Identity

by Shawna Seed

  She was good at school, “soaked everything up like a sponge,” Arvin said.

  Sometimes, Arvin said, he would find Sharlah in her room, writing things down and pretending like she was talking on the phone. “She said she was playing like she was Peggy on Mannix. I put a stop to that,” Arvin said. “Peggy was colored, you know.”

  As Arvin got deeper into the bottle, his reminiscences became even uglier. “She quit school, just stopped going. Laid around the house, didn’t do nothing but stare at the wall for months on end. Then she run off and left me, just like her goddamn mother. I told her, you walk out that door, don’t you never come back.”

  Arvin had a whole list of people who’d done him wrong: Sharlah’s mother, the relatives who wouldn’t take the kids off his hands, the county officials who cited him for not cleaning up his lot, the bureaucrats who messed with his disability checks.

  Brian could have said his goodbyes and left – Arvin was so far gone that he probably wouldn’t have cared. But something in a shoebox on the floor next to the TV had caught Brian’s eye, and he didn’t want to leave without taking a closer look.

  At some point, Arvin was going to need the bathroom or he was going to pass out. Brian could wait. He’d been around guys like this in prison – everything was always somebody else’s fault. They just wanted to vent. They didn’t care if anyone listened.

  He tuned Arvin out and thought instead about his guitar. It hadn’t been sounding right, and the old guy at the guitar shop said it was a problem with the bridge plate. He let Brian watch while he repaired it, explaining each step in the process. Brian thought that guy had the coolest job in the world.

  Arvin’s rant eventually trailed off into a mumble, then a snore.

  Brian gave him a few minutes. When he was sure Arvin was out, he snatched the shoebox off the floor and carried it to the kitchen, where the light was better.

  The box was mostly junk – rusted bolts, rubber bands and old batteries. At the bottom, he found the thing he’d spotted earlier. He pulled out a frame, a cheap metal one with spots for three photos.

  Brian flipped it over. There were school photos in the frame: the Webb children arranged by age from left to right. Towheaded Sharlah couldn’t be more than 7. She wore a red plaid dress with a round white collar. One of her front teeth was missing.

  Brian licked his thumb and rubbed some of the dust off the glass. Even then she had pretty eyes.

  He guessed the photo was taken before their mother left, because the kids looked presentable. Sharlah’s hair was up in two pigtails, tied with red ribbons.

  Brian turned the frame over and worked the latch with his thumb. He popped out the flimsy cardboard and pulled the photo free.

  Arvin snuffled in the living room.

  Brian slipped the photo into his shirt pocket and dumped the frame back in the box. He started to carry the box back to the living room, then hesitated.

  He grabbed a pencil that was tied to the phone receiver and printed his name and number on the back of an old envelope he’d found in the box.

  Brian put the shoebox back on the floor, left the envelope on top of the TV under the pliers, and let himself out of the trailer. That was the last he saw of Arvin Webb.

  Back in his truck after Arvin’s quickie funeral, Brian shrugged off his coat and tie and turned on his cell phone to check messages.

  Brian liked to joke that the invention of the cell phone was a banner day for dyslexics. He didn’t have to keep phone numbers straight – they were all stored for him. He didn’t have to worry about transposing times for appointments – he just left himself a message or asked the other person to leave one. He relied on his cell phone so much that he didn’t even have a home phone; he’d disconnected it as soon as his dad moved out.

  Five messages were waiting for him. The first was from a commercial real-estate broker, confirming their appointment to sign a lease at 1 p.m.

  The next was from his sister-in-law, Lynn.

  “I hate to do this, but Ashley has to have a white dress for this honor society thing tomorrow night, so could you please, please take her to the mall after you pick her up? She just told me about it this morning, and I won’t be home before 9. She knows the one she wants, so it shouldn’t take very long. Oh, and the honor society thing is tomorrow at 7, if you can come… Well, OK. Sorry to do this to you!”

  Lynn knew he’d do anything for Ashley, even go to the mall.

