by Diane Munier
"What's the matter?" I say because he looks so serious and thoughtful and thoughtfully serious.
"I don't…get in trouble. I'm not Juney."
He's right, he doesn't have a mustache around his…lips.
I'm smiling.
"What's so funny?" he says.
"Nothing. Just…seeing how clean your…mouth is." I'm laughing a little.
He takes a couple of seconds to get it. "Yeah. But you hear me? I don't want that nonsense. I see Jessica. Yes. But I can still live my life. I'm not apologizing for it."
"Okay," I say like I'd say 'chill out,' because he needs to. I'm not the bitch busting his balls. Well, not overtly. But I want more. I want more. "So…I'm not asking you to…apologize."
"I didn't say you were," he says grabbing a can of pumpkin and not making a whole lot of sense. "Where does this go?"
I point to the cabinet, and he opens it and starts to shove the pumpkin in.
"No, no," I say upon seeing the disorganized state of things there too. I can only imagine the frig. I go to the cabinet and start my crazy. He's right there. Like right, right there.
"Up here, vegetables," I'm saying by way of explanation as I set the dozen cans of broccoli and cheese soup, Dad's favorite, on the counter and start to put the green beans up there. "This stuff probably gave him Parkinson's," I say.
I have yet to have a chance to speak to Dad about his health, and it's there, and we're quiet for a minute, and Marcus starts to help me, pulling canned vegetables out and wisely setting them on the counter in groups. He bumps my shoulder and mutters sorry, then bumps it again playfully. He's almost smiling.
"Sorry, I called her Sauroman," I say, always having something I can fake-apologize for to garner his sympathy and get him talking. We're real close, and he's looking at me like…he takes me in. Feels like he really sees me…the pores on my skin maybe. I need Biore.
"You're a little crazy," he says, "you know that? Always have been. It's…interesting to me, and I don't know why. You hurry around…."
I have finished his sentence mentally—I hurry around like a little mouse. Thank God he doesn't compare me to a rodent.
He just…quits.
"Is that like…a complement…or a testimony for the prosecuting attorney?" I'm thinking, the prosecutor is Jessica, but really it's him, his own indictment against himself for finding me 'interesting.'
"No idea," he breathes in, a huge breath and lets it out in a gust as he continues to run a hand over my cans (note the s) making sure all the labels face frontwards.
"We might have a compatible level of OCD," I say admiring his work…and his hand.
"So much in common," he mutters. He turns to the bags then, scouring for more cans and more…perfection.
And I have to admit, he's right. We have everything in common, including the interest. "I find you interesting too," I say. I don't know where I'm going with this…well wherever he'll let me.
"How's that?" he says, holding those lucky cans against his chest, his hand fanned against them.
"I…you raised Juney…all the way through. And you didn't even date…until…,"
He cuts me off and says, "After Angela…I owed him my undivided attention…right?"
He's not asking. He knows it was right.
"Was it hard?"
"No," he says tersely.
"What…um how did you finally give yourself the green light…with Jessica?"
I count to freaking six before he answers. "She cut my hair."
I have a million smart things come to mind, but I make…force myself to stay focused.
"And…that led to…?"
He stops messing with the food and says defensively, "To what?"
"What?"
"To what?"
"I don't know. You tell me."
"It led to me asking her out. Or…her asking me for a drink." He's holding celery. He grabs carrots and squeezes around me to the fridge.
I turn and weedle in beside him. "Oh Gosh."
"What?" he says. "You're standing in front of the drawer.
"No way that's ready to go in," I say, and I'm doing it. Dairy on the top. I'm taking off and putting on. He's standing there with a bouquet of vegetables. I laugh a little.
"It was spring. She asked if I wanted to go for a drink. I said let me think about it. She kept calling me. I went clear to Litchfield for my next haircut," he's laughing. "Then the next time I needed one I didn't have time to go so far. So I went in, and she was worried she'd scared me off." He's laughing again, looks at me and I'm just standing there.
I'm not laughing. It's just not funny. So he quits laughing and hands me the bouquet. "I don't know what the heck you want."
Chapter 19
"I'd like you to chop those and we'll bag them," I say meaning the carrots and celery.
He's doing that deep look again. "So stubborn," he whispers, turning to the sink where he commences washing the vegetables.
I have to get away from him for a minute. Just a minute, and not too far. But I need a break. In the hall, I lean on the wall and put my hand over my hammering heart. She asked for a ring this Christmas. That's all I can think.
"What are you doing?"
It's Marcus. He's caught me standing there.
I'm holding my heart together, what does he think?
"Just…being interesting." I use my ass to push off the wall and stand there a second. Then I go in search of Juney. That one is in the living room, feet over the back of the couch, head hanging all the way to the floor, game controller in hand as he works his way through video world. The ring is still around his mouth. "Hey, you better wash your face like your dad said."
"I will," he answers without taking his eyes off the screen. When I don't move off, he pauses and does a backward somersault to the floor and grins at me. He gets on his skinny legs and barrels off, for the bathroom.
I return to the kitchen, hearing the knife on the board before I even enter the room.
