Arthur’s school held their graduation ceremonies yesterday, the official end of the school year. Today Harrington suggested that he and Arthur go out to lunch to celebrate, just the two of them.
Arthur’s immediate reaction was suspicion. He believed his father was going to scold him for something—perhaps for what he said when they argued two weeks ago. Up until now, Harrington has behaved as if the argument never happened, but he has not forgotten, and neither has Arthur. Still, Arthur had no reason to refuse, so today Isabella dropped the two of them off at a small restaurant not far from their house.
It did bother Harrington that he could not drive himself, but he covered it well, teasing Isabella that she was his chauffeur. “You need to get your license, Arthur, so I can enlist you, too,” he joked as he wheeled himself into the restaurant.
“Can’t wait,” Arthur muttered.
In the restaurant there was a couple that Harrington knew from church who immediately came over to say hello. He spoke with them while Arthur placed their orders. I was close by, watching to make certain that the conversation and its requisite inquiries into his health did not upset him too much. After all, this was not why I had encouraged the outing.
Soon enough, however, the two of them were settled at a table in the corner of the restaurant where they could talk.
“Has your mom enrolled you in a driving class this summer?” Harrington asked.
“Yeah, I think so.”
“You’re so enthusiastic,” Harrington teased.
Arthur shrugged. “I want to be able to drive, I just think the class is going to be dead boring.”
Harrington’s instinct was to chide his son—the words were already in his mind, you have to work if you want to get good results! But I reminded him that he had used that very same mulish tone when talking to his physical therapist earlier this week, and that made him more sympathetic. “Well, you’re probably right,” he said. “But it won’t take a long time.”
This reminded him, however, what a long road he still has to recovery, and he subsided into silence.
“You are not here to worry about yourself,” I reminded him gently. “You are here to show your son that you care about his wishes and thoughts.”
Arthur noticed his father’s gloom. “I will help drive you around when I get my license, Dad,” he said. “I really don’t mind.”
Harrington looked up at that and smiled. He really is a thoughtful young man, he thought fondly. “Where else will you be driving off to? Didn’t you say something about a beach trip?”
They talked about light things, mostly about Arthur—his plans for the summer, his college search, what he would like to study, what he would like to do. Harrington asked after Arthur’s friends and about the teachers he will have next year. Through it all I stayed close, guiding the conversation away from painful subjects and trying to make Arthur see that his father was making an effort, trying to change the disregard that Arthur objected to weeks ago.
It went well, I think. When they had finished eating and gone out into the sunshine to wait for Isabella to pick them up, Arthur turned to his father. “I’m sorry I yelled at you that time, Dad,” he said.
Harrington glanced up at Arthur in surprise. Then he smiled. “I’m not. You were right. I’m going to do better, Arthur.” He turned back to watch the cars rolling by on the street. “How’m I doing so far?” he asked.
Arthur also smiled. “Not too bad.” Then he asked, “Hey, can I ask you something?”
“Sure can.”
“Why do you and Mom always call me Arthur? Everyone else calls me Arty or Art.”
Harrington shrugged. “Because I never liked being Harry, and Isabella doesn’t like Izzie or Bella. But if you like Arty or Art better, we can use that.”
Arthur considered this. “Nah. I like Arthur.” And he was even considering making his friends use Arthur from now on.
“Cool,” Harrington said, and they fell into companionable silence. Then Arthur put his hand on his father’s shoulder, and the silence became somewhat more meaningful.
It is a good start, is it not?