Multiple Listings

by Tracy McMillan

  Then she was born and she was so perfect! As perfect as she is right now. I’d just stare at her going back and forth in that little swing and I could see everything that she could be. Her whole future—the pigtails, the jumping jacks, the kindergarten, the prom, the first car, the waitress job, the braces, the tears. The happiness. I have no idea if any of that happened, because I fucked it up. I caught my first case when she was five and after that it was a revolving door. She got bigger and so did the cases. They don’t make it easy for a guy who’s been in prison to escape the system. Because they don’t care that you got a little girl who deserves a daddy. All they care about is proving that you are a criminal.

  And I’m a criminal. So that’s pretty easy to prove.

  I know Nicki thinks she doesn’t want me in her life. Part of me feels guilty—like I should go away and just let her live. But the other part of me is like, deal with it. You don’t get to choose your parents, you take what you get and you make the best of it by learning to love them for who they are—not who you wish they could be. My only real choice is to stand here and claim my daughter and take whatever punches she wants to throw my way. Because I deserve them, and also because kids throw punches, it’s what they do.

  Parents have to deal with it, too.

  I look around the room and notice how disheveled it is. There’s a roll of toilet paper on the bedside table, some dishes stacked up, and the trash can is overflowing with Kleenex. Like she’s sick or something.

  Did I do this? Maybe it’s because I came around.

  “Nicki?” I set my hand down on the bed, just slightly. “Baby, it’s your dad.”

  Her eyes open in a flash.

  “Nicki?” I say it as softly as I can, half hoping she doesn’t think I’m a stranger and pull a gun out from under her pillow. “Baby?”

  She moves just a little bit so I say it again, “Nicki?” Nothing. “Nicki? It’s your dad.”

  That does it. She sits bolt upright in bed and looks at me, terrified.

  “What are you doing here?”

  It really looks like she’s still sleeping, so I keep my calm wake-up tone of voice. “Honey, it’s your dad. I came back. Are you okay?”

  She’s awake now for real. She turns to me, just as calm as you please. “I don’t want you here. You need to go away.”

  “I know you don’t want me here. I really do,” I say. I’m not trying to manipulate my daughter into taking me. I just want to level with her. Being completely honest is my only shot at having her see me as a person, her father, instead of a cartoon character in a comic strip about extreme family dysfunction. Because right now, I’m not human to her. Yet.

  “If I could help it, I would not be here. Not like this. But I don’t have anywhere else to go. I know this is not at all what you have in mind for your life, and I apologize deeply for the way this is happening, but if you could find it in your heart to help me, just until I can line something up, I wouldn’t have to go back to prison, and baby”—I have to hold the tears back—“that would mean the world to me. But even more than that, I just want to spend a little bit of time with you and my grandson.”

  She twists her face into such disgust I almost don’t even recognize her. “Are you fucking serious?”

  I don’t know what I was expecting her to say, but that’s not it.

  “Yeah, actually. I am.”

  “You are out”—she grabs a water bottle off the night table, opens it, and takes a swig all in one motion—“of your mind. I mean it. Are you serious?”

  I see that she’s mad, and she has a right to be. But that doesn’t mean I don’t have a right to know her. She’s just going to have to get over it. I’ll be patient. “Yes, baby. I’m serious.”

  “Oh my God. Don’t yes, baby me.” She tries to put the water bottle down on the night table but has to slide some dishes out of the way. “Please.”

  “Are you okay?” I ask. I mean the dishes and the tissues. “You’re asleep in the middle of the day. Are you sick? Can I get you something?”

  “Don’t try to act all concerned,” she says.

  “Why not? I am all concerned, Nicki. I’m your dad.”

  “Sire, maybe.”

  Vicious, but at least she’s engaged. “That’s not true,” I say.

  “Oh, isn’t it?”

  No, it’s not. “I took care of you from the time you were three until—”

  She cuts me off. “Until you went to jail?” She doesn’t wait for me to answer. “And then you got out and went to jail again.” She says again like I stole food from a homeless person. “And then you went back again! It’s like you only got out for vacations.”

