Chapter 20
The Indian summer weather made for a perfect day in the park, although Indian summer for a warm spell in Southern California during early November can sometimes be a misnomer. Alder's 4-year-old daughter, Michelle, was enjoying herself at her friend's birthday party. The main entertainment for the children, a clown, arrived just as parents began herding 4-, 5-, and 6-year-olds to congregate around the birthday girl's picnic table. The clown, with pasty white makeup, wide-bordered red lips, bulbous red nose just off center, eyes encircled with emerald and black eyeliner in an attempted star pattern, curly ruby hair wig, faded white ruffles around his neck, and yellow polka dot jump outfit, was foreign to the children. Seeing him made most of the younger children anxious; many began to cry. Several of the parents didn't want to admit to themselves that the clown was unsettling to them as well, so coming to the rescue of their crying children gave them the heroic excuse of embracing someone for their own comfort. The older children bravely ignored the pancake makeup of the entertainer and enjoyed the plethora of balloon animals and figures he created.
Alder saw that Michelle was engrossed in the show. He searched for Maria and found her encamped nearby with some of the other mothers, each holding an infant, firing off insincere compliments to one another and sneaking in a jibe on the supremacy of their own child. One would brag, “My child is already rolling over.” Another would counter, “Mine is sitting up on his own, quick for his age.” Maria relegated herself to listening to the women banter, not wanting to get involved in the competition.
The clown moved into performing magic and started to make the children feel more at ease, many of them relaxing into watching the show. After the magic demonstration, partygoer guests consumed hot dogs, hamburgers, and veggie burgers, followed by the birthday cake. The children broke away to play several party games that a couple of parents organized before the opening of the gifts. Alder glanced over to a nearby thicket of trees and saw several dads who were broke away from the festivities. A cooler was at their feet and they were drinking beer. Pay dirt.
Alder navigated over to the men, none of whom he had formally met earlier. He’d seen them interacting with what he assumed were their wives and children at the party. Alder must have shown the look of desire for a cold one. The shortest and stockiest of the four standing by the clump of trees opened the ice chest, pulled out a Michelob, and tossed it his way. Thanking the muscular, older-middle-aged black man for the beer, Alder introduced himself. They continued with trivial conversation about the city’s two baseball teams, a recent small earthquake that geologists could not associate with a specific fault-line and the state of the local economy, three of the five not faring well jobwise. Then the conversation migrated to current events, including the Crestview and Thomson and Thomson alleged visitations. Once Alder revealed he had been a winner of the company’s raffle to the fatal event, and was late because of traffic along with his coworker-friend, who was the lone survivor, the other men bombarded him with questions: “What did the angel look like?” “Do you know how all those people died?” “Did you know anyone who died?” “Why do you think it happened?” A couple of the men began to recall seeing Alder on a couple of the local news channels, interviewed on television as the coworker of the survivor of the headlined “Death Angel Visitation”.
Alder answered the questions the best he could and wished he was back with the other partygoers. When he tried to change the subject, the men returned to the funeral homes theme. A group of teenagers playing softball yelled at the men to watch out. A white sphere approached in a downward arc. All five men ducked, the ball sailing over their heads by a couple of feet. Alder saw this as his chance to escape the barrage of questions and chased the ball into large hedges near the trees. Traversing the foliage to where he thought the ball had come to rest, the drifting funky and odorous smell of urine, dirt, and musk his assailed his nostrils. If he didn't know better, there might be a hint of sweet clove, or roses, he couldn't tell which, but more persistent than the stomach-turning odors. Traversing through the hedges, he tripped over the small frame of a woman wearing tattered and stained layers of clothing including a sweater resembling Swiss cheese, a dirt-splotched overcoat out of place for the warm weather, and a scarf that covered her unwashed silver-streaked jet-black hair. She was not happy.
“Hey, what's wrong with you?” she screamed with a thick Spanish accent, “Are you blind?”
In shock from the unexpected encounter, Alder scrambled for words: “I'm just looking for a ball that came over this way.”
“There’s no ball over here. You blind or somethin', like your friend who saw the angel?” the woman said, her accent almost making her words incomprehensible.
