My Soul to Keep

by Melanie Wells

  “What does that have to do with anything?” Maria asked.

  “No one living in this neighborhood would drive a car like that,” Martinez said. “Construction workers, yard men—you’d see them on weekdays. Everywhere. But not on a weekend. A car like that would stand out.”

  “Like a chicken in a duck pond,” I said.

  “We’ll recanvass with the description,” Martinez said. “Someone should have seen it. Anything else about the driver? You said he honked?”

  “Yeah, and I turned around and glared at him.” I pointed at Martinez as I remembered. “He had a hat on. He ducked behind it when I turned around.”

  “What kind?”

  “Baseball cap.”

  “Anything on it? Emblem or anything?”

  “No idea.”

  “What color?”

  “Dark, maybe black.”

  “Like the guy in the park.”

  “Maybe. That’s a long shot, though, Enrique. I can’t say for sure.”

  “Everything’s a long shot,” Martinez said. “It’s a lead. Let’s go.”

  We checked in with Liz and Christine, then headed down to the station to look at photos of cars. I studied books of sedans and narrowed it down to a white, early- to midsixties Ford or Chevy. Red or brown interior.

  Martinez put it on the wire, and we called it a night.

  He dropped me back at my house, then left to take Maria home. I stood on the porch for a minute before I went inside, looking into my house from the outside. I could see straight into my living room. The light was yellow and warm, streaming through the bamboo shades I’d bought for thirty dollars apiece at Home Depot. It looked homey in there, inviting. Liz and Christine were sitting on the floor, playing with the bunnies.

  I rarely allow myself to think about how alone I am in the world. It’s an indulgence I cannot afford. But standing there, looking at that little bit of family in my living room, I blew every cent of serenity I’d saved up. I had never felt so alone in my life.

  My mother had died several years ago, not long after she and my dad split up. My father and brother and I were all that was left of our shoddy little family, and we were fractured and fragmented, separated from one another by unforgiving miles and profound disinterest.

  My brother, who lived in Seattle, had recently gone through a bruising divorce. He’d wound up stuck in a town that gets three hundred days of rain a year, living alone in a house he can’t afford with two cats he can’t stand.

  My dad had taken up with his ding-a-ling scrub nurse, Kellee with two e’s, about fifteen seconds after he and my mother divorced. The two of them had married and were about to produce their first, and I hoped only, offspring—a little girl I wanted to love but with whom I felt no connection whatever. They’d already named her Kellee Shawn—Sean is my father’s middle name—and were busy planning to transform her into a tiny extension of themselves.

  I was prepared to jump through the requisite big-sister hoops—though I had managed to schedule myself a speaking gig at an academic conference the weekend of the Big Baby Shower. I intended to purchase flowers for Kellee when the baby was born, buy savings bonds, send the kid a tiny SMU cheerleader outfit. Rah, rah, rah. But the hard truth is, my heart wasn’t in it. Every time I imagined that sweet, untarnished face, I felt a wave of resentment knock into me like a hot, dusty wind. When I looked at my father looking at Kellee and imagined Kellee’s little replica lying there on her Oilily blankie, wearing her pressed Lilly Pulitzer prints, I felt subordinated. Tossed aside. Replaced.

  Now, I admit that these are childish sentiments. They are especially childish given the fact that I recently passed into the latter half of my thirties. I’m not the baby of the family whining because I’ve lost my mommy’s rapt attention. My mother wasn’t the rapt-attention type. The sad truth is, I’m the baby of the family whining because I never had my father’s attention at all.

  Neither will little Kellee Shawn, of course. She’s just a prop on the stage of Kellee’s paper-doll fantasy life. She’s got the heart-surgeon husband, the cruise wear, the implants, the French tips, the “natural blond” highlights. And now she’s working on the tow-headed, bow-haired daughter to match. She’ll have Kellee Shawn in French tips in no time.

