Owen's Daughter

by Jo-Ann Mapson

  “Everything’s near the White House when you live in D.C.”

  “Have you ever seen the president?”

  “As a matter of fact, I went to his inauguration.”

  “Wow. You must be somebody important. Did you tell him a fairy tale?”

  “Hardly,” said Peter. “I was invited because I was deaf.”

  “So I guess the music was wasted on you,” Skye said, snickering, “because your ears were still broken.”

  “Does your sense of humor come from a different planet?”

  “Sorry. I know that’s a touchy area. On the way over here, my dad filled me in on your hearing. Why didn’t you get your ears fixed earlier?”

  “Because I was a stubborn asshole.”

  “Ah, finally you say something I totally agree with,” Skye said. “You are not hopeless after all. Had my doubts there for a while. So, you gonna give my dad his horse back?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “You live in D.C., where you teach students about fairies. Why do you need a horse? Do you do those Civil War reenactments? Hey, there’s my place,” she said, gesturing to the tiny adobe. “Come on in. Have a glass of water. Maybe that’ll cool your jets.”

  Peter shook his head. “I really hope you don’t have any siblings.”

  “I don’t. Why?”

  “Because I seriously doubt the world could handle another person like you.”

  “Yeah,” she said, smiling. “I am a one-of-a-kind, amazing, no-bullshit, don’t-mess-with-me only child.” She opened the door and turned on the Moroccan lights, which glowed like honey, casting light on all her mother’s treasures. “Have a seat,” she said. “Let me see what there is to drink or eat.” She opened the fridge, looked in the cupboard, and said, “Your choices are coffee or water.”

  “Then I guess I’ll have water.”

  Skye brought a bowl filled with water and set it in front of the dog first. Echo wagged her tail and sniffed it before she drank.

  While she filled two drinking glasses, Skye noticed that just like her dad, Peter went directly to Margaret’s painting. She wondered whether Peter was a painter or did something ­artistic. Probably he painted fairies or whittled little garden gnomes. She laughed, then handed him his water and sat on the couch.

  “What’s so funny?” he asked.

  She laughed again. “If I told you, I’d have to kill you.”

  “You are the most unreasonable person I’ve ever met,” he said, and sipped his water.

  “Thanks. I try.” She tried to imagine him in a jacket with suede elbow patches, talking about Little Red Riding Hood. “You have any money?” she asked.

  “A little. Why?”

  “Because I think we ought to go out to dinner and I don’t have any money.”

  “How are we going to get there?”

  She pulled her father’s keys from her pocket. “It’s not that long a walk to your mom’s. We could shut the dog inside and drive somewhere in my dad’s truck. Go get McDonald’s or Lotaburger. I’ll pay you back, I promise.”

  He looked at her as if she were speaking Welsh, that crazy language without vowels. “Fast food?”

  “Why not?”

  “Because it’s terrible for you.”

  “You want to walk back up the road to El Farol?”

  “No. I’d like to go somewhere to eat that has healthy food and more than one vegetarian option.”

  “So order a freaking salad. McDonald’s makes salad. Or I can eat the burger and give you the bun. Frankly, I don’t understand vegetarians. The cavemen ate meat. They started everything and led to us. It’s natural.”

  “Oh, my God!” Peter exclaimed. “Who are you and where did you come from?”

  Skye thought of Duncan, chiding her. You need to dial it down, Skye. Not everyone runs at Mach one. Causes misunderstandings.

  She sighed. “All you need to know is that I’m newly sober and my first priority is getting a job and finding out where my soon-to-be ex-husband stashed my four-year-old daughter.”

  “I’m getting divorced, too.”

  “Got kids?”

  “I wish.”

  “Trust me, it’s better you don’t. It hurts like you can’t believe.”

  Peter was looking at her in a different way now. Revealing her embarrassing truths should have made him steer clear, yet it seemed to have the opposite effect. He leaned toward her, looking as if he wanted to kiss her, and she jumped up from the couch. “Did you not listen to a word I said? Turn up your hearing apparatus already. Let’s go to La Choza. It’s got cheese enchiladas and the most awesome red sauce. I will pay you back.”