  The next message was an update from the man who was designing his website. Brian saved that one for later and went to the next message.

  “You bastard, that’s my baby! She’s MY baby, you ex-con! Loser! You guys got no right, NO right…”

  Sighing, Brian hit the delete button.

  The next message was from Francine, his stepmother.

  “It’s Francine. I just talked to Lynn. If you can’t take Ashley to the mall, I can figure it out. Also, Tonya called us. It was a 903 area code, so if you see that pop up, let it go to voicemail. She’s off the rails again. Love you, honey. Have a good day.”

  Just the sound of Francine’s voice immediately put Brian at ease. She had that effect on everyone. Brian told people that she wasn’t just the best thing that ever happened to his dad, she was the best thing that ever happened to him, too.

  Francine and Mitch had been married five years, and even though a lot had gone wrong for their family in that time, Brian thought his father had never been so happy. They were one of those couples that made no sense on paper but worked perfectly in real life.

  Francine was a doctor’s daughter from Atlanta and a graduate of Spelman. Mitch grew up in an Oklahoma oil patch and had two semesters of junior college. She was widowed after a happy marriage. He had been through a contentious divorce. Francine was black, Mitch was white, and both were born in an era when racial lines were sharply drawn.

  They met when Mitch gave a presentation to a foundation he hoped would help fund his group for prisoners’ families. Francine sat on the foundation’s board and also mentored troubled teenagers, many with relatives in the prison system.

  They kept in touch after the meeting because their causes overlapped. Over time, they discovered that they enjoyed each other’s company.

  Brian finally pointed out the obvious to his father: He’d be an idiot not to ask Francine out on a proper date.

  Kevin was hostile to Francine from the start. He said that she tried to run everyone’s lives, that she was a snob, that she was a gold digger. The last complaint was especially ridiculous – her first husband, a cardiologist, had left her more than comfortable.

  The real issue wasn’t Francine at all. She just came along at a time when Mitch, worn out by Kevin’s cycle of rehab and relapse, had reluctantly taken a harder line.

  Brian had been so hopeful the first time Kevin went to rehab – they all were. Kevin seemed genuinely frightened by his drinking and eager to change.

  His second and third tries at sobriety were short-lived. When he pulled his truck out of the garage, drunk, and nearly hit Ashley, Lynn filed for divorce. When he got caught having sex with a 24-year-old receptionist in his office, Mitch fired him.

  Brian and his father agreed that they had to stop shielding Kevin from the consequences of his actions. No more money, not even if he said he owed someone who was threatening him. No more rides, not even if he was stranded in a bad part of town.

  Kevin had to hit bottom, they told themselves. They didn’t realize, though, how far he would fall or how hard it would be to watch.

  Brian never knew from day to day which feeling about Kevin would prevail, guilt or anger. He’d only wanted to help his brother, but everything he did seemed to make things worse. And yet he felt like he’d given up on Kevin, which – after all they’d been through – sometimes seemed like the worst decision of all.

  Kevin’s indifference to Ashley infuriated Brian the most. Everyone else had, to some extent, been a willing accomplice – Lynn, Brian, Mitch. But Ashley didn’t m
ake any bad choices. She was born into the mess.

  Now Kevin had created another innocent victim. He had a 3-month-old daughter, Coco, born to a woman named Tonya.

  Brian had watched helplessly over the years as Kevin moved down the food chain of partying companions, from former frat boys who hit it too hard on the weekends through high-functioning employed alcoholics to rock-bottom drunks. Still, Kevin’s descent into the world of crackheads like Tonya had been a shock.

  Tonya had a family, too, and Brian knew that they must wonder how their lively girl with a wall full of art-show ribbons and fashion-design ambitions got mixed up with an alcoholic twice her age.

  She bolted from the hospital right after Coco was born, taking someone else’s purse with her. She called occasionally – sometimes sobbing, sometimes abusive – but she made no move to get her daughter back.

  Kevin was so lost in his own world that Coco barely registered. Brian arrived at the hospital first, held the baby first.

