I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t grasp how this would affect me.
“Wow.”
“I think that’s pretty much all of it.”
I would come to regret letting him into our home; it never felt the same after.
“This is definitely illegal, right?”
“You understand why I have to be careful about who knows and who doesn’t.”
“Who else does?”
“Me, the other attendants, their families—most of our people are aware of it on some level.”
“My father?”
“I assume so, yes.”
I opened my mouth to see what would come out.
“What is it with you people? You think not getting caught in a lie is the same thing as telling the truth?”
He gave me a look.
“Sorry.”
“At least you chose a good movie this time.”
“So what happens now?”
Ayale blew out some smoke.
“I don’t see myself as someone who will have children. I think you have to be a kind of person that I’m not. I’m glad that you happened onto the lot, I’m glad that you’ve stayed, and I have no one else of my own to tell. I guess you could say I’m bequeathing this to you; it’s my only fortune.”
I could have run a marathon: I was absolved.
“Should I be doing something? Is everything going to change?”
He laughed.
“You’re safe. But I need you to promise that you won’t tell anyone.”
“Of course not.”
“This isn’t a joke. What might seem to you like one car more, one car less, who cares, is more than that to Lentil, to the people who manage Lentil, and to the people who manage the city. I could lose everything I have. And so could everyone else.”
“I promise I won’t tell anyone.”
“This is more than just a promise. This is a covenant. You can’t ever break covenants.”
“Not like treaties.”
“That’s why I specifically didn’t say ‘treaty.’ Do you swear to keep this covenant?”
“I solemnly swear.”
He looked into me for several seconds before breaking away.
“Good. And now, I’m going home.”
“You didn’t take a nap today. You must be exhausted.”
As he put on his jackets and boots, I struggled for words adequate to all that I felt. He looked back from the doorway.
“Yes?”
I smiled, shook my head, and closed the door.
ON THE SUBJECT OF DISTRACTIONS
There was no proof that Ayale ever slept with Elsie. True, he had yet to exhibit any qualms whatsoever about sleeping with any woman, single or not, and true, such beauty within such easy reach was tempting, especially for the (admittedly) easily waylaid Ayale. No matter. I chose to believe that he remained steadfast, even when confronted with the infamous rose dress, which (admittedly) Elsie did begin to wear almost exclusively on her now daily visits to the lot, to monitor Fiker’s recovery she said (never to me), although from what was never explained.
It was Elsie who put her full red lips flush against Fiker’s misshapen ear—which no one ever acknowledged—and whispered that Ayale had bigger plans. “Why does he work so hard to get you all that extra money?” “To help us,” he replied uncertainly. “Why didn’t he help you before? Do you remember how I found you?” He raised a hand to slap her, but she pushed him onto the bed that exacerbated Ayale’s back problems, straddling his lumps with her lithe form. “If I were you, I’d stop playing with me and I’d go get what’s mine.” Fiker still smacked her, to make a point, before struggling into his clothes. It was only a matter of time before envelopes were delivered into her hands, before Ayale was nowhere to be found post-five, pre-seven, before we all started to wonder, then stopped ourselves lest anyone be listening in.
Fiker’s presence became an assault; his every move felt like vengeance. He and Ayale laughed louder and louder at each other’s jokes, the growing tension causing nosebleeds and headaches among the attendants. Elsie still visited, but when she did, Ayale stayed in the booth and Fiker spoke to her on the sidewalk, never allowing her onto the lot. There were rumors that one of us had turned informant, sharing secrets with her that were otherwise kept to dead ends and the Greek coffee shop whose grease floated viscously atop all beverages.
I was one of the last to see Elsie before she vanished from the lot—to Montana, said the hopeful; to Eritrea, said the petty. Her magnificent curls were contained in an intricately wrapped scarf. Fiker wasn’t there, so Ayale stayed outside, reading the government-sponsored and independent newspapers he received weeks after their publication from Ethiopia, highlighting the portions he felt crucial for my improvement. I hated reading Amharic—it took too long to wrench any sense out of the prolix passages of muddy type—but I remained touched by his efforts, proof that I was a worthy person, that my presence in the world mattered.
“Any plans for tonight?” she asked.
“Sleeping.”
“Alone?”
She smiled. He didn’t.
“Your husband will be back soon.”
She waited, arms crossed, and when nothing else came, she shook her head.
“I wouldn’t do this if I were you.”
He turned a page.
“But you’re not.”
“If I was, I would have done it better.”
He looked at her for a second before throwing his head back for a belly laugh. She turned to leave.
“Tell him I love him.”
Ayale shook his head.
“You know how I hate to lie.”
This time it was her howls that rang out, long after I’d lost sight of her.
ON THE SUBJECT OF THE VICISSITUDES OF TELEPHONIC COMMUNICATION (II)
After the first couple of weekends my father went away, I became used to his absences. I still felt a hole in the apartment, but this soon gave way to exhilaration each time I walked in and knew that no one else would be entering and then relief when he returned, as if I’d been holding my breath until he came through the door. It was nice to hear his laconic replies and see his mild shock at my enthusiasm as he drifted toward the bookshelf and confirmed that his books were still organized by first name of author, his mind-fuck favorite.