Now there is a domestic scene to die for. Marcus at the island, towel over his shoulder working the knife. Oh, the holidays.
He's got this look for me, cop duty or something, hyper aware of me. I smile, but I'm not entirely comfortable with it. I mean, I want his attention but not his worry.
I grab the bag of onions and sit on the stool Artie keeps there for when he cooks. I am around the island's corner on Marcus's right. I grab a knife and slit the net bag and pick my first victim.
"What was it like in Chicago?" he says. Chop, chop.
"Cold. It was getting cold when I left. Twenty-two." Chop.
I know he could learn as much off the weather channel.
"Oh yeah? Would that be unseasonable cold or the norm," he says. His sarcasm sounds just like his regular conversation so it's hard to tell.
"I had this apartment…in a building that people probably tried to get out of as they moved up the ladder…like in the sixties or something. But now it's been refurbished."
"I've seen pictures," he said.
"Facebook?"
"Artie. And maybe some Facebook…from Artie."
"Yeah, it was tiny, like living in a model of what an apartment might be if it was…bigger."
He laughed.
"And it was…I felt kind of cool, you know? I had a twin bed, and there's this big store called Ikea, and everything is cheap…but cool. You have to put it together, though. But I got pretty good at it."
"Yeah, Artie said that."
"Yeah." I stop chopping and move off to get us each a soda. I don't have to ask him what he wants…Diet Dr. Pepper.
Yawn.
When I straighten, he does too, and he's chopping with more dedication. I set his soda in front of where he works and pop mine, take a long sip and get back to work. "I loved the view from my office. Twelve stories. I could see Lake Michigan."
"Yeah."
"Sure you want to hear all this…again?"
"Go on."
"Well, coffee shops right th
ere, and neat little bistros with cool things like peppers stuffed with goat cheese and sushi. I don't know. It was great."
He stops the chop. He's peeling onions now. "Why are you here?" He has over-pronounced each word.
I over-pronounce, "I want to be here. It's Thanksgiving. I am always here for Thanksgiving."
He smirks knowing I mock him. "You know what I mean."
I do. I purse my lips and move them side to side a few times. He's like, hypnotized. Or disgusted.
"I got let go from my job. So I came home…wagging my tail behind me."
"You told me that. But where is all your stuff? In your car?"
"Yes. All that's left. The rest was carried off by a neighbor." I don't say, 'for fifty dollars.' I don't want him to think I'm irresponsible.
"So you're staying?"
I bite my lip. "Not sure."
"Are you going back?" Just like a cop to ask the same question a whole new way.
"No."
"Are you going somewhere else? You're making me work awfully hard."
"You cops love to interrogate. I don't know yet. Or what. It feels…good to be home. I might even…live here."
"Might?"
"What do you want from me?" I really mock now.
"You don't know what you're going to do," he says.
"That's about it. Except now I find my dad…."
"Your dad is fine. If he gets wind you're staying for him, he'll be upset."
"Are you trying to talk me into leaving?"
"You said you couldn't imagine spending your life here."
That was because of him, not Lowland. I couldn't imagine living in his blind spot for the rest of my life, marrying there, having children there, possibly watching him move on like I knew he would, someday.
"Maybe I have a better imagination…now."
Chapter 20
We order pizza for supper. By eight, we've done all we can until tomorrow, the day before the feast. So tomorrow it gets real. But for now, we've crumbled the four loaves of bread, and everything is chopped. Artie's brought the turkeys home, and Marcus has shown me the craw just like he promised.
Juney begs to stay again, and Marcus says, "No, you need to go home."
And Juney begs and I intervene and Marcus relents. But first Juney must go home and clean up and get ready for bed then he can come back.
"Dad," I say after the Stovers leave and the house seems a little deflated, "Juney mentioned something about a medical condition…you have."
"Oh now," Artie scoffs from his recliner, snapping the newspaper he still reads in half, "what'd he say?"
Dad's not going to make this easy. He's still hoping I just heard about his high cholesterol. "Parkinson's?"
"Yeah I was going to tell you before you had to go back to Chicago," he says.
"Well, I hope so," I say, a little sternly. But I don't feel stern. Not really. I feel like I want to cry. I'm staring at his hands, and the one has a little shaking in the fingers. I love those hands…my whole life has come from…those hands. They're strong, indestructible. This is my dad. I hate Parkinson's or any disease that thinks it can weaken…those hands.
"Come here," Dad says, and I end up kneeling by his feet with my head on his leg and having that cry after all. I had meant to be positive, but I can revert to Juney's age real quickly around my dad.
"I'm sorry," I say after a couple of minutes. I'm sniffing, and he grabs a Kleenex off the box on the end table.
So I wipe my nose, and I end up sitting there looking at him like a puppy, a big puppy. Boy, it's been a long day.
"I'm your dad."
"I know."
"Nothing is going to lick me."
"I know."
"People live for years with this."
"I know. Google," I say softly.
He reaches to stroke my hair. My dad tells me he loves me all the time. He's always been affectionate with me. I know it doesn't come naturally, but he's worried that I haven't had a mother. The day I graduated college, I thought he'd pop a couple buttons he looked so proud. He has no idea that I'm really a loser. He has no idea that he is my sun and without him I whither.
