Late in the Standoff

by Tracy Daugherty

  “I’m sorry, too.”

  “Is Elissa okay?”

  “More scared than hurt.”

  “Listen, as soon as things settle down for you, why don’t we make that appointment with Father Caskin?”

  “Really?”

  He warmed up after that, and they began to speak easily, the way they used to do. Silently, she forgave him that he didn’t ask after Danny. “The girls are excited about our wedding,” he said with a note of caution in his voice. So. Things weren’t quite back to normal. She’d have to keep reassuring him.

  “Me too.”

  “They love the dresses they’re going to wear. And they want to know about your house. On the weekends, they want to bring their cat over. Do you think we could clear some room for him? His food and stuff?”

  “Next to the washer, maybe. I’ll see what I can do.”

  They made plans to meet for dinner. She dressed and brushed her teeth, then swept the space between her washing machine and a wall in the kitchen pantry. She set four plastic placemats on the floor and made a note to get a box—no, two—and some kitty litter at the store. It occurred to her that Anna Lia’s cats would need a home as well. Would Danny take care of them, or would they fall to her?

  Jesus, would she ever be done …

  Hugh’s daughters. On weekends, she’d have to sacrifice her study, move her computer to make room for two cots. What breakables would she need to protect? She didn’t know how any of this would go.

  Upstairs, she combed her hair, straddling a corner of her bed, watching the morning light. No clouds, smoke, or ash. Libbie set her comb on the bed. She started to pick the wine glasses off her night table but left them instead—traces of Hugh, a fact that saddened her yesterday but lifted her now after hearing his voice. She’d make a good wife, after all.

  She drove to school. Construction cranes crosshatched the sky near campus. Libbie parked between a dusty Honda and an old Mitsubishi in need of new tires.

  She taught her classes, prepping her weaker students for a second crack at the language proficiency exam. At a break, Kim, a young man from Kyoto, asked, “My teacher, what means ‘assoes’? I thought, perhaps, is plural of’ass,’ but now I not know.”

  “Where did you hear it?”

  “In my dorm. A boy in hall, always scream, ‘You all a bunch of assoes!’ Does he mean we are animals? Why would he say that?”

  “I think you should ask him what it means,” Libbie said, trying not to laugh.

  Late in the afternoon, exhausted, she went home and changed into a plain black dress. The light bulb in her bedroom closet zizzled twice, then quit. She shut the closet door.

  Back in the van, she jumped when a car behind her backfired.

  Danny, Carla, and Betty, somberly dressed, were standing on Carla’s porch. Betty grinned nervously. She bowed her head, avoiding the sun, and hovered close to Danny. Libbie gave him a hug. “How you doing?” She straightened his fat blue tie.

  “Okay.”

  “It’ll all be over soon.”

  Carla rubbed Libbie’s arm.

  No one spoke on the way to the service. The Religion Center was tucked among tall trees. At its entrance, white vaulted columns held rows of smoky windows. The pressure of stone, the delicacy of glass—Libbie was struck by the contrast, the sweet balance of tensions, and felt a surge of relief. Grackles hopped on the grass, plucking at insects. Squirrels raced in the pines, through thick gray moss.

  To Libbie’s surprise, Edgar greeted Carla inside. They hugged and smiled like nothing was wrong. Betty scowled but kept her composure. A man handed out programs, as if they’d all come for a concert. Carnations and roses spiced the room, but the air, wafting through open doors, smelled of coffee from a Maxwell House plant down the road. A woman Libbie didn’t know played piano in a corner, something stately, dull, unfamiliar. Roberto should do his radio patter—Live from my ex-lover’s funeral, the hottest music in Houston! Anna Lia would love it.

  Roberto sat in a middle pew. He waved. Libbie nodded his way—so did Danny, she was happy to see. Ricky gripped a swathe of Kleenex for Marie.

  Nicholas Smitts and his creepy big brother entered the room. They sat in the back row. Danny glimpsed them, and Libbie felt him tense. “Let them go,” she whispered. “This is Anna Lia’s day. Let’s just think about her, okay?”

  “I know.” He patted her hand.

  Carla kissed Edgar on the cheek.

  Libbie glanced at her program. Tuesday, June 24, 1986. Exactly a week since all their lives had changed. Our Beloved Anna Lia Clark.

  The coffin, propped on a cloth-covered dais up front, looked smaller than it had in the funeral home.

  Betty beamed next to Danny. Libbie watched her. She didn’t want Betty getting her hopes up. Danny would never mislead her—not on purpose—but she didn’t have experience with men and might misinterpret his gestures. It was wonderful—amazing—the way he’d charmed her, coaxed her out of her cave. But where could this lead? She smiled at them both. No way to know. Good or bad, there was simply no way to know.

  Danny hoped the new box looked good. It seemed okay. What did he know about choosing one of those things? This morning, early, he’d phoned Gustavo again, and this time they’d managed an actual, if feeble, conversation. Danny explained what he knew about Anna Lia’s death. Politely, remotely, Gustavo asked about shipping arrangements for the body, and Danny went over them. “Too big, too big, too big!” Gustavo shouted. He told Danny that eventually Anna Lia would rest in a mausoleum in Rome. Italian mausoleums were smaller than those in the U.S.; an “ostentatious American casket” wouldn’t fit. So Danny called Crespi, and for an extra “handling” charge—“Last minute, most unusual,” Crespi had muttered—picked a smaller box.

  It was hard to tell in a transatlantic phone call, but Gustavo seemed to have worked through his grief already, tucked it away in the silk-lined pocket of a tux. His voice was formal, clipped.

