glass beer cup with the faded Steelers logo on it. It left a ring on the plastic tablecloth where the condensation had dripped down from the ice, fresh cracked from the tray and clinking.

“Nothing to report about school then, son?” his father asked.

“Well, my teacher thinks my spot-welding has improved,” he said.

“He got top marks on his exam,” I said.

“That’s great,” his father said. His mother smiled as she wiped tomato sauce off of his youngest brother’s face.

“Kaylee did well on her tests too, she’s got a 4.0,” he said.

“Pre-med with a 4.0,” his father said, throwing down a pizza crust. It hit the paper plate and bounced off. He didn’t pick it up, only stared at me and asked, “and your parents?”

“Well, my father’s a doctor, but my mom works at a department store,” I said.

“What store?” he asked.

“Kohls,” I said. Bread and greasy cheese smacked between the molars in his bothers’ mouths as the slices disappeared.

“I haven’t been there,” his mother said. His father didn’t respond.

“So is this your favorite Pizza place in town?” I asked. The smell wafted through the small house, tomatoes and cheese, Italian spice. Cooked sausage and grease.

“Yeah, it ain’t too bad,” one of his brothers said.

“Isn’t, dear,” his mother said.

“Dad always says ‘ain’t’,” his youngest brother said.

“Well, your Dad grew up with different goals than you,” she said, “don’t you boys want to go to school like Charlie?”

His brothers looked to him, the oldest. A question. Was it really worth it? I took his hand under the table and he interlaced our fingers, “school’s fun,” he said, “there’s cool stuff to do…. it’s fun,” he repeated. He wasn’t a man of words. But I’d always liked that about him.

His brothers chewed their pizza a little slower, if only slightly slower, and the one who was only growing outward didn’t reach for another slice.

“Well, you don’t need college,” his father said.

“Depends what you want,” I said.

“No,” he said, “You just don’t need it.” A bit of tomato sauce fell into his beard and dripped down onto his shirt.

“I mean. I definitely need it if I want to be a doctor,” I said.

“We’ve got enough of those,” he said.

“Let me eat your crusts, Dad,” one of the boys said. He shoved his plate in his son’s direction.

“Well, even for welding, I need to be trained,” Charlie said, “college has been good for that, even though I’m in a trade program, not the four year degree.”

“Sure,” his father said, “Was there dessert tonight?”

“What’s your favorite subject in school,” I asked the boys.

“School’s boring,” one of them said. The others nodded.

“Really? There isn’t a single thing you like about it?” I asked. The boys’ eyebrows furrowed down almost in tandem.

“I like…” the youngest brother said, then trailed off. He looked to their father, took another bite of pizza and stared up at me over the stringy cheese. I waited.

“Art,” he said.

“Really?” his mother said.

“It’s…fun,” he said.

“Okay,” I said, “What’s your favorite thing to do in art class?”

“...clay.”

“Sculpting,” I said. He took another bite of the pizza, a small one, looking to his father again. His cheeks were a little red.

“Did you know you can sculpt with other things?” I asked him.

“Like what?”

“Metal,” Charlie said next to me, “You can sculpt with metal.”

“Like what you do?” he asked Charlie.

“I don’t sculpt with it, but I make sure it sticks together.” Charlie said. His brother’s eyes were unfocused now.

“Would I be able to make metal art if I went to your school?” he asked.

“You might want to get an art degree instead, but it would definitely be a start,” I said.

“You boys don’t need school to study art,” his father said, “just make art! No sense in getting hundreds of thousands of dollars into debt for something you can just do.”

“What about technique though? What about learning your trade?” I asked.

“Learning’s all well and good, but money’s what matters. Putting food on the table. Everyone knows that college just puts people in debt.” Everyone chewed their pizza.

“Artists can still put food on the table, dear. Your brother’s doing just fine,” his mother said.

“Ha! He can barely make ends meet!” his father said.

“He always sends us nice things for Christmas,” one of the brothers said.

“Just to save face,” his father said, “He’s never had a real job in his life.”

“He makes money though?” I said, “isn’t that a real job?”

His father huffed and mumbled about grabbing a beer.

“It’s a good job,” his mother said, when his father left the room, “I didn’t know you wanted to do art, sweetie.” She said to the youngest brother. He shrugged.

“I didn’t say I wanted to do it. Just that I like it.”

“Ah, well you have a long time to decide,” I said.

He shrugged again.