"Dad?"
"Yes?"
"I ah…I'm not going back to Chicago."
The petting stops. He doesn't withdraw his hand, but it's frozen there.
"Why not?"
"I…I want to be here…in Lowland. I want to stay in Lowland."
"Oh no, you don't." He pulls his hand away now, and I sit my ass on the floor by his feet and wipe my face and look at him.
I radiate patheticness, so I hope he goes easy.
"What?" me
"You are not," he says not with force, "staying here."
"You…don't want me?" Blink, blink.
"Of course, I…what happened? Did something happen? Were you…oh God, were you…?"
"No! No. No." Why does he always go there? I wasn't raped.
He looks dazed as he sits back. Even the thought has his hand shaking a little more. I lift my ass and grab his hand and hold it to my cheek.
He pulls away. "Bedilia look at me."
I settle on my knees, hands folded over my belly-button, and I look.
"What about your job?" Dad always looks so hopeful when he tries logic on me. It kind of breaks my heart that he never loses hope I can be reasoned with on his terms.
"What job?"
He stares. He can read people. Just not me.
"The job you went to Chicago for. White Enterprises?" He's so patient. Behind that mustache…mercy.
"I um…I don't have it…anymore."
He's sitting straighter. "What did you do with it?"
"Nothing I…I lost it."
I have his eyes. I can see what a responsibility they are now, looking into his. Marcus's penetrate, and that's something else entirely, something I'm almost ashamed to think about right now. But Dad's eyes radiate faith. He's not searching for the truth. He can't imagine I'd hide anything. Dad doesn't just believe me, he believes IN me.
So I'm dying a little. For us both.
"Why?" he finally asks.
"It was a conflict of interest between myself…and my boss. That's how he put it."
"And what was that conflict of interest?" Dad has seen it all, pretty much. But with me, he's so easily bewildered.
"I…wouldn't marry him."
"You mean to tell me…that's harassment!"
"No," I breathe. "It's…he didn't do it with malice, Dad. He did it…as a favor."
"What? A favor to himself! Does he know who he's messing with?" Dad loves to say that.
"It was…Dad I just don't want to talk about it. I will…maybe. But now…I just want to be home. I just want to be with my dad."
And Marcus. Juney. Dad, Marcus, Juney. My men. Sort of.
Chapter 21
Juney comes over, scrubbed shiny and in a big T-shirt and knit pants and moccasins. He's carrying a bag of his stuff, and the pillow that's really a teddy bear disguised as a pillow.
"Moving in?" I ask seeing him setting the living room for an all-night party. He even has his own Cheetos.
Artie has a sport's program on. I figure Juney will be good for him while he digests the hand grenade I threw in his lap when I told him about my reality show in Chicago.
After the conversation with Dad, I made the dough for my pies and wrapped it and set it in the fridge. I need a break and some air. If I smoked, I'd need a cigarette, but since I don't, I eat a Twinkie.
I'm licking my fingers and holding my hoodie under my arm as I head for the front door. Artie and Juney are in a deep discussion about that duck show they both love. I slip out the front door.
He's over there maybe. I have no idea. I'm walking. So I put my hands in my pocket in front of my sweatshirt and I swear he opens the door dressed like me, and he sees me and pulls up his hood as he closes the door and I am reaching the end of my walkway as he's reaching his and we both turn and walk side by side down the middle of the da
rk moonlit street.
"They're watching the duck thing," I say.
He laughs a little, and says, “good” under his breath.
"You talk to him?" him
"Some. He's tough." me
"Pick it up," Marcus says, and I increase my pace.
"I have to take almost two steps to your one," I complain.
"I'll keep that in mind," he says. "You want equal rights, this is it."
"Yeah? When you can make a baby, Stover, let me know." I'm trying not to sound consumptive.
"Been there, done that," he says easily.
"Oh yeah? You push him out?"
"Put him in."
Oh, the world blows up, right there. Did he really want to say that? Take us there?
Oh.
"That was bad," he laughs, slow then louder. He has to stop and bend over. Then he straightens up quick and easily catches up to me.
"Hey, it's Juney. You get a pass," I say pretending to be cool about him…putting it in. I am jealous, but what good is that? I may be ten years old with Artie, but here I have to get real.
"A pass for making the most unfortunate marriage…."
"You have Juney," I say again.
"I got what I deserved, but he deserved better."
"Looks pretty healthy to me."
"C'mon. We both know it hurts him not having a mom."
We're jogging now. I have never been a jogger until coming home.
"Maybe it hurts you more." me
"Nah."
"Not gonna lie…it sucks sometimes…but lots of kids don't have moms. Think globally Stover. Lots of kids without moms and they grow up to be good people. Maybe even great people. A good dad…you know that."
We don't say anything for a while, just the dig of our feet on the road, breathing…gasping in my case.
I have to stop. "I…can't…," I am bent over, hands on knees.
"C'mon," he comes back for me, takes my arm and pulls up, and I stand. "We'll walk a while."
I nod, and he lets go, and we both bury our hands in our pouches and continue.
"You didn't deserve it either…Angela."
