Cadillac Chronicles

by Brett Hartman

  The door to the restaurant was a mass of solid teak with a urethane-coated rope to pull it open. He stared at the rope. Suddenly his opening line no longer felt right. Who the hell walks up to somebody in a restaurant and says, “I’ve been waiting fifteen years to meet you?” It felt hollow and pathetic.

  His chest pounded as he gripped the rope. He had no idea what to say. One glance back at his mother in the Mustang. Her seat was reclined, and she had taken off her shades to keep from getting raccoon eyes. She was basking in the rays and moving her head to some awful Barry Manilow song.

  He opened the door and stepped inside. The place was divided, equal parts bar to the left and restaurant to the right, but Alex’s eyes were naturally drawn upward to the luminescent coral spanning much of the vaulted ceiling. It glowed with a stunning variety of hues. And even though it was probably plastic, it pulsated with life—each branch changing color before him. The effect was magical.

  “First time here?” It was a cheerful man’s voice directly in front of him.

  “Yeah.” Alex lowered his head. “It is.”

  “Well, if you’re here for the bar, I’ll have to card ya.” He gave an exaggerated frown. “Or I can seat you in the restaurant. We have some wonderful specials.”

  “No, actually I’m here to see my father.” God, he was nervous. “I mean, my dad.” What the hell difference did it make?

  “Hmm,” the man said, “that’s a new one.” He was wearing a V-neck T that hugged him like another layer of skin. “You sure you’re in the right place?”

  “His name’s Scott Riley.”

  The man’s head snapped back, and his cheerful demeanor turned to shock. “You’re joking.”

  “I haven’t seen him in a long time. He won’t recognize me.”

  “Well, I’ll be a monkey’s uncle.” The man pointed to the bar. “Look that way.”

  Alex turned to face the bar. He could feel the man’s stare. Could this be him?

  “Come to think of it, you do have his chin.” He held Alex by the jaw to keep it from moving. “Same nose too. I’ll take you to see him myself. My name’s Roger.”

  Alex followed past the curvilinear bar. There were only a few people sitting at it and a couple of men standing at a cocktail table. They nodded at him.

  Alex nodded back. Friendly place.

  “Right back here,” Roger said.

  They entered a kitchen with a loud fan. A guy with a ponytail was stirring something in a huge cast iron pot. The smell was otherworldly, like something from Bangkok or maybe Bangladesh. Alex tried to picture a man with a chin and cheekbones like his.

  They approached a glossy red door at the rear of the building, near the exit. “He should be here,” Roger said, knocking on the door.

  “Come in,” said a man’s voice.

  Roger opened the door about a foot and stuck his head in. “I’ve got a guy here who says he’s your son.”

  Some words passed back and forth, but all Alex could hear was the industrial fan. Roger pulled his head from the door and looked at Alex. “You can go in.” His voice had lost its bounce.

  The will to step into the room was unconscious. Alex felt nothing but the pounding of his chest. His body commanded itself forward—four cloudlike steps to the center of a rectangular office. His eyes tracked the man in front of him.

  “Alex,” the man said. “It’s really you.” He rose from his desk and stepped closer. His eyes were moist. His hands went to the outsides of Alex’s shoulders and settled there.

  “Yeah it’s me,” Alex said, reminding himself to breathe. “I came a long way.”

  “I know,” his father said. “I think it’s awesome.”

  Alex searched for a chord of resemblance. The man’s skin was smooth and tan. His hair was short, almost crew-cut length, and he wore a neatly groomed mustache and beard. He had a silver earring in his left ear shaped like a martini glass with a little green gem for an olive. “I saw your apartment,” Alex said. “It’s nice. So is this place.”

  “We’ve done quite well.” He lowered his hands. “I should get you something to eat.” He was standing eye-to-eye with Alex. The two were exactly the same height.

  “I’m not hungry,” Alex said, “but I’ll take a soda.”

  “Sure, what kind do you like?”

  “Dr. Pepper.”

