by Dan Lopez
“Shit!”
The outburst scares Gertie and she runs away screaming.
A horn honks.
“Fuck!”
Dammit, he shouldn’t have yelled. Now they’ll definitely come storming out of the day care to take her back. The patrons at the grocery down the way will see him and think he’s a stranger trying to steal her; after all, they look nothing alike. She’s adopted, he’ll plead; he was frustrated with the car seat, surely anybody could understand that—but it won’t matter. Someone will call the police and then he’ll end up in jail. All because of this goddamn car seat!
“Focus, man!” He lunges for the seat belt and repositions himself for another attempt.
This is about Gertie, he reminds himself. He’s doing this for her. He tugs on the seat belt. It scrapes against the worn plastic. Okay, he thinks, now we’re cooking with gas. Pass it through and click it in place, no big deal.
Click, click, click.
For a moment he thinks he’s found the way through the labyrinth and he rejoices. “Take that, you stupid cocksucker!” He tugs on the car seat and it holds. “Ha!” But then the buckle, flapping batlike, comes flying out of the car seat, nearly smacking him in the face as it recoils into the doorframe.
“Son of a bitch!” He punches the car seat, snapping the plastic headrest and scraping himself in the process. “Gertie, get back over here. Now!”
He wants to rip the whole thing out of the car, throw it onto the hard asphalt, and stomp on it until it’s nothing but a million shards of plastic and foam. Then tell him he can’t handle a car seat! Ha! But, of course, he can’t do that. He understands that much at least. The old rage throbs in his temples, so he takes several deep breaths and chants an om as he’s been learning to do on YouTube. The rage begins to dissipate. If at first you don’t succeed... He straddles the car seat and tries again, this time throwing his weight into the task.
Click, click, click.
The sound confuses him. He hasn’t done anything yet. Perhaps it’s a miracle. Perhaps he’s lined himself up with the universe and willed the buckle into place. Om, he chants. Om.
Gertie’s laughter interrupts the meditation. She stands nearby with a fistful of gravel. Awkwardly, she flings it at the car. Most of the gravel falls to the ground straightaway, but a few stones clink against the paint.
She’s throwing gravel, he thinks. No miracle. Sighing, he returns to the problem of the car seat. Something nags at him, however. And because of its incessancy and because it carries the recognizable weight of veracity, he visualizes it as Cheryl.
He pictures her there beside him: Cheryl, wearing a sour look and crossing her arms, trying to get his attention. Not now, woman, he wants to say, and he even goes as far as to swipe at the air like he would swat at a mewling cat, but the apprehension remains.
Click, click, click.
She’s not by the car anymore, so she must be throwing from farther away. She’s got an arm on her, and that makes him proud. He makes a note to tell Stevie to sign her up for Little League. That girl could be an all-star.
Cheryl doesn’t rest. Think it through, she says.
He’s in the car, in a parking lot... His eyelids grow heavy from the strain of thinking. He wants to quit, but Cheryl refuses to leave him alone, so, with a sigh, he presses on. They’re in the parking lot. And the parking lot... gives way to a curb! Yes, he definitely remembers a curb with grass.
“Gertie,” he shouts, “come where Grandpa can see you, goddamn it!”
His mind rushes ahead. There’s a curb with grass, and the curb with grass gives way to the road. Every vehicle on the road metastasizes into one deafening roar.
“Whatever you want,” he pleads. Tumbling to his knees he tries to leave the car. Gertie is in great danger. He calls to her again, and still there’s no answer. He tries again to climb out of the car, but, again, he’s hampered. In all his gymnastics to position his body in relation to the car seat, he’s managed to get his shoe caught between the rear bench and the frame, and he can’t dislodge it. Confused, he shouts for Cheryl before calling out for Gertie again.
“Whatever you want!” He twists and lunges toward the door. It swings open farther. “Please.” But instead of hearing the faint echo of his call bouncing off the back window of the Cutlass Supreme, he hears a solid thud. Something wet hits his face.
Instinctively, his fingers fly to his cheek.
