She hails the waiter and orders a scotch neat. Then she chews on a piece of bread to put something in her stomach. “How’s the food?”
“Fine.”
Two of the kids climb noisily on and off the next bench. She can feel the vibrations. Someone should stop them.
“I bet those kids are a handful.”
“Mom!” But she won’t look at her daughter.
“You were like that, couldn’t sit still. I can remember, I think you were five—”
“Mom!”
Her gorgeous girl will leave and maybe never return. What then? What now?
The waiter places the scotch in front of her. She takes a sip, the medicinal taste a reminder of the unpleasantness to come. And why is she doing this? Her cheeks are hot, her face flushed, a slight buzzing in her ears. She remembers like it was yesterday the two policemen at her door, the baby she didn’t know how to comfort fidgeting in her arms.
“Mom, I’m waiting.”
“Your father’s in prison. He’s been there sixteen years. We agreed you shouldn’t know. That you should grow up without feeling stigmatized by his mistake.” Each word a piece of flint cutting her throat.
Her daughter stares at her.
“My father’s a criminal!” Darla’s voice rises.
She nods. Her heart pounding now, she chokes down the scotch, which isn’t helping, it’s hard to breathe.
“You think lying about it makes me less the daughter of a criminal?” Darla pushes away her plate. “Did he murder someone?”
“There was a robbery. A person was shot. The law said anyone involved was guilty.” Her robotic tone isn’t helping. If she stops to take a breath she won’t be able to go on.
“Did the man you call my father pull the trigger?”
“No. He was there, that’s all.”
“That’s all! Jesus frigging god!”
“Darla!”
“You visit him on the sly?”
“I’ve never visited.”
“Beautiful. You don’t know where he’s locked up, or it’s just inconvenient?” her voice scary sweet.
“That’s not important.”
“What’s important is how manipulative you are, lying to me all these years, laying it on me now to paralyze me. Think again, Mila, and think hard. Because you’ve given me even more reason to get the hell out of here.”
Mila? She’s been banished. “Your father—”
“Stop saying my father like I know him.”
She takes a deep breath. “Jimmy was in the first Iraq war. It ruined him. He came back more restless than ever. He could hardly sit still, never mind keep a job.” She can taste the bitterness. Even in bed he slept in fits and starts, except when he made love, the only time he could get out of his head. “He wanted money quick, just the way you do.”
“Must be in the genes,” Darla shouts, and bolts from the table. The woman in the next booth looks up.
• • •
Driving slowly, she rolls down the windows and scans each side of the road for Darla. Christ! What did she accomplish? Alienated her daughter . . . broke a promise. God knows what Darla thinks about any of it. And what did she expect from her daughter, a smile, a freaking hug? She opened the damned box, didn’t she?
The heat in the car is suffocating; there isn’t a breeze. It’s hot like it was the last time she saw Jimmy when the A/C in the motel room was broken. He was afraid to open a window. They made a bed out of an empty dresser drawer and sat hunched over the baby talking softly. Jimmy’s earnest expression, his hands pressing hers, his positive tone so certain. He knew the way for her to follow. He’d get to Florida, set up and send for them. If he was caught, ended up in jail, Darla must never know. He left money and took off. The baby woke up crying. She rocked her till morning and never did crack a window.
Her daughter’s nowhere she can see, probably doubled back and called Michelle to pick her up. One thing is certain: Darla isn’t on her way home. She doesn’t want to go there, either. She heads for Sully’s bar.
• • •
It’s dark inside. A few regulars stare at the muted TV screen or maybe at their own ravaged faces in the mirror. She finds a small table in the rear. Fraying high school pennants decorate the wall, a faint yellowish light from the jukebox playing oldies. She hears the front door open and close but doesn’t look up. She’s tempted to cry but it won’t do any good. The lying is over but not the anxiety, which fills her with cold, hard fear. She calls her home number. Useless. She leaves a message on her daughter’s cell phone to contact her immediately. She scrolls down to Michelle’s number, calls her. No answer. Leaves a message there, too. Where would Darla go this time of night?