  And as for my dad, he’d just about finished assembling his little picture-perfect family kit. Which we had never been. My brother and I were childhood reprobates, running around barefoot with dirty ankles and ripped jeans and T-shirts with inappropriate messages on them, shoplifting cigarettes from the local convenience store. And my mother was earthy and cerebral and interesting and refused to wear pantyhose or color her auburn hair when it began to gray.

  When my dad was young and idealistic, a hippie medical student headed for the Peace Corps, our scruffy little family had fit the bill. But once he grew the horns of ambition, we’d become a sour disappointment to him. I’ve never forgiven him for that.

  I periodically summon weak resolve to stop flattening tires on this particular pothole in my otherwise orderly life. I bulldoze in a load of gravel and tar, dump it in the hole, tamp down the asphalt, and smile with satisfaction at my newfound mental health. But then Father’s Day comes around. Or I hear a John Lennon song on the radio. And suddenly I feel like Cynthia’s kid Julian—heir to nothing when the legacy is rightfully mine. And I sink back into self-pity, and I fantasize about retribution.

  Not my finest quality, admittedly. It’s easily one of my Top Ten Terrible Traits.

  As I stood there in the warm evening, looking inside the windows of my house, I marveled at my astonishing lack of progress on this issue and resolved once again to patch the hole, wondering how much gravel there was available in the world. Then I walked inside and locked the door behind me, settling myself on the floor with the rest of the group. We played pin the tail on the bunny using Scotch tape and the donkey tails I’d made for the birthday party and chased the bunnies around the room. We liked the game better than the rabbits did, of course. It was a silly, witless distraction that could probably get us into trouble with the PETA crowd. But it served its purpose and popped the bubble on the tension. In the end, the bunnies seemed none the worse for the wear and were rewarded for their trouble with an extra helping of purple carrots from Whole Foods.

  I’d just about shaken off my funk when my doorbell rang. I checked my watch. Who would knock on my door at ten thirty? I looked through the peephole, gasped, and felt the asphalt rumble and crack as a brand-new hole gaped open under my feet.

  6

  DAVID SHYKOVSKY IS QUITE possibly the most perfect male I’ve ever met. He says “thank you ma’am” and “please” and rises from his chair when a woman enters the room. He has the shoulders of a linebacker and the waist of a dancer, knows his downward dog from his warrior pose, and can quote every word of every Lyle Lovett song ever written. He makes a mean chocolate pie with cooked pudding, not instant. He can rebuild a transmission and choose the right wine to go with the fish he just grilled. Take him to a party, and he can hold an animated, engaging conversation with a sack of shelled corn.

  And he never leaves crumbs in the butter.

  His one failing, other than the fact that he owns a funeral home in Hillsboro, is that he put up with me for almost a year and a half. Which, of course, is why I eventually lost respect for him.

  I met David shortly after Peter Terry ran a bowling ball through my life and scattered every scrap of my carefully ordered world into the gutter with a slap and a clatter. I was the worst version of myself during our time together—catastrophically anxious, chronically forgetful, and relentlessly self-involved. I was even more cranky, compulsive, and impulsive than usual. And obsessive, of course. That goes without saying. The smell of Pine-Sol alone would have been enough to run off the average boyfriend candidate. David, however, remained sweet, thoughtful, and thoroughly magnanimous throughout.

  Then, to his credit, he broke up with me.

  Since I’m not completely mentally
challenged, I realized in short order what an idiot I’d been. I promptly threw myself at his mercy and begged him to take me back. He declined a golden opportunity to gloat, told me he cared about me but cared about his own sanity more, and wished me well. Then he wiped my tears, walked me to my truck, checked my oil for me, and kissed me good-bye.

  I’d been pouting ever since.

  And now here he was, standing on my front porch at ten thirty on a Monday night, handsome and clean and patiently waiting for me to let him in. And I was demonstrating all the backbone and resolve of a wad of chewed Juicy Fruit.

  I turned and whispered to Liz. “It’s David. What do I do?”

  “Open the door.”

  “No.”

  “Dylan, open the door.”

  “I cant.”

  He knocked again. “Dylan? I can hear you in there. It’s me.”