  “Yes, that’s true.” I’m not going to let her bully me. I can own my choices. It took years of work to be able to look at what I made of my life without flinching. “That is what I did.”

  “You sound proud.”

  “I’m not,” I say. “But I’m not ashamed, either. You want me to be ashamed?”

  “It might be nice,” she says. “A little shame might go a long way.”

  “I’m accountable, Nicki. You are right. That’s what happened. Those are the actions I took. I harmed a lot of people. And I’m here to make amends,” I say. There’s a little more edge on it than I wanted, but hey, it’s hard to be perfect when it feels like she’s attacking me. “So what are you going to do? Reject me? Go ahead. Then you’re no better than me.” I can’t help but add, “And something tells me you would rather be better than me.”

  Apparently, she would. Because she throws the covers off and gets out of bed.

  “I’m hungry,” she says.

  * * *

  “How about breakfast for dinner?” I stand at the stove, digging through a cupboard of pots and pans. “Do you have a cast-iron skillet?” I ask. Nicki’s sitting at the breakfast bar, doing something on her phone.

  “Look to your right, in the other cupboard.” She slides her computer in front of her and opens it. “I’m not okay with this, I just want you to know that.”

  “Boy, you people just go from one screen to the next these days,” I say. I’m going to ignore the jabs for now. Let her throw some punches, get the fight out of her system. It might take a while.

  “Yep,” she says, without looking up. “That’s what us people do. These days.”

  I let the tone of voice slide and go over to the fridge. I pull out some eggs and a package of what looks to be bacon. It’s brown and shriveled instead of fatty and pale pink. “Is this bacon cooked already?”

  “Yep,” she says without looking up. “That’s how you buy it now. Precooked. Just throw it in the microwave for thirty seconds. They had microwaves before you left, right?” Now she looks at me.

  “Yes, they did,” I say. “Eggs over well done?”

  She looks surprised. “How do you know that?”

  “I’m your father, girl,” I say, making a duh face. “I introduced you to eggs.”

  Cody walks in at that moment, backpack over his shoulder. “Hi, Mom.” He looks at me, and I detect that he’s pleased to see me. Though he can’t really show it. “Hi,” he says.

  “Hey there, Cody,” I say. “I came back for a visit.”

  “Unannounced,” Nicki says.

  “Your mom has been very welcoming,” I say. “Which I appreciate. Greatly. She didn’t have to let me hang out. So, thank you, Nicki.”

  “Anytime, Ronnie,” she says, mimicking my tone precisely. She finishes typing a word and speaks right to Cody. “Actually, my dad came here today because, as it turns out, he doesn’t have anywhere to live. Probably he hasn’t met the right woman yet. That’ll be a couple more days, at least.”

  “Now, now, daughter,” I say.

  “What?” she says, mocking innocence. “Surely, you’re out there trying to round up a Serena?”

  �
��Serena was a long time ago,” I say. “I’ve changed.”

  Nicki’s talking about my old girlfriend Serena. She’s being rude about it, but there is definitely some truth in what she’s saying. I have a long history of being manipulative. I would do anything to get what I want. I used a lot of people, people like Serena, and now other people, people like Nicki, don’t trust me. That is what happens when you use people.

  “Who’s Serena?” Cody asks.

  “Nobody,” Nicki says.

  When I got out of prison the second time, I took Nicki to the Portland Civic Center to see this boy band she was crazy about and brought along Serena. Man, that girl was hot. A stacked redhead, she looked just like one of the models on The Price Is Right. Anyway, Serena really loved to show herself off and wore a jumpsuit cut down to there—she didn’t know how to dress to go somewhere with a teenage girl. Nicki was fascinated by her, but wouldn’t say a word to her because being my girlfriend made her a suspect. Who in her right mind would date me? Even then Nicki had that chip on her shoulder.