I don’t remember when I first noticed his rejuvenation after these weekends. The bloom would fade by the end of the week, when he would sink into colorlessness, indications of life drained away by an insistently wielded syringe. He would pace all night when I told him stories about the lot and so I stopped speaking, because I didn’t have anything else. I wasn’t angry, and neither was he; we were awash in quiet. We swam easily through our uncommunicativeness and met on the other side with closed-mouth smiles and dry kisses goodnight.
I considered asking him where he went, but in the end I didn’t force it. I thought about welcoming him further into my life but forgot to do so when distracted by brighter lights and shinier objects. I regret this now.
There were hints, here and there. He wouldn’t yawn as much on Sunday nights, he wouldn’t have to slink to bed at an abominably early hour only to wake up still fatigued, dark circles under his eyes, unable to move until I came in with a cup of coffee. He didn’t so much gain weight on these weekends as seem more plentiful unto himself, his usual skin-and-bone state alleviated by an inner glow that bestowed upon him the illusion of full-bodied health. He had more opinions on a greater variety of subjects. He knew more questions on Jeopardy! when we watched it on Thursday nights, not because it didn’t play on other nights, but because that was how he had chosen to do things.
I told Ayale about how my father seemed happy, how maybe all he’d needed was time alone.
“I thought your life with him was constantly contending with his alone time.”
“But it’s always different when there’s someone else there. Even if you’re not talking to them, there’s a responsibility to a
ct a certain way.”
“How do you mean?”
“You won’t get naked, you won’t speak above a certain volume, you won’t open windows or turn on the television without asking, that kind of thing.”
“The idea of your father submitting to spontaneous nudity is too much for me.”
There was something wrong with the way he said those words. They sounded bitten off, like my fingernails. I chalked it up to his post-Elsie brooding.
My father brought me a shirt from one of his weekends away. It was a surprise, as well as the first actual present I’d received from him since the T pass. (Christmas and birthdays were blank checks, with the understanding that a number above fifty was unacceptable.) The second surprise after the box that was awkwardly pushed toward me was that it contained an aesthetically pleasing item of clothing. We were both embarrassed.
My father became obsessed with his failings as my father. He began to watch me more closely. He asked questions which required long explanations, he asked questions to which he should have already known the responses, he asked questions which revealed more about him than about me, he asked questions that I didn’t want to answer.
“What’s your favorite color?”
“Do you like school?”
“How many languages do you speak?”
“What is the difference between violets and hyacinths?”
“Do you get enough sunshine, on a regular basis?”
“Do you shave your legs yet?”
“What’s the capital of Madagascar?”
“Do you like me?”
“Do you love me?”
“You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to.”
“Do you love Ayale?”
“Please answer me.”
He suddenly couldn’t hear enough about Ayale. He sought out information about the lot, laughed at my retellings of Ayale’s jokes, even promised to visit him. I was skeptical of and pleased by his interest, never mind that it sometimes felt like I had to channel someone else in order to be of note to my own father.
Appropriately enough, Ayale began to disappear around this time. He barely gave me the courtesy of listening noises when I conscientiously provided him with pauses in the stream of chatter that had become my trademark, nudges to push him out of the secret place to which he was withdrawing and from which I felt barred. It’s painful to be aware of how unwelcome your presence is to someone you love and to nevertheless be incapable of the dignified act of removing yourself. It’s even worse when Fiker is smirking at you from behind your loved one’s shoulder, when your loved one is so preoccupied that it’s Fiker who gives you the boxes to be delivered, Fiker who pays you, his bills somehow always dirtier than Ayale’s.
“You have a lot to say lately?”
He grinned, taking a few seconds too long to release the money into my hands.
“Why do you dislike me so much?”
His eyes widened. Elsie had been gone for weeks, and his appearance had deteriorated accordingly.
“I think you’re wonderful.”
“Then why is everything changing?” I was dangerously close to wailing.
“This is what you’re having trouble with? This part? This is nothing. I live in this part.”
I wouldn’t have wished any of it upon my worst enemy. In elementary school, the girls knew that you truly hated something when you swore to God that you wouldn’t wish it upon someone they knew to be your mortal foe. It was a Catholic school, so we had limited resources.
We started to receive phone calls. The phone had become a forgotten artifact in our apartment; Ayale had long ago stopped calling, and we didn’t have other friends. Suddenly, however, it wouldn’t stop ringing. It would shock me awake, cause me to fall in the shower as I ran to catch it, make me late as I flew back inside after I’d already locked the door. I was so accustomed to the phone being the harbinger of emergency or Ayale that I would kill myself to get to it before it was silenced by the unknown at the other end.
The other person never spoke or hung up. I eventually stopped saying hello and just listened to the breathing. It was a friendly moment. I felt this person meant no harm. Nevertheless, each time I walked into the apartment and saw my father opening windows, lighting cigarettes, shaking macaroni boxes, not once near the phone, I wondered who the person was in pursuit of.