  “Your daughter, Skye,” Margaret said, snug in Owen’s arms, their clothes on the floor. His dog was making a nest in them. “What a stunner with that blond hair, and her smile. Does she take after your ex-wife?”

  “Skye doesn’t take after anyone,” he said. “God gave her beauty. But don’t let that fool you. She’s a hellion.”

  Margaret laughed. “Owen, she has your eyes and your nose, how can you not see that?”

  “I stepped on my glasses.” He rubbed his hip and winced. “My hip hurts. Does yours?”

  “Not yet. I’m sure everything will hurt in the morning, but right now, I can’t feel anything except how happy I am. It feels like my body is singing. Want me to rub your hip?”

  He laughed. “Tempting. I can think of a few other places I’d rather have you rub, but not until I get my strength back. How’s your wrist?”

  “Sore.” Margaret sat up and pulled the sheet to her breasts. “And I’m starving. I forgot to eat breakfast, lunch, and what time is it?” She reached for the alarm clock on her bedside table. Owen kissed her left breast as she leaned toward the nightstand, and she looked at him. “Owen, really?”

  “Can’t help it,” he said. “It was on an intercept course.”

  Margaret laughed. “Stop that! I’m going to make us some scrambled eggs. Or I think I have pasta. I can make a tomato sauce. That okay with you?”

  He smiled at her. “I will eat right up whatever you fix and ravish you again. Only if you let me help you make the dinner, though. And sometime we should talk about the multiple sclerosis.”

  So Peter had told him. She turned on a bedside lamp. “I’m fine right now,” she said. “But my doctor says symptoms will progress.”

  Owen turned her face to his. “I will be there every step of the way.”

  Margaret leaned into his hand, feeling the warmth and kindness. “That’s a long road, Owen. Part of me wants help. The other part is just so damn angry this had to happen.” She looked out the window to the casita, which was dark. All the boxes were sitting next to the gate where she’d left them. Damn it all, did Peter ever listen? Where was he? “For now I need to eat right and rest.”

  “So no flamenco dancing?”

  She laughed. “Owen, how can you joke?”

  “And I suppose that means no more trapeze swinging, climbing Everest, or marathon runs?”

  “Right now? It’s more like not doing anything when I’m tired. And no doughnuts.”

  “That does it,” he said. “I can’t love a girl who won’t eat doughnuts. It’s just unheard of.”

  “Telling Peter didn’t go well. I’m pretty sure that’s why he hit you.”

  “I agree. That young man needs to learn anger management.” Owen stood up and reached for his shirt, which was half under the dog. “Hope, move, damn it. I can’t walk around the house half-nekkid or I’ll scare the furniture.”

  “Would you care for coffee?” the waitperson asked as she cleared the dishes from their table at La Choza, including Peter’s third jumbo margarita glass.

  “I think it’s a little late for coffee,” Skye said to the woman. “Peter,” she whispered, “give me your wallet. I need to pay for our meal and leave a tip big enough to make these people forget about your ridiculous behavior.”

  “I wanted an after peef.”

  “What?”
r />   “Apter reef,” he said, slurring his words. “Aw, shit. I want another drink.”

  “Shh,” Skye said. “There are families with kids in here. Don’t wreck their night, too.”

  “I’m thirsty,” he stage-whispered. “How’s that?”

  “After three massive drinks there is no way you are thirsty. I’m going to remind you of that tomorrow morning when I bang pots and pans in your face to wake you up.”

  “You’re so pretty,” he said. “Just pretty, pretty, pretty! I want to kiss you.”

  “Of course you do,” she said. “You’re drunk. But since you’re my friend now, I’m offering you a shortcut here. I have a suitcase full of problems. You don’t want to kiss me to kiss me. You want to kiss me for the same reason you hit my dad. To show me who’s in charge and to avoid dealing with your own rude behavior. So resist the urge, Professor. Believe me, you’re better off. Right now I’m sure I look like a way to work your yayas out, and then forget about them. But I am not—nor will I ever be—that chick. ¿Entiende usted?”

  “But you’re so pretty!”

  A plastered Poindexter. That was just what she needed. Somehow she had to haul this marinated hulk out of the restaurant and get him into her dad’s truck. She hoped he didn’t throw up, because that was not her department. Child barf, yes. Adult barf? Nobody’s but her own.