  His father nodded. “I used to like that too.” He stuck his head out the door and called after someone to bring the soda. Then he shut the door and said, “Closest thing we have is Cherry Coke. Have a seat.”

  Alex would have preferred standing, but he didn’t want to make a defiant first impression. So he lowered himself into a round chair that swiveled.

  “I had a feeling I’d see you,” his father said, “before your mother called.”

  “I don’t want to talk about her. She ruins everything.”

  “Can’t disagree with you there. But I’ll bet she’s done a fine job raising you.”

  That was debatable, but Alex didn’t say anything. He hadn’t come here to say nice things about his mother.

  Someone knocked on the door. His father opened it just enough so that the soup-stirring man with the ponytail could stick in his head and get a good look. “I see the resemblance,” the man said, “a vast improvement over the original.” He handed the can of soda to Alex’s father but kept looking at Alex. “Want a glass with ice?”

  “No,” Alex said, “as long as it’s cold.” He could feel his nerves settle as he snapped open the can and took a swig. The door was closed again.

  His father sat on top of the desk. “You came all this way on your own?” He crossed his legs.

  “No, I came with a friend.” He was getting a little annoyed. His father must have known about Lester.

  “That’s right, your mother mentioned an elderly man.”

  “His name’s Lester,” Alex said. “He’s a good man.”

  “Do you have a girlfriend?”

  “I’m working on it. There’s this girl named Britney. She’s on the cross-country team.”

  “Britney,” said his father. “Bet she’s pretty.”

  “Yeah,” Alex said. “But I don’t think she’s interested.” He didn’t want to talk about Britney, fearing it might jinx his prospects.

  “How’ve you been doing in school?”

  He definitely didn’t want to talk about school. “Fine,” he said then took another sip from the can. “A’s in everything but gym.”

  “That’s excellent.” His father smiled broadly, the same kind of smile Alex had dreamt about. But, oddly, it didn’t have much effect. It was like a cop out. Sure, it was easy to show paternal pride now. Far too easy. And trivial, like it meant nothing. Maybe that was the problem. After all the waiting and all the build-up, anything they talked about would probably seem trivial. They might as well talk about the tropical breeze coming off the ocean and then call it a day.

  After a marked pause in conversation, it occurred to Alex that the only thing worth talking about was his father’s absence. Fifteen years of nothing. How would he explain that?

  “I can tell that you’re angry,” his father said. “You can admit it.”

  It was unnerving that the man could tell what Alex was feeling. “I’m not angry.” It was his first lie to his father.

  “It’s your nostrils. I do the same thing.” His father scrunched his face and flared his nostrils. Quite a menacing look. “Go ahead, Alex, say what you want to say.”

  Alex was stuck on the idea that someone could read his face. He looked down at the dark space between the stone floor and the desk. Then the words just leaped out: “How come you never tried to contact me?”

  “That’s not true.” His father uncrossed his legs. “I’ve been writing you ever since I left. Last time was a little over a week ago for your sixteenth birthday, along with a check.”

  Totally ridiculous, Alex thought, the boldest lie he’d ever heard.

  But then a long familiar image flashed
before him. It was the locked mailbox on his front porch. His mother had said it was there to keep undesirables from stealing her identity and her magazines. His anger was changing vector. “I got some money deposited into my college fund,” he said, making a fist of his free hand. “But I never got a letter from you…ever.”

  His father shook his head, nostrils flaring. He might have been acting, in which case he missed his true calling. “Where is she?” He spoke the words slowly.

  “Out in her rental car,” Alex said. “I can get her to come in.”

  “No.” His father held up a hand. “Like you said, she ruins everything. I don’t want her ruining our first time together. I’ll deal with her later.”

  “You wrote me a lot?”

  “I did,” his father said. “Nearly once a month for the past fifteen years.” He looked up toward his left, giving him a look of computation. “Must be about 150 letters. Some were long. Some were barely anything. I tried to account for your age when I wrote them, and I figured at some point you’d write me back. Guess now I know why that hasn’t happened.”