Oh my God, it’s sticky! His fingers are sticky, and when he pulls them away he sees blood. It all happens so fast. He remembers a screech, or was it a scream? Then the gravel kicked up against the car. No.
Wait.
He has it backward. The gravel came after the screech. Time stops and everything happens at once.
“I’m so sorry.” It’s a woman’s voice. She bends down toward the gravel several feet away. Her words reverberate.
“Gertie.” He can barely whisper. The words won’t come. “Cheryl,” he mumbles. All he can picture is Gertie’s small body crumpled on the street, and he strains with all his might to exit the backseat.
Blond and rumpled, the woman laughs as she approaches.
His heart shatters because of this monster.
“Gertie,” he shouts. “Why? Why? Why?” His head and shoulders emerge from the car, but he remains pinned. As much as he wants to, he can’t leap out of the Cutlass Supreme and crush this approaching monster’s face with his fists.
Just beyond his range, she points at him and laughs. “. . . and it’s all over your face.”
He touches his face again and feels the stickiness. My granddaughter’s blood, he thinks, as tears blind him. His arms lie impotent along the baseboard, and the monster seizes the opportunity to approach.
She touches his cheek and rubs the blood into his skin, playing with it and pulling it away from his face.
“Oh, you’re bleeding!”
Suddenly, he feels his foot drop onto the car floor, but when he attempts to set up a lunge the worn sole of his shoe slips on the old carpet. He’s wasted enough time already. Using his other foot, he pries off the shoe. Staggering, he hurls himself at the woman and they collapse onto the asphalt. She screams. Gertie’s blood binds them. Rage blinds him. He will suffocate her. He will pulverize her. No court in the world would blame him.
“Why?” he screams, pawing at her face. “Gertie!”
And then a tiny voice squeaks. “Poop.”
And he feels a tiny hand on his leg.
The roar, which rose so fast and consumed him so absolutely, dissipates. The blindness lifts from his eyes. Turning, he sees her unharmed.
“Gertie! Come to Grandpa!”
He rolls onto his side and reaches for her—inadvertently pinning the woman’s hips. Gertie is light, but his arm is weak, so he struggles to shift her weight onto his shoulder.
“Don’t worry about me,” the monster says. Only now he knows she’s not a monster.
He puts Gertie down long enough to scuttle off the woman.
“I’m sorry, I thought—” No. Before he explains anything, he’s going to make sure Gertie is safe. Ignoring the sharp pain in his knee, bruised from all the tussling, he pulls himself up to his feet, then plops Gertie into the unsecured car seat. It won’t matter for the moment. He closes the door, keeping her safe.
“You could buy me dinner first,” the woman says, pulling herself up onto her elbows.
For the first time he really sees her. She’s older, closer to his age than to that of the sweet, uncomplicated young women who normally catch his eye, but she carries herself with confidence and her eyes are clear as isinglass. Her blond hair frames her face, and she’s dressed in a white linen pantsuit, soiled now in places from being pinned to the asphalt.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I couldn’t find...” His thought trails away as he extends a hand down to the woman. “Allow me.”
Once on her feet, she thanks him and points at his chin. “Need a napkin?”
He feels the sticki
ness again, but if it’s not Gertie’s blood, then what is it?
“You have honey all over your face,” she says. Her nose wrinkles. “And it looks like you’re bleeding. Now, the first part is my fault.” She kicks at a broken bottle on the asphalt. “I dropped it while I was rushing to get to the car. But the blood is a mystery.”
“Honey?” he says, and shakes his head.
“I don’t think we’re at the pet name phase just yet, big man.” She winks, then opens her handbag. “I think I have a napkin. That is, if I can find anything in here.”
From his back pocket he extracts a handkerchief and pats down his face. “Don’t worry,” he says absently. “I always come prepared.”
He thinks out the scenario. He struggled with the car seat. He punched it. He lunged out of the car... “I must’ve cut myself on the car seat trying to get out. I thought my granddaughter—” He swallows, unable to articulate the horrendous possibility. “I thought something had happened.”
