Tami's father knew how to make three things. He could grill meat, which in Texas, of course, meant brisket. He could make pancakes, eggs, and bacon. And, like any self-respecting Texas man, he could prepare a decent chili. That was it. So when she bit into the shrimp and sausage gumbo Mr. Taylor had prepared, and the sensation of a half dozen tastes hit her tongue at once, she couldn't help but say, "Oh my God! This is so good! You should open a restaurant."
"I have opened a restaurant," Mr. Taylor said.
"I mean a real restaurant." Tami realized her unintentional insult the moment the words were out of her mouth, but it was too late. Eric's eyes widened in her direction and Mr. Taylor's grew stern. "I just mean," Tami stuttered, "like, a non-bar place. A fancy place. Have you ever considered the upscale market?"
"No."
"Okay," she said quietly, simultaneously embarrassed by her faux pas and annoyed by his brusqueness. "I just imagine you'd be successful at it."
"A middle-class establishment is always filled during good times," Mr. Taylor said, "with both the lower and middle classes. When recession hits, the upscale establishments are the first to take the blow, and the middle-class establishment becomes the upscale establishment." He didn't pause for her reply, but continued his exposition. "The middle class is the best place in life. Not just to target, but to live in. The middle-class man has none of the vices of the idle rich, but none of the struggles of the poor."
Tami knew it was probably best to nod at this point. A simple nod would be the easiest way to avoid making waves. But she didn't nod. She said, "If you believe that, then why was it so important to you that Eric try to make it to the NFL? If he made it to the NFL, wouldn't that put him among the idle rich?"
Eric suppressed a smile. Mr. Taylor blinked. He studied her quietly for a moment. Tami didn't allow his gaze to intimidate her. In that moment, she decided that if this man was going to be her father-in-law one day, she better make her stand sooner rather than later. She looked right into his eyes. "The life of a high school coach and teacher," she said, "is a respectable middle-class life."
Mr. Taylor's mouth formed a stern line. She wondered if he ever smiled. She was trying to think of a time she'd seen him smile, and she couldn't. At last, he spoke. "You make a valid point," he said. "You make an error of assumption, however."
"Oh?" Tami asked. "And that is?"
"That Eric would necessarily lead the life of the rich man in the NFL. I've raised Eric to appreciate the value of always living below his means. If he were to make it to the NFL – and I still think he could, if he would just give up this TMU nonsense and accept my money and go to A&M – "
"- Dad, I know what I'm doing. I'm not – "
Mr. Taylor held up his hand to silence his son. "I know. You've made your decision. I'm not going to argue with you. You're your own man, and there's nothing I can do about it. That doesn't mean I've change my opinion."
Eric stabbed his spoon into his bowl and angrily fished out a bite.
"If he had made it to the NFL," Mr. Taylor told Tami, "he would, I should hope, live well beneath his means, as I taught him to do. The average career in the NFL lasts only six years. But live a middle-class lifestyle during those six years, bank the difference, and you can live a middle-class lifestyle for the next twenty years, no matter what you do. He could volunteer to coach for the rest of his life, if he did that."
"It's not realistic to think I could go pro," Eric told him. "I'm not that good."
"You're better than you think you are," Mr. Taylor told him. "When I was sixteen, I had a boss who told me I'd never be anything but a fry cook, and he was wrong. I could buy his restaurant now, if it hadn't failed years ago."
"That's different," Eric told him. "I'm doing the reasonable thing. This is what I want, Dad. I want to concentrate on my future career as a coach. I don't want to put all my eggs into some NFL basket, order my whole life around achieving that pipe dream, only to get passed over on draft day, or to flame out at camp, or to get cut in the pre-season. TMU is the right school for me."
"I'm aware of your opinion, Eric. Don't expect me to share it."
"I'm not asking you to share it! But would it kill you to support me anyway?"
Mr. Taylor shot him a look that was more puzzled than angry. "How am I not supporting you? What have I done but work my whole life to provide for my family? Are you not sitting at my table, under my roof, eating the food I put on my table? Have I cast you out?"
Eric shook his head. He seized his bowl. "I'll clear the table," he said. "Is there dessert?"
"There's your mother's leftover apple pie."
Tami helped Eric clear the table. At the sink, she said, "Sorry. I didn't mean to start a flame war between you and your dad."
"It's okay," he said. "This is just life in the Taylor household." He smiled at her. "Won't be life in our household though, I promise you."
"If we ever have children," Tami said, "I'm sure we'll never fight with them." They both laughed. They were young, but they weren't so young as to imagine that could be true.
When Eric was getting the pie, Tami thought how nonchalantly he'd treated her comment about children, without even spooking a little.
After they'd been eating their pie for a bit, Mr. Taylor said, "Oh, Eric, I forgot. You need to run over and help the widow next door change some high lightbulbs. She doesn't want to risk the ladder."