  “Dylan!” Liz said.

  “What?”

  “The man is standing on your porch. Open the door.”

  “How do I look? Do I need lip gloss?”

  “Dylan, let the man in.”

  I checked my fly and straightened my shoulders, then undid the latch and swung the door open a few inches.

  “Wow,” was all I could think of to say. Not a particularly brilliant choice in hindsight, but at least I was able to vocalize.

  He gave me a little wave. “Surprise.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Can I come in?”

  I took a step back into the foyer and opened the door.

  David walked inside and gave me a kiss on the cheek. He was wearing the cologne I’d bought him in Italy—an earthy, tobaccoish scent that used to drive me off a cliff every time I smelled it on him.

  “Liz, you remember David, right?”

  “Of course I do. David, it’s good to see you again.” Liz picked herself up and stood to greet David, who gave her a gentlemanly air kiss on the cheek and a warm, genuine hug. Then he bent down to say hello to Christine, who jumped into his arms and clung to him like a baby monkey.

  “Where have you been?” she asked plaintively.

  “Just real busy, sweetie.”

  “I turned six, and I got a bunny,” Christine said. “Why didn’t you come to my birthday party?”

  He looked at me.

  I smirked back at him.

  I wasn’t about to bail him out. It’s not the dumpee’s responsibility to smooth things over with mutual friends. Everyone knows that.

  “I saw a funny purple pen with a big hairy ball on the top the other day, and it made me think of you,” David said. “If I’d known you were coming to town, I would have bought it for you.”

  Christine conned him into sitting on the floor with her to play pin the tail on the bunny, which David did because he’s a fabulous human being who is impervious to self-doubt or fits of ego. How many men do you know who would sit cross-legged on the floor with a six-year-old and try to tape a paper tail to a bunny’s rear end?

  I studied him. He was wearing old chinos that were faded and worn and butter soft and looked devastating hanging on his lean frame. A T-shirt that said “I’m big in Japan” hugged his shoulders and matched his blue eyes. He had new flip-flops, which he’d kicked off to sit on the floor with Christine. His skin was browned from the sun, his hair glinting in the light.

  I was in real trouble here.

  I watched the three of them play and talk, unable to join in, of course, because I was too busy obsessing. What was he doing here? Had he been out with anyone else? How did I look? I glanced down at my chipped toenail polish. When was my last pedicure—Christmas? Was that a tattoo peeking out from under his shirt sleeve? His hair looked lighter. Had he been to the beach or something? Who went with him?

  What if he wanted me back? Should I play hard to get or sign up now without the recommended twenty-four-hour waiting period?

  He started telling Christine knock-knock jokes, sending her into spasms of laughter and inspiring her to make up her own.

  “Knock, knock,” Christine said.

  “Who’s there?” David said.

  “Orange.”

  “Orange who?”

  “Orange you gonna kiss Miss Dylan on the lips?”

  She squealed and giggled as I cowered in the rapidly widening asphalt chasm in my living room floor.

  “Time for bed,” Liz said suddenly.

  “Mommy, no!”

  “It’s way past bedtime, Punkin. Let’s go.”

  She dragged Christine out of the room, returning a few minutes later. She hugged David, then stepped back and looked him over. “You look terrific. I’m glad you came by. We all needed some bad knock-knock jokes.”

  He feigned disappointment. “I was shooting for terrible.”

  “I’m turning in,” she said. “See you in the morning, Dylan.”

  They said their good-byes. We heard Liz shut the bedroom door.

  He turned and looked at me. “Hi.”

  “ ‘Hi’?” I crossed my arms and shifted my weight to one foot. “That seems insufficient, don’t you think?”

  “How about, ‘Hello’?”

  “You’ve had all this time, and you came up with ‘hi’ and ‘hello’?”

  He grinned. “I worked on it, though. Did you notice how polished my delivery was? I practiced in front of a mirror.”

  “You drove an hour in the dark to say hello?”

  “Didn’t you see Jerry Maguire?”

