Close Your Eyes

by Amanda Eyre Ward

  “You are not alone,” said Jane.

  “I am not alone,” I had repeated, and I tried to believe it was true.

  The door banged open, and Gerry entered. “This town,” he said, “it is rough.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Pawnshops and bars,” said Gerry.

  “Perfect for Mr. Cheapskate,” I said.

  Gerry smiled tiredly. “I know—the whole thing is so stupid.”

  “No,” I said.

  He held my gaze. “I want to do something important.”

  “Like selling houses to people?”

  “That’s important,” said Gerry, sitting backward on the bamboo-edged chair. “Finding a family a home?”

  “I guess,” I said.

  “I know I have to go back to a real job,” said Gerry. “I don’t know,” I said.

  “I don’t know, either.” He stood and opened the curtains. We sat for a moment and stared at the parking lot. At the edges, the snow was three feet tall. We were a long way from Texas. “Where’s he going to live?”

  “Jesus, who knows,” I said.

  “He’s famous,” said Gerry. “Infamous, anyway.”

  “Maybe he’ll teach,” I said.

  Gerry looked at me steadily. “We’ll make it work.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I think he should stay with us. In Austin.”

  I sighed. “We don’t have room.”

  “Yes, we do,” said Gerry.

  “It just seems like too much all of a sudden.”

  “I think you owe him,” said Gerry.

  I tried to temper my fury. “It’s not my fault.”

  “I know,” said Gerry. “But it’s the right thing.”

  I had been scared of my father, angry with him for so long. My emotions hadn’t caught up with the circumstances. “Let’s take him to lunch.”

  “Seems like a good start,” said Gerry, nodding.

  “Is there a diner somewhere?”

  “There is.”

  “Okay,” I said. I took a shower, using the thin bar of soap to wash my hair. I dried off and smeared lotion from a small bottle on my arms and legs and face. Shivering in a towel, I lay next to Gerry on the bed.

  The phone rang, and I answered. It was Alex calling from Austin. He had gone back to work at the hospital and didn’t have time to spare, so he was planning a big welcome meal for our father when we all returned to Austin. Alex might invite his new girlfriend, he’d told me earlier, and he might not invite his new girlfriend. I had finally pried the new girlfriend’s name from him. It was Mary-Anne.

  “Hey,” Alex said.

  “Hey,” I answered.

  “You got Dad?”

  “Not yet.”

  “I can’t miss this, I decided. I’ll be there tonight,” said Alex.

  “Oh,” I said, feeling flushed with pleasure. We would all be together: my family. The joy was edged with fear; I supposed it always would be for me. But I could try to enjoy it while it lasted—that, at least, I could do. “Alex?” I said.

  “Yeah?”

  “I’m glad you were right,” I said.

  “Oh, zip it,” said Alex.

  Attica, New York, was not a welcoming hamlet. Deserted storefronts gave way to houses long past their prime. Broken plastic toys littered the snowy yards, and some windows were no more than plastic bags adhered with duct tape. The wind was brutal, but teenagers in only sweatshirts stood on street corners. Some pushed grocery carts through the streets. It was like The Road, for God’s sake, but these kids weren’t headed anywhere. From my toasty car, I saw their red faces and hopeless eyes. Attica, New York, was a town that was dying. My father had been here for twenty-four years.

  The prison was a half hour out of town. We drove to the front gate, and a guard told us to pop the trunk, then he peered inside.

  We parked in the visitors’ lot. Gerry turned off the car and unlatched his door. “No,” I said. He looked at me and sighed. “I’m doing this alone,” I said. He bit the inside of his cheek and nodded. He turned the ignition, adjusting the heat to high. I opened my car door. “I love you,” I said.

  I climbed out of the Dodge, then bent to breathe on Gerry’s window. I drew a heart with my finger. Gerry smiled. “Put on your damn gloves,” he said loudly. I exhaled again, then wrote, Will you. Gerry raised an eyebrow. I blew on the glass and wrote, marry. Gerry watched steadily as I took a last breath, then wrote, me?

  He stared at me through the glass. “You’re really asking?” he said.

  I nodded, finally sure of something.

  Gerry smiled. He fogged up his side of the window and wrote, Yes.

  There was a large black door at the front of the building, and I put my shoulders back and walked toward it. The door opened, and a guard and an old man came out. The man lit a cigarette and laughed at something the guard said. The guard laid his hand on the old man’s shoulder and went back inside. The man wore a cheap windbreaker and jeans. His hair was thin, combed over a pale skull. My feet crunched through the snow. I was afraid I would slip, but I did not slip.

  The old man turned to face me. He froze, cigarette halfway to his mouth.

  I remembered the way I had adored him as a child—unthinkingly, with complete faith. I didn’t think I was capable of that sort of love anymore. I was too hard, too old, for that, now.

  I started to run. I ran until I reached him, my father. He closed his arms around me. He was slender, but he was strong. In his embrace, I felt a long-dormant flood of need and devotion rush through me. I wanted to be held, and my father was holding me.

  “Little One,” he said.

  I said, “Daddy.” I spoke so quietly I wasn’t sure I had spoken at all, so I said it again, and louder.

  Acknowledgments

  For reading one or more of the many, many drafts of this book—and for inspiring me with their own work—I would like to thank: Jami Attenberg, Anika Streitfeld, Masha Hamilton, Allison Lynn, Mark Lane, Juli Berwald, Ellen Sussman, Mary Helen Specht, Sarah Bird, Dalia Azim, Vendela Vida, Hyatt Bass, Leah Stewart, Emily Hovland, Clare Smith, Marc Parent, Jenna Blum, and Beth Howells.

  All my love, as always, to my beautiful mother, Mary-Anne Westley; my sisters, Sarah McKay and Liza Bennigson; and my grandmother, the lovely Lorraine Ward.

  Laurie Duncan and Clay Smith, you’re wonderful. Michelle Tessler is the best agent anyone could hope for in these confusing times. Thank you, Jennifer Hershey, for your razor-sharp insights, cognac chicken, and an encouraging card in the mail when I most needed one.

  Tip Meckel, thank you for your kindness, your brilliance, your margaritas, and the best office in the world. I love you, and I can’t wait to see your “Amanda” tattoo.

  My favorite moment every day is bringing my boys home. THM and WAM, you fill our house with noise and my heart with joy.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  AMANDA EYRE WARD is a graduate of Williams College and the University of Montana. She is the author of the novels Sleep Toward Heaven, How to Be Lost, Forgive Me, and the short-story collection Love Stories in This Town. Amanda lives with her family in Austin, Texas.

  www.amandaward.com