Good Harbor

“That’s all right, hon. I really don’t expect you to spend every day with me.”

But Hal exploded. “What are you talking about? Of course I should have been home.” Kathleen stared. Hal, still angry but embarrassed, walked out of the room as Jack walked in with the last of the bags.

“Hal and I went to Brookline,” Jack said, “which isn’t Brooklyn by a long shot, but I got a nice kosher chicken. And three challahs so we can have a taste test. Save your appetite.”

That evening, Hal sang the long blessing over the wine, as Jack stood in the kitchen door, waiting to serve the meal. During dinner, Hal explained the details of his “master plan.” He would g

et certified as a paramedic and work as an EMT. Meanwhile, he’d take refresher courses in chemistry and physics to prepare for the MCATs. “I figure I’ll apply to U. Mass. in Worcester, BU, Tufts, and maybe Harvard, just for the heck of it.”

Jack raised a glass. “To my brother the doctor. But why didn’t you try the marinated calamari I put out before dinner?”

“I don’t eat shellfish anymore.”

“You’re kidding,” Jack said. “Why not?”

“I don’t eat pork, either.”

Buddy whistled. “You really are going religious on us.”

“I just don’t eat shellfish or pork. No big deal. Okay?”

“Okay,” said Kathleen. “To each his own, right?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Jack asked.

“It means we love you guys whatever you eat or don’t eat,” Kathleen said, raising her glass in Jack’s direction. “And here’s to the success of the Bay State Seafood Café and its brilliant, handsome new chef.”

“Here, here,” said Hal.

“I suppose you can eat fish when you come,” Jack said grudgingly.

“I love fish. And all the desserts,” Hal offered.

“The dessert chef makes those, not me.” Jack was still put out.

“For goodness’ sake,” Kathleen said, getting up from the table.

“Sorry,” Jack said, starting to clear the table.

“Sorry, Mom,” Hal said, adding, “Are you and Dad coming to services? Jack is.”

“I’ve got to see this lady rabbi he’s raving about,” Jack said, waggling his eyebrows, à la Groucho.

“Not tonight,” Kathleen said. “Next week. We’ll all go then. You know” — she paused — “for the anniversary.”

“I only go if she goes,” Buddy said.

Hal’s smile evaporated. Kathleen remembered how, as a little boy, he would put his pinkies into the corners of his mouth and pull them down into a deep frown when she said no to his request for a later bedtime or a second bowl of ice cream.

“I’m sorry, Hally. I’m just worn-out. Don’t be mad. Please?”

He shrugged.

“Say hi to Michelle for me,” she called as they walked out the door.

KATHLEEN WAS DOING laundry when the doorbell rang. She ran upstairs and, slightly out of breath, opened the door on Jimmy Parley. He was out of uniform, in a sports shirt and pressed jeans. Shifting his weight from one leg to the other, he apologized for interrupting. His face seemed flushed.

“What’s wrong, Jimmy? Is Buddy okay?”