  When I got arrested a few months later, Serena put up her house for my bond and she paid for most of my defense. I didn’t ask her to do it; she did it willingly. She’d probably still take me back, if I could find her and if she was single. So I understand why Nicki is so suspicious. She’s seen what it looks like for the women in my life, and she has no intention of becoming one of them.

  “Are you going to let him live here?” Cody brightens up, changing the subject. “That would be so cool.”

  Before Nicki can shoot the idea down, I reroute the conversation. “How do you like your eggs, Cody? I’m trying to make myself useful around here by putting together some dinner. When your mom was little, I used to cook her breakfast for dinner all the time.”

  “Uh, scrambled,” he says. He seems intrigued by the idea of Nicki being little. “My mom was little? That’s so weird.”

  “She sure was,” I say. “Cute as a button, too.”

  “Since when do you eat eggs?” Nicki asks Cody.

  “Since always,” he says. He throws her a little scowl. “What was my mom like when she was little?”

  “I was never little,” Nicki says. “I was born eight years old and not long after that, I turned thirty-two. I’ve gotten straight A’s and been very responsible my whole life.” She laughs, half sad, half proud.

  “That’s not true,” I say. “When Nicki was a baby, she used to stand up in her crib and jump up and down while holding on to the railing. We used to put on music and you would just dance for hours. You were very carefree.”

  “What happened?” Cody asks. He’s doubtful that his serious and responsible mom was ever footloose and fancy-free.

  “Oh, your mom is a dancer,” I say. “You didn’t know that? As a little kid, she really knew how to party.”

  “He believes the other story. The one about being thirty-two,” Nicki says.

  “Sorry, Mom,” he says. “I just don’t see you as the jumping around and dancing type.”

  “Wait a minute!” Nicki says, with just a hint of a smile. “I don’t know if I like where this is going.”

  “Cody, look here,” I say, pulling a couple of eggs out of the carton. “See how I do it? Crack it right there, on the widest part of the egg. Opens right up every time.” I make a big show of breaking the eggs into a coffee mug. “I worked in the kitchen in the joint,” I say. “So I got skills.”

  “What’s the craziest thing that ever happened in prison?” Cody asks. “Did any guys ever shank another guy?”

  “Oh my God,” Nicki says. “Don’t answer that.”

  “Ha!” I clap my hands and laugh. “Boy, you’ve been watching too much TV. I was in federal prison. Guys in there don’t go around shanking each other. Unless maybe you’re in Vacaville. They don’t call that place Victimville for nothing. It’s been years since I was anywhere like that, though. I’ve been in the medium-security joint with the smart criminals: the embezzlers, the interstate drug dealers, the bank robbers. State prison is where you got most of your riffraff. The murderers, the rapists—”

  “Wait. You mean there aren’t any—”

  “Cody, go wash your hands,” Nicki says.

  “The boy’s curious, Nicki,” I say. She’s worried I’m going to say something inappropriate, but I’m not. Prison is a little like war. You don’t talk about the worst things you’ve seen to people you know can’t handle it. At the same time, I wasn’t destroyed by it, the same way millions of guys go to war and come back in one piece. There’s a way of compartmentalizing what happens; maybe it’s part of the male mind. Unless you were messed up in the head to begin with, you’re probably okay. Not that the world is an easy place to handle, it isn’t. But it’s not because you went crazy in there, it’s because The Man never gives an ex-con a break.

  “Can I ask him about drug dealing?” He gives Nicki a pleading look. He really, really wants to know. “Is it like—”

  Nicki cuts him off. “I don’t think so,” Nicki says. “Aren’t you supposed to be in your room hunched over your computer talking to sixteen-year-olds in other parts of the world who are also hunched over their computers?”

  “This is more fun,” he says.

  “Let the boy ask his questions. You should encourage him to learn about the world.” I cast a thick-as-thieves glance at Cody, as I expertly tip the sauté pan over the plate, depositing a heap of fluffy scrambled eggs on it. “A guy’s gotta get out in the world if he’s gonna conquer it.”