The bartender, a tall, slim man in his fifties, waits impassively for her to decide. She glances at the soiled page that stands in for a menu, the smudgy print hard to decipher. Nothing she wants. She orders a double scotch neat, water on the side. Jimmy drank bourbon. She did, too, all those years ago. She liked so much of what he liked.
Her finger traces the table’s gouged surface. Jimmy carved their initials in whatever tree trunk caught his fancy. It pleased her, the same as their long walks did, her hand in his the whole time, chatting about anything and everything. Old memories flickering again in her brain, it’s her fault, saying his name aloud like he’s part of her life.
The bartender places a sizable glass of scotch in front of her. Jimmy wrote her one letter from prison insisting she go on without him. That it was the only gift he could offer. She took it. Things happen to people every day; she knows that. Still, after his arrest, the separation was unbearable. He lived in her head, walked at her side, appeared wherever she went, at work, bars, laundromat, the supermarket. Holidays were hell. The pain was so intense something inside her finally switched off, released her. What exactly that was she never figured out. Explain that to her daughter.
How is it possible for someone who never knew her father to follow in his footsteps? It’s eerie. She tries Darla’s cell again. Damned gadgets go to voice mail after a few rings. How many times can she say call your mother? Darla often mentions clubs where they hang out, but did she listen to the names? Hopeless. Oh lord. When did he come in?
Murray, carrying a drink, strides toward her in dark slacks, white shirt. “Look who’s here? Can I sit?” He doesn’t wait for permission.
She nods anyway, helpless.
“How come you’re here?” He’s drinking neat like her.
“I could ask the same question.”
“No one home yet.” He sounds mellow, unusual for him.
“I fought with Darla, don’t know where she ran to.”
“These kids,” he offers. “What about?”
“Wants to join the army.” God, is she really sharing with Murray? He doesn’t have a clue about her daughter. When Darla occasionally comes in for a meal, he doesn’t chat with her, just notices the food she eats.
“That’s crazy.”
“I thought you liked the war.”
“It’s no place for women. Better stop her,” his tone more dismissive than interested.
“After July she won’t need my signature.” The powerlessness of it all threatens to drown her.
“Tough, tough. Kids test us.”
“You don’t have children.”
“Doesn’t mean I’m stupid.” He scowls at her.
Man’s still her boss. “Of course not.” She finishes the drink, which isn’t doing a thing to calm her.
“The truth about kids is . . . they grow up.”
“Murray, she’ll be sent to a war zone. Growing older may not happen. Get it?” She can’t help herself.
His hand covers hers.
She stares at him. “What’s going on?” She removes her hand.
“I’m a little drunk, a lot lonely. Let me buy us a round.”
He holds up two fingers for the bartender to see. Then gazes at her as if she’s the answer to a question he’s been pondering. It doesn’t take a shrink to know he wants her to probe his misery, help him unburden. Men like him expect that from a woman. An instant fantasy, bed down with him, then ask him to pay for Darla’s education. The only thing more ludicrous would be doing it.
“One more and I’m off,” she says. No doubt the man looked old when he was thirty. Some men are like that, wheelers and dealers, anxious about next steps while peering over their shoulder to see who’s stalking them. It wears out the face. Jimmy was open, boyish, probably doesn’t look much older now.
The bartender serves the drinks, places their empty glasses on a tray, then wipes the table with a rag and leaves.
After a quick sip, she reminds him, “Really . . . I have to go find Darla.”
“Sure. Sure. But stay a few minutes. If something bad happens to me, Sylvie will be sorry.”
“Why’s that?” she mumbles. Because who cares. An unhappy man with a lot of money doesn’t rouse her sympathy. One quarter of what he paid for the house would cover four years of college.
“The woman isn’t being attentive the way it’s supposed to be. She works late, sometimes even on weekends, but doesn’t need to work at all. She cooks when she can, then freezes the damn food for me. I sit there alone with the dogs. The house is so big it echoes. Why did I even set it up? I don’t know, Mila, I don’t understand her. Women tend to be devious.”