“And you rushed to protect her.” She places a weightless hand on his arm. “What a good grandpa.”
He blushes. “It’s nothing.”
“Well, here. Give me a hand picking up these groceries—what’s left of them anyway. I’m afraid I broke most of them running to my car.” She indicates a late-model red coupe two yards away. “That’s what I get for needing my sugar fix.” Picking through her shattered groceries, she shrugs. “I guess it’ll be takeout for one again tonight.”
“Say no more.” He flashes her the mischievous eyebrow, then extracts a twenty-dollar bill from his wallet. “For something sweet.”
“Oh, I couldn’t.” She laughs.
“I insist.”
“Keep your money.” She accentuates her drawl. “The last thing I need is something sweet.”
She’s flirty and touchy without being obvious, and he likes that. It’s been a long time since Cheryl touched his arm casually or said things that merited a wink. When they started, he remembers, everything had a double meaning.
“Look, you seem like a decent guy,” she says, leaning against the Cutlass Supreme. “How about we cut to the chase? What do you say we make it dinner for two? My treat.”
“Oh,” he says. “I don’t know...”
“Now why is that? And don’t you dare tell me a man like you doesn’t like to eat.”
With a laugh he pats his belly. “It’s not that.” Gertie waves at him from her car seat.
“It’s just that I have my granddaughter today—”
“Well, hell, bring her along. She can play with my Buddy. He’s a golden retriever and he just loves kids.”
She’s so beautiful, and he imagines what sharing a meal with her would be like, but he hesitates.
“Hey, Stretch,” she says, beaming a high-voltage smile. “I’m out on a limb here. Don’t make a girl suffer.”
“It’s just that...”
“Come on, out with it. What’s the matter? Cat got your tongue?”
“You’re gorgeous,” he says, clasping her hands in his. “A real fox. It’s just—”
“You’re going to tell me you’re married, aren’t you?”
He frowns and gives a weak nod.
She pulls her hands back. “Damn, I was hoping widower. Well, nothing ventured, nothing gained, right?” She quickly gathers what’s left of her groceries. Before she walks away she slips a business card into his hands. “Let me know if you ever change your mind. Cute kid, by the way.”
He listens to the click-clack of her retreating heels against the asphalt, wanting to call her back; how long has it been since Cheryl showed him that kind of affection? But he has Gertie now and he shouldn’t take any chances.
“Wait.”
She looks back, but it’s only to wink. Then she’s in her car and driving away.
Gertie refuses to cooperate. She clamors over the car seat. She rolls onto her tummy. She squirms, and once, when he puts his finger near her mouth, she bites down hard, then erupts into belly laughter.
The situation and all the new people milling about overwhelm him. To hell with it. He plops her down in the front passenger seat and buckles her in. The shoulder strap crosses her chin and her ankles barely reach the edge of the seat, but it’s better than nothing. “We’re leaving.” He can do this for her. He can give her a roomful of dolls. Stevie won’t, but he will. He can take her to the happiest place on Earth.
If anybody’s watching, they’ll see that he’s a good grandfather.
He digs through the glove compartment for his hidden stash. Just a toke. Just a buzz to mellow the jitters of the car seat debacle, something to soothe his nerves and help him find the road.
“Ready for a magical mystery tour, beautiful?” He blows a string of smoke toward the roof.
She coughs and frowns. “Poop.”
“The Beatles.” He grins. “Before your time. Don’t worry, Grandpa will teach you all about them.”
She stretches out her open palm and gestures for the ten dollars he owes her. What a memory on her! “In a minute, beautiful. There’s no rush. We have all day.”
“WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU DON’T KNOW WHERE HE IS?”
Esther lunges across the breakfast bar like a wave over a breakwater. Laila retreats, but her small galley kitchen provides little shelter. The stove flanks her to the right and the fridge boxes in her rear. A short stretch of tile in front of the pantry presents the only escape. She dashes for it but Esther heads her off. They pause inches away from each other. In the heat of rage, her stepmother’s perfume smells tart.