  “That’s so messed up,” Alex said. “She keeps a lock on our mailbox. I always thought it was to keep her mail and her identity from being stolen.”

  His father’s nostrils were still at it. “Your mother’s a hell of a piece of work. Unbelievable.”

  “So I missed a lot of stuff?”

  “You missed everything, son.”

  It was the word he’d been waiting to hear. Son. He was part of the universe of boys who had fathers. It made him feel like crying. He’d have to change the subject.

  There were a lot more questions to ask. He stared at the can of soda. “How come you never called or came up for a visit?”

  “There’s no good answer for that,” his father said. “I’ve thought about it more than you can imagine. Only excuse I have is shame. And I know that’s not good enough.” His shoulders were slumping. “Letter-writing just felt more comfortable, more permanent. I wanted you to compile a record of your wayward father.”

  “Yeah,” Alex said, “but you never got to hear about me.”

  “I know,” his father said. “This isn’t meant as an excuse, Alex, but let me back up to when your mother and I first separated. You probably know that I was the one who wanted out. She was understandably hurt and angry. So she hired this Neanderthal lawyer to rake me over. The guy had the family court judge in his back pocket.”

  Alex pictured a scene of his mother’s high-profile cronies in black suits throwing their weight around.

  “I ended up having to pay five grand a month, and all I got was an hour a week with you—supervised, no less. And your mother had final say over who the supervisor was. She chose her father…who, of course, hated me.”

  Alex’s grandfather was long dead, so it wouldn’t be easy to verify that claim.

  “I endured about nine or ten of those visits under the man’s watchful eyes and constant criticism. It felt like I was taking a beating every time.” He threw his hands into the air. “So I left. I stopped trying to see you.” His voice started to crack. “I wish I would’ve handled it differently.” A couple of tears streaked down his face and onto his white Oxford shirt.

  Things had reversed themselves. Now Alex wanted to cry, but somehow he couldn’t. “It’s okay now,” he said. “It’s over.”

  Another knock at the door.

  His father didn’t bother to wipe his eyes. “Come in.”

  The ponytailed man stuck his head in. “Sorry to interrupt, but we’ve got twelve orders up.”

  “I’ll be right there,” his father said. “Give us another minute.”

  When the door closed, he stood in front of Alex and said, “Come here, son. I want to give you a hug…if you’ll let me.”

  That’s when it happened. That’s when Alex broke down and cried. He set his Cherry Coke on the desk and put his arms around his father.

  When they separated, his father said, “Your mother made plans for all of us to have breakfast tomorrow at my place. I’m changing that plan. Your mother and Bill won’t be invited. But I want you to come, and please bring your friend.” He jotted down his cell number on the back of a multi-colored business card.

  Alex slipped the card into his wallet. He retrieved his half-empty soda, hugged his father one last time, and then he walked out the back door.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Outside, he passed a shaded picnic table where a man in a straw hat held a pipe to his mouth. Alex wondered how bad his face looked from all the tears. He un-tucked his shirt and wiped his eyes while walking around to the front of the building.

  The red Mustang was still blaring crappy music—Hall and Oats, no less. His mother was all the way reclined. Her eyes were still shut, but her head wasn’t moving anymore. She was probably asleep. He held the can of Cherry Coke above her and poured the rest of it onto her face.

  She bolted upright. “What the hell’s gotten into you?” She shook her head like a dog after a bath.

  “You’re the one to talk,” he said. “Stealing my mail from dad!” He ricocheted the empty can off the Mustang’s hood. “That’s a new low.”

  “Get in the car,” she said, turning off the radio. “I can explain.”

  “Bullshit. You’ll never be able to explain that.” He began walking toward A1A, crossing over to the beach side of the highway.

  His mother pulled up alongside and began shouting for his attention. He extended a middle finger and then placed the tips of his fingers into his ears. The last thing he heard her say was, “I did it to protect you.”

  Cars behind her were honking. Finally, his mother sped off.