“Thanks, but I refuse the insult.” He looks at her bewildered. She chooses to conserve her energy, which is dissipating with each drink.
“Maybe Sylvie’s having an affair, but I don’t think so. A man can smell that kind of thing. You know what I think? I think Sylvie doesn’t know how to be married. No one taught her. Maybe we both need a few lessons,” his tone gloomy.
“Well, amen to that,” she says. “Murray, go home. Sylvie will be there by now. She’ll worry.”
“That’s what I want,” his tone defiant. “See—”
She’ll trawl a few bars, find one of Darla’s friends who can give her some place to search for her. Oh Jesus and Mary, the beach . . . she and Michelle always go there. At this time of night? Maniacs lurking in the shadows? Two beautiful young women walking alone in the dark?
“What I believe is—”
Christ! Panic has her by the throat. She grabs her purse.
“—sooner or later, everything has a solution,” he says.
• • •
“Darla, I can’t drive around all night. My father will have the force out. Stay at my house. We won’t answer the phone.”
“No.” Not with Michelle’s brothers parading around, she doesn’t like sleeping with them in the next room, either, probably jerking off. “Drive me to Rosalyn’s dad, the guy I work for. It’s right down the road.”
“This time of night?”
“He naps on and off all day and watches TV forever. I’ll knock . . . just try it.” She stares out the window seeing nothing. So what if this Jimmy guy fought in Iraq. That was a million years ago.
“Well, sorry for thinking you’re nuts.”
“It’s around the corner, second house.”
Michelle looks at her. “You can still change—”
“Wait to see if I get inside.”
She runs up the old driveway, the blue and white TV screen flickers through the foggy window. She knocks hard at the door. Hears the slow plod of feet.
“Who’s there?”
“It’s me, Mr. Joseph, Darla.” She waves at Michelle to leave.
He opens the door. “What are you doing here? Something happen? A guy chasing you?”
She smiles. Because what could the sick old man do about it. “I had a fight with my mom, and don’t want to go home. I could sleep on the couch, do some work for you in the morning. You don’t have to pay me. Sort of a trade-off.” She hears the quickness of her words and wonders if he’s gotten it all.
“Come in. Shut off the TV. Make some coffee.”
She turns off the TV, goes in the kitchen. The coffee’s already made. Old man probably forgot. This Jimmy guy could be old, too . . . more likely Mila’s age. Who cares? It’s all so stupid, the lies, the whatever. It probably made her mother feel powerful. Secrets can do that.
She’s hyper enough but pours two cups, brings them in. The old man sits in his BarcaLounger but doesn’t touch the coffee. She eyes the oxygen canister, the long tubes extending into his nose, the slow hiss of air, hypnotic. Dropping on the couch, she feels the springs. There’s an unused bedroom. Later.
He removes the oxygen lines and hangs them over the chair arm. “What did you fight about?” His wheeze is more pronounced than usual. God, don’t let him get worse while she’s here.
“My mother revealed a long-held secret to stop me from joining the army. She figures if I’m going to die, I might as well know the truth.”
“What secret?” He looks concerned. Sweet old man.
“My father’s been in prison sixteen years. He didn’t want me to see myself as the daughter of a criminal.” Her mom’s setting her up, that’s what. Her mom wants her to talk to this Jimmy guy who went nuts in Iraq. Isn’t going to happen.
“Well, maybe you’re not.”
“Mr. Joseph, they don’t put people away all those years for no reason.”
“Circumstances make people do stupid things, then they have to pay. Doesn’t mean he’s a horrible person. He could be. Doesn’t mean he is.”
“You’re only saying that to make me feel better.”
“I knew good people who did a lot of dumb things. Some ended up in jail, some in rehab, some in the ground. I’ve seen my share . . .” He gazes past her, his mouth slightly open.