  Despite her parents, Coco was perfect – an absolute miracle. The minute a nurse handed her to him, Brian loved her.

  If his life had been different, he would have tried for custody. But his life was what it was, and so he didn’t speak up when Francine and his dad took Coco home. They were the obvious choice – they’d raised six kids between them, and Francine’s four, at least, had turned out great.

  Ashley came sauntering out of school at 2:35, chatting with another girl. She walked up to his truck and stuck her head in the open passenger window. “Hey, Uncle Brian, remember Chelsea?”

  Chelsea leaned in the window next to Ashley. “Hey, Uncle Brian,” she said, her glossy lips exaggerating every syllable.

  Brian wasn’t sure whether he remembered Chelsea. Most of Ashley’s friends looked the same to him – much older than 17 and barely dressed. He tried not to pay attention.

  “Can Chelsea go to the mall with us?”

  “You’re grounded, right? I think that means you don’t get to hang with your friends.”

  “Oh, c’mon Uncle Brian,” Chelsea said, leaning farther into the window. She had breasts, and she wasn’t afraid to use them. “We won’t tell.”

  Brian slowly shook his head. “Sorry. We can give you a ride home if you need one.”

  “Nah, I have my car,” Chelsea said, withdrawing with a pout.

  Brian waited while the girls stood on the sidewalk making elaborate plans to talk later.

  Finally, Ashley opened the door and swung her backpack into the truck.

  “What are we listening to today?” Brian asked.

  Brian always let Ashley play her CDs in his truck. So far, he had survived Disney soundtracks, Mariah Carey and several boy bands that all sounded the same to him.

  “Death Cab For Cutie,” Ashley said, producing a case from her backpack.

  Ashley cued up the CD, and they rode for a few blocks without talking. Brian thought the music was a little mopey, but he was trying to find something about it he liked, so he and Ashley could talk about it.

  “Thanks for doing this, by the way,” Ashley said. “I don’t know why my mom wouldn’t just let me drive. There’s, like, no reason to inconvenience other people.”

  She pulled a tube out of her backpack, flipped down the visor, and began reapplying eye makeup in the mirror.

  Ashley had inherited Kevin’s blue eyes, which she liked to camouflage under layers of black makeup. Brian was used to these impromptu touch-up sessions.

  “Why did you get grounded, anyway?”

  “It’s soooo stupid,” Ashley said. “I told her I was going to Chelsea’s, but then we decided to go to Devon’s, and when Mom found out she was all, ‘The rule is, you have to tell me where you’re going and a parent has to be home blah blah blah.’ ”

  “Devon’s a guy, I’m guessing,” Brian said.

  “Like I can just call my friends in advance and find out if any adults are home,” Ashley said. “Don’t you think that’s lame?”

  Brian didn’t think it was lame at all, because he knew – firsthand – exactly the kind of stuff high school kids did when no adults were around.

  “Oh, I think your mom’s got a point,” he said. “Don’t be so hard on her.”

  Ashley scowled at the mirror. “Right, gotta take it easy on Lynn, because she’s had such a rough life, she was married to a drunk.” She flipped the visor up and put away her makeup. “And of course being the drunk’s kid is soooo much fun. Remember when my dad almost ran over me? That was awesome.”

  “I remember,” Brian said.

  Brian didn’t believe in sugarcoating anything with Ashley. He worried, though, that she tried to use her family’s problems as a license to misbehave, and Brian had no patience with that. Troubled as it was, Ashley’s childhood was still a hundred times better than what a lot of kids had, including Sharlah.

  “So, since I’m not trusted to be home alone, am I hanging out with you until my mom’s done tonight, or what?”

  “I’m going to drop you at Dad and Francine’s after the mall,” Brian said, bracing for Ashley’s protest. “I have an appointment later.”

  “What am I supposed to do there for, like, five hours?”

  “Don’t you honor society kids have, like, five hours of homework every night?”

  “How am I supposed to do homework stuck in a house with a screaming baby?”

  “Headphones?”

  Brian’s joke was met with a scowl.