  “Yeah,” Cody says, probably thrilled to finally have an ally against his mom. “Did you ever shoot anybody?”

  “Cody!”

  “No, son,” I say, nodding at Cody’s plate as a signal to start eating. “Eat up.” Which Cody, to his mom’s surprise, does. “I’m a gentleman criminal. I rarely carried a gun.”

  “Oh my God,” Nicki says. “I can’t listen to this.”

  I’ve been heating up the cast-iron skillet on another burner, which I now pull to the front of the stove. “Got this bad boy all ready to go for your eggs, darling.” I crack the eggs open and they sizzle as they hit the hot olive oil. For two whole seconds I breathe it in and my whole body says Thank you, Lord, just to experience a really primo olive oil. It’s the simple shit in life, I’m telling you.

  “What’s a time that you did?” Cody says. “Shoot your gun, I mean.”

  “I said, stop,” Nicki says.

  “Eeeee-yiiii!” I yell as I pop two pieces of toast way into the air and catch them. “Now that’s what I call toast. We don’t have this kinda bread in the joint. All we got is that shitty”—he looks at Cody—“Sorry. That crap white bread. Got no flavor.”

  “My mom swears all the time,” Cody says, eager to make me feel better. “Don’t even worry about it.”

  I give the toast a swipe of butter. Then pick up the cast-iron skillet, slip a spatula under the eggs, drop them on the toast, and hand it to Nicki. “You didn’t know your dad could make a perfect egg, did you?”

  “I never imagined.” She sounds a little snide, but I can see that she’s warming up just a little, watching me and Cody together.

  “Did anyone ever shoot at you?”

  “No, son,” I say. “Drug dealing isn’t Scarface.”

  “What’s Scarface?” he asks.

  Only the best movie about a drug dealer ever made.

  “Don’t tell me you haven’t seen Scarface!”

  “He doesn’t need to see Scarface,” Nicki says.

  “All men need to see Scarface, Nicki,” I say. “It’s one of those movies, like Apocalypse Now.”

  “What’s Apocalypse Now?”

  “We’ll watch it one night,” I say.

  “Oh my God,” Nicki says. “You’re glorifying violence to my teenager.”

  “It’s men stuff, sweetheart.” I can see that N
icki has a woman’s distaste for male things: violence, power, risk. She doesn’t understand that those things are buried as deep in the psyche of a man as shoes and princesses and babies are to a woman. Men evolved to be attracted to violence. It’s how we survived. And just because feminism came along, and central heating, and grocery store meat departments, doesn’t mean that part of ourselves just vanished. A guy has to get acquainted with these parts of himself. Not fear them. I remind myself to take Cody to a shooting range some time.

  “I think it’s cool,” Cody says. “I want to see Scarface.”

  “Well, I don’t,” she says.

  “These eggs are great,” Cody says, chowing down. “I didn’t realize how much I like eggs.”

  “Thank you, Cody,” I say.

  “Can I ask you another question?” Cody says.

  “Sure, son. Go ahead.” I shoot a look at Nicki to say let the boy speak.

  “Did you ever do drugs?”

  “Okay, that’s it,” Nicki says, taking Cody’s plate. She glares at me. “Go be in your room. You can learn all about that stuff later. When you’re thirty-­five.”

  “Listen to your mom, Cody,” I say. “Besides, she and I have some stuff to talk about.”

  Cody gets up obediently and heads into his room. But before he leaves he turns to Nicki. “Mom, I think you should let him stay.”

  We watch him disappear into the hallway. Nicki starts clearing plates, dumping them into the sink a little too hard and loud. “This was fun and all, but don’t think you can just sail in here and, I don’t know, think you’re going to be part of—”

  She doesn’t finish the sentence, so I do. “Be part of your lives?” I say. “Why not, Nicki? Why can’t I do that?”

  “Because.”

  “Because why?”

  “Because!” she says. “Because you’re a bad person who spent half my life in prison and you don’t deserve to be part of my life. That’s why.”

  “There, you said it,” I say. “Thank you.”