  “I’m real sorry,” Skye said to the host at the entrance. The place was packed with people hoping to get a table. “Excuse me,” she said, moving through the throng of hungry people. “My friend doesn’t seem to be getting along on his feet too well. First person who helps me get him to that truck gets five bucks.”

  A burly guy stood up immediately. “Want me to fireman carry him?”

  “That would be great.”

  He picked Peter up and hoisted him over his shoulder. The host followed them out the door and onto the sidewalk, complaining. “I’m supposed to call the cops when someone gets that drunk. If he drives, our restaurant can get fined.”

  Skye wagged the keys. “He isn’t driving, I am.” The burly man dumped Peter by the truck, where he promptly sat in the dirt. “Here’s your money,” Skye said, taking it out of Peter’s wallet. There had to be at least two hundred dollars inside. Professors must get paid pretty good.

  “Can you throw him in the truck bed?” she asked.

  “That’s illegal,” the host said.

  Peter was now groaning a little. “Well, I can’t have him puke up front, so I’ll call a cab.”

  “They can take up to an hour to get here.”

  Skye shot a withering look at the host. “I’ll call,” he said quickly. “See if I can hurry them up.” He pulled out a cell phone and dialed. “I’ll stay here until you get him in the cab, but I’m not helping. I have a bad back.”

  “Whatever floats your boat,” Skye said, leaning against the driver’s-side door. Peter slumped at her feet, and within a few minutes, he was snoring.

  “So,” Skye asked the host as the minutes ticked by, “any openings for servers?”

  He lit a cigarette. “You never know. We get a lot of turnover in tourist season. I can get you an application.”

  After fifteen minutes, Skye had filled out her application and learned that the host had four children, liked Mumford & Sons, and was also an artist, like everyone else in Santa Fe. She explained about her fruitless search for Gracie, and the man nearly cried. That was Santa Fe for you, filled with empaths and soft hearts.

  “I hope you find her, mija,” he said when the Capital City cab arrived.

  “I will,” Skye said, though she wasn’t sure about that at all.

  The cabdriver got out. “If he yorks in my cab, you’re paying for it.”

  “Here’s ten bucks even if he doesn’t.” Damn, it felt good to give away money. Why not? It wasn’t hers. Skye helped the driver buckle Peter in. “Do not move,” she said to Peter. “If you so much as reach for the buckle, I will personally remove the parts that make you a man.”

  Peter smiled and babbled some more. Lord, even in her drinking days, Skye had been able to handle a couple of jumbo margaritas just fine. What a weakling. “Follow my truck,” she told the driver. “We’re only going a couple of blocks—105 Colibri Road off Canyon.”

  He nodded. “I know where it is.”

  “Don’t worry, girl,” Skye told Echo as she drove back to Margaret’s. “In a couple of hours he’ll be all right. We’re almost home.”

  Parking the truck where it had been before, behind the Land Cruiser in the carport, she honked the horn twice. She leashed the dog and let her out of the truck. She stood in the light of the cab and hollered, “Daddy!” just as the door opened. Her father came out, his hair wet from a shower, she guessed. “Peter’s smashed and I need help getting him inside.”

  Her dad nodded. “Take the dog in and let Margaret know.”

  Inside the house, Margaret stood at the stove, stirring something in a frying pan. It was the first time Skye had been alone with her, and since the woman was clearly wearing nothing but a bathrobe, conversation didn’t come easily.

  “Does your son have an alcohol problem?” Skye asked. “He got wasted at dinner.”

  Margaret set the spatula on the counter and turned off the burner. From the look on her face, the answer was yes. “I’m sorry you had to see that,” she said, starting for the front door, but Skye took her arm.

  “Daddy can handle it. Let’s get the bedroom ready. I recommend you put a bucket on the floor. He’s really drunk.”

  They looked at each other for a moment. The glow emanating from Margaret released heat the way a bad sunburn did. “A funny way for us to meet,” she said.

  “Not to me,” Skye said. “I could write the book on funny.”

  Margaret smiled. “Well, we can talk about that later. I guess I better go open the foldout couch for him.”