Laila backs off. The slick curve of formica presses against the small of her back. Just out of reach, a glass of iced tea sweats on the counter. She stands firm. “He hasn’t come home,” she says, as if he were merely out for a stroll. If it came to blows, she could take her stepmother, but her words placate Esther long enough for Laila to shift venues into the living room.
“For how long?” Esther asks, arms akimbo.
“Six months.”
“Seis meses!” Esther spins on the balls of her feet and paces, gesturing wildly. She likes to walk when she’s mad. Laila remembers that from growing up. “Y me vienes a decir ahora? Jamas en mi vida—oh my God, we have to call the police!”
Laila blocks her path. “We’re not calling the police! Be rational.”
“My baby is missing!”
“He’s not missing. He’s just not here.”
“Well, where is he?”
“I don’t know, but I’m sure he’s fine.”
“Oh, you’re sure he’s fine! Cómo lo sabes, huh?” Esther sidesteps her and zips around the living room like a balloon with a leak, coming to rest beside a console table backing the sofa. “You haven’t seen him in six months!” As she speaks she slaps the table, causing everything on it to wobble.
“I know it sounds bad—”
“I never should’ve let him move in with you. I knew something like this would happen.”
“Let him? Uh-uh, don’t you even try that.” She springs forward, close enough to smell the faint halitosis of late middle age. A premonition of her future perhaps, but it’s her past that rushes into focus. “You begged me to take him in—”
“¿Yo? ¡Jamas!”
“Yes, you did! You absolutely did. He was standing right there with his bag—”
“That’s not how I remember it,” Esther says, slowly crossing her arms.
Laila tosses back her long curls. “Why would I lie about that? You think I wanted him here?”
“Is that why you’ve been lying to me for six months?”
“What? What the fuck are you talking about?”
“You said you didn’t want him here, so—”
“You think this is my fault? And who kicked him out first, huh?”
“Ah, entonces you did. You sent your poor brother out into the street, y por qué? Because of this apartment. You want to be alone so much it’s more important to you than family. What would your father say?”
/> “At least I’ve been keeping track of him, which is more than you’ve been doing. See for yourself.” She pulls up Alex’s Instagram. There’s his familiar face, smiling in every photo. How can this be the same moody boy they both exiled from their houses? This boy looks happy, well adjusted, friendly, and helpful.
“¿Qué’s esto?” Esther asks, digging out her reading glasses from the bottom of her purse.
“Just scroll down.”
“I know how to use a phone,” Esther says in a huff. Then she’s silent for a long time as she works her way through the photos. The screen light ages her—drawing out wrinkles that a practiced makeup brush renders hardly visible otherwise—but it also highlights the small movements of her mouth as she instinctively reacts to the volley of images on the screen: a quick grin, a passing frown; embarrassment, sympathy. Compassion. Laila watches the evolution of emotions unfold, unconsciously mimicking her stepmother’s micro expressions. At last Esther looks up. In a quiet, conciliatory voice she asks, “¿Quiénes son estas gente?”
“His friends, I guess.”
“If I had friends like that growing up my mother would’ve locked me in my room.”
“I’ve never met any of them.” Her voice sounds sadder than she anticipated. “He never brought anybody over.”
Esther sighs. She turns back to the screen, scrolling faster now but pausing frequently to examine a photo in more detail.
“I’m sorry,” Laila says. “I should’ve told you sooner. I thought he’d come back and then when he didn’t it just got harder.”
Esther rests her forehead in her palm, holding the phone loosely in her free hand. “Where did I go wrong? I tried my best with the both of you—”
“I know.” Laila conducts her over to the couch. They both sit.
“—one lies to me and the other one doesn’t want anything to do with me.”
“It’s not your fault. You did a good job.” The weight of seventeen years bends her into a slouch. What a waste of time! How many birthdays given over to bitchy glances? Weekends embroiled in useless sparring? How many family functions lost to rancor? So maybe she shares some of the guilt. She stoked the animosity and squandered the good times; this is her reward. And Alex paid the price.