  “Tom Cruise?” I laughed. “Pick someone else. He’s a nut.”

  “Yes, but he can deliver a line.”

  “Try it again.”

  He backed up a couple of feet, mustered a look of tearful sincerity, and put a hand across his chest as though in pledge. “Hello.”

  I squinted at him. “Nope. No buzz, David. Sorry.”

  “You complete me?”

  I raised an eyebrow. “Our status would make that seem disingenuous.”

  “How about, ‘You had me at hello’?”

  “That’s her line.”

  He threw up his hands. “Got any Shiner?”

  “Sure.”

  We walked to the kitchen. David made himself at home on a bar stool. I opened a can of pistachios—my class-A company snack—and put out an extra bowl for the shells. David started in on the pistachios as I popped the top on his beer. My beer mugs had been in the freezer since January, unused. It was strange to need them again.

  “I saw you on the news,” he said.

  “I was on the news? When?”

  “Sunday night.”

  “I was on TV?”

  “The interview with Maria. You were standing behind her.” He set his beer down and looked at me. “You were there, weren’t you? When it happened?”

  I nodded.

  “I’m sorry, Dylan. I don’t even know what to say.”

  “There’s nothing to say.”

  “How is she?”

  “Better than you’d expect, I guess. She’s keeping it together.”

  “It must have been terrible.”

  “It’s still terrible.” I rubbed my eyes, then ran my fingers through my hair. “I feel like I could sleep for a week, but I have these appalling dreams. I can’t get away from them. I have these awful visions of what might be happening to him.”

  “This is Gordon Pryne’s kid, right? The man who raped Maria?”

  “Yeah. Nicholas. He looks so much like his dad, but he’s such a sweet little boy, David. So trusting. He’s kind of small for his age and really shy. You have to draw him out. He has this pet turtle named Bob that he walks on a leash.” I fought off tears, reaching for a paper towel to dry my eyes, then looked at David and shook my head. “What are you doing here? Why show up after all this time?”

  He cleared his throat. “When I saw you—on the news, on TV, standing there behind Maria … You didn’t know the camera was on you. And I hadn’t seen you in such a long time.” He pushed his beer away. “Your hair’s longer.”

&
nbsp; “That happens.”

  I waited for him to finish his story.

  “You looked so sad, Dylan. I just didn’t …” He stared at his beer.

  “Didn’t what?”

  “I just didn’t think …”

  “Didn’t think what, David?”

  He pursed his lips and looked at me. I could tell he was trying to decide whether to tell me what was on his mind.

  “Come on …”

  “You’ll say I’m being patronizing.”

  “David, just spit it out.”

  He took a breath and interlaced his fingers around his beer mug. “I didn’t want you to go through this alone.”

  “I’m not alone,” I said defensively.

  “I realize you’re not literally alone—”

  “I have friends.”

  “I know you do. I didn’t mean that. I just meant—”

  “What, exactly?”

  “I care about you, Dylan. I wanted to help. I’m trying to be nice here.”

  “Nice? It’s not nice to show up on my doorstep like this. It’s been six months.”

  “Four and a half.”

  “Okay, practically five. Why did you have to show up at my house? And why now, of all times? I’m holding myself together with Scotch tape and paper clips.”

  “I wanted to see you. That’s all. I thought I could offer some—”

  “Comfort? I don’t find your presence comforting, David. I find your presence upsetting. Couldn’t you have been nice in a voice mail? Or an e-mail?”

  “Can you cut me a break here?”

  “A break? You broke up with me.”

  “Yes, but reluctantly.”

  “You insulted me.”

  “I did not.”

  “You said I was too much trouble.”

  “I never said that.”

  “You did.”

  “I said I couldn’t handle all the trouble you had in your life. I said I wanted to be more important to you than the latest catastrophe.”

  “Well, here’s a little news flash for you, David. You’re not more important to me. This catastrophe is officially and appropriately more important to me than you are. It’s more important than I am. That’s the natural order of things. Catastrophes are, well, catastrophic, David.”