The Millionaires by Brad Meltzer Page B

single word to me.
     That’s how he always gets when he’s upset—shut-down and turned off. The same way dad solved his problems. Naturally, if he
     were dealing with anyone else, they’d be able to read it on his face, but with mom…
    “Who wants a nice baked ziti!?” she shouts, opening the door even before we hit the doorbell. As always, her smile’s wide
     and her arms are outstretched, searching for a hug.
    “Ziti!?” Charlie sings, jumping forward and hugging her back. “We talking original or extra-crispy?” As corny as the joke
     is, mom laughs hysterically… and pulls Charlie even closer.
    “So when do we eat?” he asks, sidestepping her and pulling the sauce-covered wooden spoon from her hand.
    “Charlie, don’t…”
    It’s too late. He shoves the spoon in his mouth, taking an early taste of the sauce.
    “Are you happy?” she laughs, turning around to watch him. “Now you’ve got your germs all over it.”
    Holding the spoon like a lollipop, he presses it flat against his dangling tongue. “Aaaaaaaaaaaa,” he moans, his tongue still
     out of his mouth. “Ah ott o ehrrs.”
    “You do too have germs,” she continues to laugh, facing him directly.
    “Hi, ma,” I say, still waiting at the door.
    She turns back immediately, the wide smile never leaving her face. “Ooooh, my
big
boy,” she says, taking me in. “You know I love seeing you in a suit. So professional…”
    “What about
my
suit?” Charlie calls out, pointing to his blue button-down and creased khakis.
    “Handsome boys like you don’t have to wear suits,” she says in her best Mary Poppins tone.
    “So that means I’m not handsome?” I ask.
    “Or does that mean I look bad in a suit?” Charlie adds.
    Even she knows when the joke’s gone too far. “Okay, Frick and Frack—everybody inside.”
    Following my mom through the living room and past the framed painting Charlie did of the Brooklyn Bridge, I breathe deep and
     take a full whiff of my youth. Rubber erasers… crayons… homemade tomato sauce. Charlie has Play-Doh—I have Monday night dinners.
     Sure, some of the knickknacks shift, but the big things—grandma’s dining room set, the glass coffee table I cut my head on
     when I was six—the big things are always the same. Including my mom.
    Weighing in at over a hundred and eighty pounds, my mom’s never been a petite woman… or an insecure one. When her hair went
     gray, she never dyed it. When it started thinning, she cut it short. After my dad left, the physical nonsense didn’t matter
     anymore—all she cared about were me and Charlie. So even with the hospital bills, and the credit cards, and the bankruptcy
     dad left us with… even after losing her job at the secondhand store, and all the seamstress jobs she’s had to do since… she’s
     always had more than enough love to go around. The least we can do is pay her back.
    Heading straight for the kitchen, I reach for the Charlie Brown cookie jar and tug on its ceramic head.
    “Ow,” Charlie says, using his favorite joke since fourth grade.
    The head pops off, and I pull a small stack of papers from inside.
    “Oliver, please don’t do this…” mom says.
    “Okay,” I say, ignoring her and carrying the stack to the dining room table.
    “I’m serious—it’s not right. You don’t have to pay my bills.”
    “Why? You helped me pay for college.”
    “You still had a job…”
    “… thanks to the guy you were dating. Four years of easy money—that’s the only reason I could afford tuition.”
    “I don’t care, Oliver. It’s bad enough you paid for the apartment.”
    “I didn’t pay for the apartment—all I did was ask the bank to work out better financing.”
    “And you helped with the down payment…”
    “Mom, that was just to get you on your feet. You’d been renting this place for twenty-five years. You know how much money
     you threw away?”
    “That’s because your—” She cuts herself off. She doesn’t like blaming