"Okay," he said, and took another bite of his pie.
"I mean now, son. She needs the light. I'll make Tami some decaff coffee, and you can rejoin us when you're done."
Eric glanced at Tami, who shot him a "please don't leave me alone with your father" look. He shot her an "I'm sorry, but I know you can handle yourself" look. What he said was, "I'll be back real quick."
Tami helped Mr. Taylor clear the pie plates and then wasn't sure what to do with herself as he made the coffee, so she looked around at the kitchen and spied the flowers in a vase on the small, circular table in the breakfast nook. "Those are pretty flowers. Did you get them for Mrs. Taylor?"
"Yes. I get her flowers every Tuesday. That's when they're cheapest at the grocery store. Fresh shipments come on Wednesday, so they discount the flowers on Tuesday. I can get them at an economical rate."
"And carnations, too. They're one of the most economical flowers to begin with." She felt a little bad after she'd said it. Tami supposed it was nice of Mr. Taylor to buy his wife flowers every single week. Her own father certainly didn't do that. Then again, when the Reverend did buy Tami's mother flowers, it was heartfelt, and he wasn't primarily concerned with economics.
"The carnation is Janet's favorite flower. Her second favorite flower is the tulip. Yellow is her favorite color. Her second favorite color is green. Ten is her favorite number."
Tami counted the flowers in the vase. Ten yellow carnations. She looked back at Mr. Taylor, who was watching the brown liquid in the coffee pot drip, drip, drip.
"A French press produces better coffee," he said. "But this is more efficient." He held up a finger. Drip, drip, "This is the last one," drip. He pulled out the pot and poured their cups. "Cream and sugar?" he asked.
"I take it black," she said.
"Do you? I'm not surprised."
What did that mean?
Tami followed him back to the dining room, where he sat with a hand on his knee, eased back in his chair a little, and studied her. "I read four Stephen King books last month," he said.
Four? That sounded like a lot for a man who didn't read for pleasure. Why had he been reading them, then? To judge her tastes? "And what did you think?" she asked, even though she knew what he thought from Eric.
"I didn't care for any of them, except The Body, which was nothing like the others."
Tami was trying to imagine a twelve-year-old Mr. Taylor, with a gang of odd friends, like those in the book, setting out to find a dead body. He'd had an even more dramatic coming of age, she supposed, though, having left a negligent home at fifteen. "That's one of my favorites, actually," she told him. "I heard they're making a movie version."
"I don't watch movies, except when my wife asks me to."
"Oh."
"Let me ask you something, Tami. Are you serious about my son? Because he seems quite serious about you."
"Uh…yes, sir, I am."
"I hope you don't break his heart. It could really distract him from his college studies. He's strangely sensitive. He has trouble concentrating when his emotions get in the way."
"That's…that's not strange. That's normal, Mr. Taylor."
"Hmm."
"And I don't intend to break his heart."
"Intend? So you think you might do it accidentally?" he asked.
It sounded like a joke, but he did not appear to be joking. "I don't intend to do it accidentally either," she said.
"You can't intend to do something accidentally."
"I know." Tami didn't know what to say. What if Mr. Taylor asked her if they were having sex, the way he'd bluntly asked Eric if he was using condoms before they were even having sex? He wouldn't do that, would he? But he didn't have much sense of social impropriety either, did he?
"Are you and Eric…"
Oh God. Please no, Tami thought.
"Are you two…"
Please no. Please don't. No.
"…planning to get married?"
Tami felt so much relief that he hadn't asked about sex that she didn't think to feel awkward about what he had asked. "We're serious about each other," she said. "But we have college to think about first."
"Good!" Mr. Taylor announced. "Good answer."
The front door opened. A wave of relief washed over Tami.
"That was quick," Mr. Taylor called.
"Well, Joan got sick and threw up in the middle of the meeting," Mrs. Taylor answered, appearing in the door frame. "Oh, Hello, Tami." She flashed Tami a pleasant smile. "It's nice to see you."
"I thought you were Eric," her husband said. "He's gone to help Mrs. Thomas change a light. Have you eaten? There's gumbo left."
"I love your gumbo." Mrs. Taylor disappeared into the kitchen, from which she called, as though she'd said it a hundred times before, "Thank you for the flowers. My favorite."
[*]
As they stood by Tami's car later, Eric apologized. "I'm sorry I left you alone with him like that, but he clearly wanted a word with you." He winced. "What did he say?"
"That I better not break your heart."
"My dad? No way. What did he really say?"
"Pretty much that." She kissed him. "You're dad's weird, Eric."
"Yeah. You've told me that before. What do you want me to do about it?"
She shrugged. "Maybe cut him some slack?"
"What?"
"It can't be easy being weird. And it seems like he's trying."
Eric, looking puzzled, shook his head.
"I love you," she told him and gave him one last kiss before getting in her car.