I finally began to speak, mentioning specific people as if the other person knew them, and slowly, it began to feel as if he or she did. Good listeners are hard to find.
“I tried to get into an advanced art class today, but they told me I had no skill. I guess that makes sense, because I’ve never taken a beginning art class. But in French I made up a character named Monsieur Fromage whose head is a spiral. Fromage means cheese.”
“Sorry I didn’t answer your first call—I was trying to rub feeling back into my hands.”
“I auditioned for the play, but goddamn Liz was there and she wears all black and has spiky hair, so she’ll probably get the part. They’ll probably change the whole thing into a one-woman show about how spiky her hair is.”
“I don’t like tank tops.”
“I don’t like the third floor.”
“The Ethiopian cell-phone guy at Prudential is gone. They took away his kiosk and everything.”
“I think I’m going to write a story about my mother and call it ‘Adoption.’”
“What do you think of my father?”
“I have a crush on Ben. He says ridiculous things in English class.”
“I have a crush on Bryan. He says ridiculous things in biology class.”
I brought up the litany of silent calls to my father, and he stayed quiet as I laughingly speculated on the caller’s motives.
“It’s probably the FBI, tapping our phone lines.”
I waited for him to continue the game and, when he didn’t, prodded him along.
“I bet it’s a runaway, hungering for human affection. Or maybe we’re victims of a hate crime. Or we’re at the mercy of a serial killer. Oh my God. This is that movie with Rain Phoenix combined with the one where Mel Gibson is a kidnapper.”
“It’s Michael Douglas, and he doesn’t kidnap anyone. No on the other counts, too.”
He clearly didn’t understand the rules of my game, so I tried playing his significantly less fun one.
“How do you know?”
“Do you talk to her when she’s on the phone with you?”
“Not a lot. Do you … um … talk to her?”
“I’ve never answered the phone.”
“I’m not making it up, you know.”
“I know.”
“Why do you know?”
“I just do.”
“Should I stop answering the phone?”
“Of course not. That’s what you’re supposed to do when the phone rings: you answer it.”
“Right, but … do we know this person? Should I be delivering a message?”
“I don’t think so.”
I wasn’t sure if this was an answer to one or both of the questions.
“So why does she keep calling? If it’s a she, I mean.”
“I don’t know.”
He didn’t appear to be lying, but I still didn’t believe him.
When I told Ayale about the phantom calls, he shrugged, an action he usually decried. With so many mysteries crowding my life, I decided to solve this one right here, right now. The man wasn’t going to shrug at me and get away with it, heartbreak be damned.
“Is something wrong?” I asked.
“I don’t understand; weren’t you just telling me that something was wrong?”
“So you were listening? That’s good to know, because I honestly couldn’t tell.”
“So there is something wrong.”
“Are you … angry at me?”
Ayale crossed his arms and looked past me, somewhere far above my head, before abruptly crouching to speak to me, eye to eye.
“Your delightful,
lit-up-from-within father has come on three separate occasions, just in the past week. Did you know that?”
I was having trouble maintaining eye contact but was determined not to break it, not to lose him again.
“No.”
“He came to have a chat with me. The first time, I was more than happy to see him; families of friends are friends of mine. I got him some coffee. I gave him the chair in the booth. I asked if he’d eaten. He was my guest.”
“What happened?”
I felt dizzy, and when the words came out of my mouth, they sounded different than usual.
“He asks me if I’m not ashamed of myself. For what, I ask. For leading on an impressionable young girl. I should know better, there can be nothing healthy in such a close relationship between a man and a young girl—he’s fond of that phrase, your father, ‘young girl’—and the more he observes your behavior at home, the more sure of this he is. I ask him what about your behavior he’s noticed. He says you’ve changed, completely, that nine out of ten sentences are about me. I say I’m flattered but I don’t see the harm. Wouldn’t it have been the same if you’d become besotted with a movie star? Wouldn’t he rather you choose someone who can improve you? He replies that the movie star would be quickly forgotten. I’m actually here, I can’t be erased that quickly. I ask him if that’s what he wants to do, erase me. He says he wouldn’t mind. I ask him why, and he says he’s never liked me. He says that if everyone was being honest, they’d remember that love and fascination are two different emotions. Then he leaves. Our conversations on the next two occasions are shorter and end with another phrase your father adores: ‘stay away from my daughter.’”
I was shaking and sat on the ground, humiliated. My father had actually told Ayale, in so many words, that I was obsessed with him, and Ayale seemed not only to believe this but to have taken it for granted. I was not obsessed. What I felt was so much more. He was making it seem like spending time with me was a favor, a way for me to accrue knowledge, but the joke was on him: I didn’t remember where the Mediterranean was or if Russia was in Europe or Asia. I hated my father for butting in, for taking over my life like I was something small enough to step over. I hated Ayale for pointing out his merits as a role model without mentioning that maybe he would miss me. I didn’t want either of them. They were the children, cock fighting in the afternoon.
The Parking Lot Attendant Page 10