  “I know you never approved of me, Gustavo,” Danny had said. “But I loved her very much. I tried to look after her. I’m sorry I failed.”

  “We all failed with her.” This is the closest Danny would ever get to recognition or an apology from Anna Lia’s father. Hell, I’ll take it, he thought.

  Now Betty squeezed his hand. “How you doing?” he whispered to her.

  “Good. There’s a lot of people.”

  “Yes, but remember what we talked about.”

  “They’re not really looking at me?”

  “Right. They’re not even thinking about you. They’re lost inside their heads.”

  “They don’t know me,” Betty said. “They don’t know me at all!”

  “Exactly. See? It’s easy to feel safe and alone, even in a crowd. Nothing to worry about.”

  She smiled. Danny wondered if she’d cotton to Austin. Could he risk taking her on one of his trips? What would she do while he made his hospital rounds? Well, she liked solitude. Maybe a Holiday Inn with HBO would be just fine with her. Then, when he’d finished his business, they could snatch some barbecued ribs at Shady Grove, hit the music clubs on Sixth Street. Too much, too fast. But she’d tell him when to stop.

  Even better: he could take her to the Thicket, to the country store he’d found, and ask the old bluesman to play them some tunes. It would be a strange experience for Betty, but she accepted people as they were—just as the old man and his wife had acknowledged Danny that day, no questions asked. It was the quality in her that most appealed to Danny. Refreshing after Anna Lia, who was never really satisfied with things as they were.

  He looked around the chapel. The Morning Palomino in his slick gray coat, turning on the faucetworks. Behind him, that smug and final asshole, Smitts.

  They don’t know me, Danny thought. They have no power.

  A preacher stood beside the coffin spinning silly words. Danny imagined Anna Lia inside, hands folded on her poor, torn breasts. He used to watch her sleep, early in the morning when light first broke,
her mouth slightly open as if practicing her English. She liked it when he nudged her awake with gentle kisses. Making love in the mornings always worked best for them—maybe because they were too sleepy, then, to feel self-conscious or to try so hard, groping for the reckless passion they thought they ought to have.

  Sleep, Danny thought, staring at the box. Rest easy, sweetie.

  The preacher nearly put Libbie to sleep. Betty, leaning past Danny, tugged her sleeve. “It was so sad, what happened to Anna Lia.”

  “Yes,” Libbie said, gripping Betty’s hand.

  The piano woman dribbled another tune. Danny crumpled. “Good-bye,” Libbie heard him whisper. She reached for his arm.

  Afterward, Roberto approached him, his face like a badly thrown pot. He patted Danny’s back, then slipped away through the crowd. Marie hugged Libbie, then Danny, who told her, “Let’s talk about the store this week.” She nodded.

  Just before Smitts left, he caught Libbie’s eye. Probably every expression he tried got ruined by a sneer. But she recognized a softness in his glance: an attempt to offer solace, apology, peace?

  The sun settled low, sending unspooled light through the windows. The chapel was nearly empty now. Anna Lia’s coffin gleamed like rain-washed oak. Libbie walked up to it, kissed her fingertips, and pressed them to the lid. The wood was cold.

  Time to put this sadness behind us. Bury the blues.

  Edgar offered to take Danny and the “Lanham gals” back to Carla’s house. Outside, on the steps, Libbie whispered to Carla, “Back together?”

  Her friend blushed. “I don’t know. We’re talking.”

  “Watch yourself.”

  “I will. Lunch tomorrow?”

  “Sure.” On the grass, Libbie hugged Danny. “Are you going to be okay?”

  He nodded. “I need to run to Austin. That’ll be good. Get my mind on something else. I’m afraid I’ll miss your wedding. I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t worry about it. Call me when you’re back?”

  “Thanks for everything, Libbie. I couldn’t have made it without you.”

  “It was just so sad,” Betty said.

  Libbie kissed her cheek. “You looked beautiful today, Bets.”

  “Really?”

  “Extraordinary.”

  She grinned, then followed her sis to Edgar’s car.

  Libbie pulled slowly out of the parking lot. The traffic light on the corner wasn’t working. Erratic yellow in every direction. Cars paused. She waved a nervous fellow on, then took her turn. The back seat rattled. At first she thought the box, the one with her dress inside, was causing the noise, then she remembered she’d removed it. The seat’s springs were just old. Still, the sound spooked her, as if someone were sitting behind her.

  She turned on her radio. She started to cry.

  Rolling down her window, she took a huge breath. Houston smelled pleasantly rank, erotic, a mixture of heat and humidity, standing water. Air whipped through the van, clearing it out. Libbie straightened her shoulders. Her chest relaxed. With the wind in her face, for the first time in nearly a week, she felt alert.

  She remembered times like this in the past, when her senses opened wholly: nights in the Ben Taub emergency room, waiting for Anna Lia. Conflicting smells. Mercurochrome, vomit, cotton.

  Danny’s dirty socks, that first night in his place, the day of the bomb.

  Crisis times. Times of high awareness.

  Now, Anna Lia lifted away from her. She didn’t know why, or how, but she experienced a physical departure. A lessening of weight, like the feeling she got whenever she turned in her grades for the term.

  Grief, still. Always. Like an imprecise aroma. But something else now. Contentment? Not quite. Not yet. Completion? Symmetry? Fulfillment, for having been there for her friends.

  Dusk-light silvered the west. Lovely. She’d take the freeway home. Hugh was waiting for her call. There was so much to do.

  “Good-bye,” she whispered. “Good-bye.”

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