  And then, for no good reason, Alex began jogging.

  When that wasn’t enough, he charged into a full-throttled sprint. It was the second time in a week that he had broken into a run. He could run for miles. That’s how good it felt.

  BUT HIS underworked lungs couldn’t take it for very long. He slowed to a walk, then stopped at a bench shaded by palm trees. It might have been the run or the thoughts darting in and out of his brain, or maybe it was the scorching mid-day sun that had wiped him out so much. He lay on the slats of wood and closed his eyes.

  When he woke up, the shade was no longer coming from the palm trees but from the two-story building across the divided street. He looked at his watch. It was 6:30. He had slept for over two hours, and he was starving. But the bigger concern was Lester.

  Alex walked toward the motel, which was right on A1A, so it was easy to find. Lester wasn’t in the room, but he’d left a note on the first bed. It was written on Palm Grotto stationary. It said:

  I borrowed a pair of your shorts. I’m at the beach by the pier. Meet me.

  Alex didn’t feel like swimming, but he grabbed a towel from the bathroom in case Lester had forgotten to bring his own. There was a little sign over the toilet strictly forbidding guests from bringing towels to the beach. Alex stuffed the towel under his shirt and began walking.

  Once he arrived at the beach, finding Lester was simple. Fifteen feet from water’s edge, the stick was pointing nearly vertical. Another thirty feet out in the water, and there stood Lester. He raised an arm. Alex waved back. He still didn’t want to swim, but he was willing to get his feet wet. He took off his sneakers and headed for the water.

  He watched as Lester pushed slowly toward the shore with a look of strain on his face. Alex remembered from physics that every wave, regardless of how small, drew back an opposing force beneath it. Plus the old man was essentially walking uphill, which meant that the problem of leaving the water was greater than that of getting in. His frame was arched forward as he cupped his hands against the surf.

  Alex flashed back to Lester’s angina attack at the truck stop. Down here at the beach, there would be no nitro tablets to the rescue. He ran back to dry sand, grabbed the stick and headed toward Lester. “Hold on,” he yelled. The water was past his kneecaps. “I’ll pull you in.”

 
Lester didn’t say anything. He was probably too winded to speak. He reached for the stick with one hand then the other.

  “Just stay on your feet,” Alex said.

  Once they were clear of the water, Lester dropped to a knee.

  Alex handed him the stick. “Here, hold onto it.”

  Gradually Lester’s breathing slowed out of the urgent care range. He used the stick to rise to his feet. Then, finally, he spoke. “Glad you were here. Otherwise I’d have to wait for a tugboat.”

  Alex smiled, feeling proud of the accomplishment.

  “I don’t plan on dying right away,” Lester continued. “But when I do, I want you to put this stick in the casket with me.” He squeezed it with both hands. “That’s what I’d like you to do.”

  Alex began brushing the sand off his feet so that he could put his socks and shoes back on. “That’s not gonna be for a long time.”

  Lester was now facing the ocean, stick propped in front of him. “We’ll see.”

  “You sorry you went in?”

  “Not at all. It was great, made me feel totally refreshed.”

  “That’s good,” Alex said. “I’m glad.”

  “While you were out, I found a bank with a notary. It’s official: the Caddy’s yours when I pass.”

  “Can’t we talk about something other than death?”

  “Pick a subject,” Lester said, “any subject.”

  “I should tell you how it went with my dad.”

  “I’d like to hear it. I already know how it went with your mother. You can skip that part.”

  “You saw her?”

  “She came back to the condo like a deranged animal. Told me how you walked off after pouring soda on her face.”

  “She tell you why?”

  “She did,” Lester said. “I became her makeshift confessional. She told about the letters your father wrote and that ridiculous mailbox.”

  “She’s a flat-out deceitful bitch.”

  “True enough,” Lester said. “She’d stop at nothing to keep you from knowing the truth. By the way, I’m supposed to tell you to call her.”

  Alex felt as if a bug had stung his forehead then flown away. “Keep me from knowing what truth?”