“My mom’s determined to keep me from signing up, but soon I’ll be able to go without her permission. Thing is, the next few weeks with her will be hell. I wish I could leave tomorrow.”
“I know a woman who had a baby when she was around your age. She gave it away, couldn’t care for it properly, so she said. Your mother didn’t do that.” He takes a sip of coffee. “It’s cold,” he hands her the cup. For a moment she stares at it, then returns to the kitchen to make a fresh pot.
While it drips into the pot she checks the fridge. Stuff there for breakfast. The old man likes his food. She’ll remind Mr. Joseph to replace the oxygen lines. The last thing she needs is for him to have a breathing attack. What if this Jimmy guy is sick like the old man, some disease or cancer? Shouldn’t she know about this for her future? Everyone says she looks like her mom, still . . . how come this Jimmy guy wasn’t curious about her? Prisoners always want contact with spouses and children. He sounds like a selfish prick. How could her mother love a guy like that? No wonder she doesn’t go out much, scared of repeating the mess she made.
She carries in a steaming cup of coffee. His eyes are closed. She leaves the cup on his TV tray, tiptoes into the spare bedroom. She switches on one of the dim lamps. It must’ve been his daughter’s room, though there’s no sign of life anywhere. The bed’s made, nothing on walls or dresser top except an old, grimy mirror. She could check the closets but she doesn’t want to. Okay, she’s surprised. Okay, shocked. Her mother gabs about every little thing. What else hasn’t her mom told her? Who cares? Sooner than later she’s out of here. Her mother will adjust. She’ll have to. She checks her cell phone: five missed calls from her mother. Anyway, no one asked her mom to be a martyr. If she got pregnant, she’d have an abortion. There’s also a message from Michelle. She listens. Her mother called the house and woke her father, who yelled up to ask where Darla was. “Obviously, I was fast asleep.”
Tiptoeing out, she sees the old man is still napping. Should she reattach the oxygen? That’s another thing. Stay home with her mom and then what? Become a nurse. Take care of sick old men. She’s
fond of Mr. Joseph. But he’s not her future. And the hellhole he lives in isn’t either. Maybe old people don’t care where they live. That would never be her. Her house, too, is disgusting. It’s clean, her mother keeps telling her. But what the hell does that mean? Clean? You can’t call something so run-down clean. Jesus. These people fool themselves because they’re either too lazy or too scared to change. Or worse, they don’t know any better. It’s depressing. Her cell phone vibrates and she takes it into the spare room, stares at it till it stops. Her mother’s having a heart attack. She picks up the last message; Mila’s walking the beach looking for her. She calls her mom’s number.
“Darla?” her mother’s breathless voice.
Who else, she wants to say. “I’m signing up day after my birthday. Period. Otherwise I’ll live at Michelle’s until its time to leave.”
“I hear you.”
“I want an agreement.”
“I won’t nag you. Come home. Where are you?”
“Rosalyn’s dad’s.”
“Christ. You woke the old man?”
“He wasn’t asleep. Mom, something else.”
“Yes?”
“Why did you listen to this Jimmy guy?”
“I was young and scared and he sounded so sure.”
“Are you sorry?”
“I don’t let myself go there.”
“All these years you didn’t think about—”
“I did a lot at first.”
“Were you heartbroken?”
“Let’s talk more about it when we see each other. It’s easier that way.”
“Mom, easy isn’t the way life is. Never mind. Just pick me up.”
Mr. Joseph wheels the canister to the doorway. He’s reattached the oxygen. Suddenly she feels like an intruder. He didn’t offer this room. “My mom’s coming to . . . I’m sorry if I . . .”
“Get me a six-pack on your way over tomorrow.” He shuffles out.
She waits on the lawn, her back against the rough bark of a tree; light opening in the sky, the heat of the day beginning. Does her mother know where Mr. Joseph lives? Even if this Jimmy guy suddenly wants to see her, she’ll refuse. What kind of father waits sixteen years to offer a hand? No kind she wants to know, though she’d probably get a lot of pointers from him about the desert.
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