  “I’ll help,” Skye said. She followed the plaid flannel robe down the hallway and into what looked like her painting studio. “My mom has one of your paintings,” she said. “I wish you could have seen the look on my dad’s face when he saw it. You must be pretty special.”

  Margaret smiled and removed the cushions from the couch. “So’s your father.”

  “Well, there you go,” Skye said. “We’re going to get along just fine, Margaret, because I agree. Tomorrow morning, I’ll be over at five thirty sharp.”

  “Whatever for?”

  “I’m going to take Peter to his first AA meeting. After that, he’s on his own.”

  “Thank you,” Margaret said. “Your father told me about your daughter. If there’s any way I can help, please let me know.”

  Chapter 10

  The next morning, Skye joined hands with strangers she didn’t know and chanted “Keep coming back because it works when you do and it won’t when you don’t.”

  “So that’s how you get sober,” Skye told Peter as they left the AA meeting on Rosina Street and Isleta, at the Friendship Club. “And from here on out it’s up to you. I need to focus on finding my daughter.”

  Peter had put on his sunglasses. “I need a nap,” he mumbled.

  “No, you don’t,” Skye said. “You need a Coke, a couple aspirin, and then you need another meeting. There are meetings practically every hour in Santa Fe. Come on, let’s get a soda or some coffee. Then I’ll walk you back to the Friendship Club.”

  “Please,” he begged. “Dump me in an alley and let me die.”

  “Aw, that’s just the hangover talking. Come on. It’s a nice sunny day and the birds are chirping. Let’s go in this diner and get some bottomless Cokes and yummy bacon and eggs with wiggly yolks.”

  “Skye, I have to go to the restroom,” Peter told her as soon as they were seated at a booth near the courtyard.

  “I don’t know where it is. You could ask the waiter.”

  He stood up and made his way to the front, walking as though every bone in his body were hurting. The waiter pointed, and Pete limped down the hal
lway. Skye remembered plenty of mornings like that. Waking up only to wish she had died in her sleep.

  While she waited, she retrieved her note pad from her hoodie pocket and reviewed the list.

  Maybe the lawyer’s name was Church?

  Call PRCA back—see if they have a record of the upcoming events Rocky’s registered for.

  Find Rocky’s dealer.

  Drive to T or C?

  Give up and call the cops.

  The diner was directly across the street from Guadalupe BBQ. Skye was a mouthy waitress, always ready to laugh, even when the joke was on her. It made her really popular, which resulted in great tips. But as good as that memory of her apron pocket stuffed with money was, Guadalupe BBQ was the scene of the crime: the place she’d once left Gracie curled up on the floor of Milton’s office, sleeping on a ratty blanket. Skye had forgotten her—not for a moment, but for an hour.

  She’d been in a hurry to get downtown after her shift ended at ten. Catfish Hodge was playing the blues at Vanessie’s piano bar. She found a great parking spot on Water Street and stumbled through the door, thinking that even though she smelled of fries and onions, she looked good in a denim miniskirt, a navy tank top, and her Old Gringo forget-me-not cowboy boots. The place was crammed. She found a place up front and ordered a Dos Equis and a double shot of tequila, trying to relax. Between work, Gracie, and Rocky coming and going, her schedule was always so crammed that her mind was never truly at rest. Maybe she needed a Xanax. She found one in the bottom of her purse, picked off the lint, popped it, and swallowed. Every time another worry nagged at her, she ordered another shot, followed by a beer. Catfish Hodge and the Hillbilly Funk Allstars wailed through “Like a Big Dog Barking” before Skye remembered—holyshitholyshitholyshit—that this was her night with Gracie and she’d left that sweet girl in Milton’s office at Guadalupe. She pushed her way through the crowd, tripped, and landed in some guy’s lap, apologized, pushed some more, and finally, crying, told the bouncer, “Get me out of here!” Lord, bouncers weren’t paid enough. The way he picked people up and out of the way made her want to kiss him. It took a while to remember where she’d parked her car. She threw up in the street, wiped her mouth, ignored the horrible comments made by people walking by, and gunned the Mercedes’s engine. God bless German engineering—it took her about three minutes to get back to Guadalupe, where she parked crookedly on the street, begging Jesus that no harm had come to her baby. Milton was waiting at the bar, and Gracie was fast asleep.