“Look, a ball came ove... what did you say?” he asked the woman, who was grabbing her blankets, a plastic bag of cans, and another bag filled with junk. Alder could hear the approach of either the men he had been drinking with or the teens who had hit the ball into the area. He ignored the onrush of activity and pressed on with his questions.
“What do you mean my blind friend who saw the angel? Who are you talking about?” Alder asked, his stomach turning from her sweet and foul body odor, wondering if she was going to answer with the name he was anticipating.
The stranger stopped picking up her belongings and stared directly at Alder. “Your blind friend who sees angels, who'd you think I’m talkin' about? How many times do I have to say it? Are you dumb or somethin? ” she said in a disdainful voice.
“Hey, who do you think you’re talking to that way?”
“Who do you think, smart aleck?”
Feeling the blood rush to his face as a burst of anger built up inside, Alder’s attention turned to a couple of teens coming through the hedges asking if he had their ball. Alder hadn't noticed the ball sitting next to the thick trunks of the shrubs next to him. The woman picked it up and tossed it to an acne-laden teen. Thanking her, both boys glanced at the surroundings, thought that whatever was happening could be strange, and decided to return to their game. By the look on their faces, Alder felt the same; the situation was somewhat strange.
“Look, I'm just gonna leave you alone,” Alder said. He thought maybe she’d caught a picture of him in the newspaper or on the news being interviewed.
“You do watcha you gotta do,” the unkempt lady commented, her accent fading. “Just make sure your friend talks to his three visitors.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” he asked, extremely puzzled.
She ignored him and finished gathering her possessions, straggling toward another set of hedges. Alder knew he didn’t want to stay any longer; she was making him uncomfortable just with her presence. Turning to head back, he saw the other fathers working their way over to him. All of them were curious about the delay after seeing the two teens come out with the ball. Alder found they didn’t wait in bombarding him with more questions after he rejoined them, with no concern for the impoverished lady. He didn't feel like continuing with the conversation, especially now that they were asking the same questions in different ways expecting the answers to be different or for the story to be told a bit more dramatically. Grabbing one more beer from the cooler, Alder politely excused himself under the auspices of wanting to check out how his wife and kids were doing, which wasn't too far from the truth.
Returning to the party, Alder’s daughter was still enjoying herself, playing a game of tag with several other kids. Maria was engaged in conversation with the other mothers and in the middle of changing Matthew. Alder never knew a baby could expel so much waste. Matthew must have eaten recently and he was holding true to how Alder thought of him, eating, sleeping, and crapping.
“As usual, perfect timing,” Maria snickered. Alder reached to pick up his son while Maria secured the final piece of tape on his disposable diaper, “As soon as I finish changing his diaper, here you come to play with Matthew.”
Alder could hear the
other mothers chuckle. He ignored them. “Hey, since we brought both cars, I was thinking about going to visit Stephen?”
Alder saw that his subtle request garnered approval from his wife, especially because she hadn't had to prod him to go. “That's a good idea,” she responded.
“I wanna head over before it gets too late.”
“Would you mind picking up some things from the store on your way back. For one, Matthew needs more diapers.”
“What? Didn’t we just get some? Hell, does food just go straight through him? I swear your son is nothing more than a crapping machine,” Alder replied, forgetting his surroundings. He glanced toward Maria, who was giving him a harsh look of disapproval. The multitude of wives sitting around on the blankets had become statuesque; only two of them continued rocking or swinging the child in their arms. He knew there was no real way to recover and decided to retreat and pretend nothing happened.
“What else do you want me to pick up... hon?” Alder said, attempting to sound conciliatory. It didn't work.
“Never mind, just go and see how Stephen is doing. I'll pick up the stuff on the way home,” Maria snapped, taking Matthew back into possession.
“Seriously, I don't mi...”
Maria's stare told Alder the conversation was over. Withdrawing from the assembly of mothers, he knew that tonight, once he returned home, the cold treatment would commence. This would be the milder form of retribution for his lapse of judgment and her embarrassment in front of her friends. Maybe on the way back, one drink would help prepare for the inevitable confrontation. Alder knew that if he stopped by for just one, others would follow. Maria was getting thoroughly upset with what she took to be his increasing consumption. But Alder saw it as an effective counterbalance to challenging days at work.
The Fallen and the Elect Page 44