  “This totally sucks,” Ashley said.

  “You’re the one who got grounded,” Brian said.

  “Her screams are like, fingernails on a chalkboard, but, like, inside my skull.”

  Brian turned into the mall. “Where’s the store you’re going to?”

  “Other end,” Ashley said.

  “She can’t help it that she cries, Ash. She’s a baby. She’s not doing it to irritate you.”

  Ashley sighed elaborately. “Are you sure I can’t hang with you?”

  “I’m busy,” Brian said. “Sorry.”

  Ashley turned in her seat to study him. “You’re dressed nice. Do you have a date?”

  “On a Monday afternoon?”

  “Why not? Chelsea thinks you’re a hottie,” Ashley said.

  “And that’s another reason Chelsea can’t come to the mall with us,” Brian said.

  “You don’t think she’s hot?”

  Brian pulled into a parking spot and shut off the truck. “I think Chelsea should pick on someone her own size.”

  That, at least, got a laugh out of Ashley. But she wasn’t ready to give up. “So, are you, like, never going out with anybody again? You know, everybody’s worried that you have no social life now. Francine told my mom she thinks you’re lonely.”

  “I’m pretty busy with other things right now, Ash,” Brian said.

  “That’s a lame excuse.”

  Brian smiled. “Only one I’ve got.”

  He opened the mall door and held it for Ashley. “It would be great if we could wrap this up quick,” Brian said. “I could give Francine a break when I drop you off.”

  “You want to hold Coco. I get it,” Ashley said. “I’ll hurry.”

  Brian was abashed that Ashley had seen through him so easily.

  “You know,” Ashley said, “Coco’s not always going to be this adorable little baby. Someday she’s going to be a pain in the ass who’s pissed at her fucked-up parents.”

  “I know,” Brian said, slinging his arm around Ashley. “And I’ll still love her when she’s a pain in the ass and uses words she shouldn’t, just like I do you.”

  Brian took one look at the store where Ashley wanted to shop – full of teenage girls chattering like a flock of birds – and told her she could find him at the French pastry place when she was done.

  He got an overpriced cup of coffee and sat down with his cell phone to catch up.

  He called his web designer and went over some changes. Brian didn’t spend much time online – all that type made
his head swim – but everyone told him he needed a business website, so he was getting a business website.

  He checked in with Lynn and Francine. He listened to a message from his 4:30 appointment, calling to confirm.

  Thinking about that meeting gave Brian a little bit of a rush, although he’d promised himself that he wouldn’t get his hopes up.

  How long did it take to buy a dress that was already picked out? Brian craned his head down the mall, looking for Ashley.

  There was no sign of his niece, but he did see a familiar figure making her way through the café’s serving line.

  Kristen Worth had been Brian’s only serious relationship since Sharlah, and it had lasted more than two years.

  Kristen was an occupational therapist, helping people who’d had strokes or head injuries learn to button their shirts and brush their teeth again. Her sister, who worked in Accounting at Lowry Marine, had introduced them.

  Kristen was patient and gentle and accepting of people’s limitations, all of which appealed to Brian.

  Brian was never sure what Kristen saw in him. He suspected she was drawn to him because she was comfortable with broken people.

  They’d mostly been happy, at least at first, and Brian had been surprised to discover he could love someone who wasn’t Sharlah. But as time passed, he started to feel the weight of Kristen’s unspoken expectations, and he spent the last six months of their relationship trying to psyche himself up to propose.

  After he’d let several self-imposed deadlines go by – her birthday, Christmas, Valentine’s Day – Brian decided he was being unfair to Kristen and ended things. She wanted to get married and have kids, and Brian didn’t want to hold her back.

  Kristen hadn’t spotted him, and Brian considered ducking around the corner to avoid her, even though he knew she’d be pleasant if he said hello. Kristen’s life was turning out great, everything she wanted, and she never seemed anything but happy when he saw her.

  Seeing her was hard, that was all. He was sure he’d made the right decision – well, pretty sure, anyway – but sometimes he missed her.