by Jon Pineda
She asked him something. Already he could feel himself losing the words. Tammy, at least, had lasted longer. She was prettier, too. She had managed to move in for a while before it had become too much.
“I don’t really know much about you, do I?” Mario said.
She looked at him.
“What?” he said.
“I could say the same thing.”
“Your favorite book.”
“Excuse me?”
“Your favorite movie then?”
“Are you okay?”
“I was just wondering these things,” he said.
She stirred her coffee, then slowly slipped the tip of the spoon in her mouth. She looked at him, wanting him to notice, and closed her eyes. He felt idiotic.
“Manhattan.”
“I don’t believe you,” Mario said. He was serious. “You must have dated a guy in college who made you watch that film. Am I right?”
“Why are you talking to me like this?”
“But am I right?”
She ran the spoon under water and placed it into the empty sink. She took a sip and studied his face. She smiled.
“Then tell me your favorite part,” he insisted.
“Are you serious?”
“See, I told you. Admit it. There’s no way that’s your favorite movie.” He was pleased with himself.
“Maybe it’s at the end when Isaac, the Woody Allen character, realizes he made a mistake breaking up with the girl. He suddenly leaves his apartment. He’s decided to go see her, to win her back, but there are no cabs in sight. Nothing for him to take. He’s desperate, just starts running down the sidewalk. The camera follows alongside him. But he can’t keep up the pace. Eventually, he starts walking, trying to catch his breath. The camera slows down for him. It’s funny.”
“I don’t remember that ever happening,” Mario said.
“It did,” she said. “Then he starts off running again.”
He didn’t tell her then that he suspected the cat’s real owner wasn’t coming back. He had not seen his neighbor for some time; he thought perhaps the man, who looked to be around his own age, had been called up for deployment.
He had met the guy only once, at the end of West Freemason Street. Mario had just finished a run. He was cooling down, walking slowly as he passed the marina. His neighbor had laughed to get his attention. He pointed across the slip to the weathered NOAA building made mostly of cinder blocks. A chalky white research ship was docked alongside it.
“So do you think I have a pretty tough commute?” his neighbor said, gesturing with his fingers. They were tiny legs walking on the air.
Mario could only nod. He wanted to get away from this guy. On the way back to the townhouse, he had heard his neighbor shout, “Queequeg! Queequeg!” Then the gray tabby came running.
Mario waited at the end of the dock now. The structure floated on the mirrored water. He stood there in his running shoes and shorts. He was wearing one of his old Eastern Virginia Medical School T-shirts. He had dressed to put in some miles this morning but had yet to start.
He suddenly wondered what Janet was doing, if she had decided to take a shower. He hoped she had simply gone ahead and left for her own place. The last thing he wanted was to go back and find her still there.
Sailboats began to knock against the pilings. Their halyards rattled incessantly. The current seemed equally stubborn. It rocked the floating dock at intervals. In the absence of sails, masts held sheets of emptiness.
Often, he wondered what it would be like to sail one of these boats. To have a destination and yet not have one. He remembered the story of his grandfather, whose name Mario had been given.
“What happened to him?” Mario had asked when he was younger.
“Lost at sea,” his father answered.
Instead of beginning his run, Mario found he was held in place, inert. The water, he realized, continued to move underneath him. He studied the rigging of the boats. Each worn tether. Lines swayed into more rattling.
There was one boat, in particular.
A tiny curtain pulled back. He could see there was someone aboard. The person peered at him. He looked away. When he glanced back, the face was gone.
“Hello?” It was an older woman’s voice. She stepped out of the cabin and walked over near the stern. Though there was a warm breeze, she looked dressed for colder weather. She wore a light lavender sweater, the color of oil on water. White capri pants. A bob of silver hair splashed about her face.
Queequeg came up behind him and began to weave between his legs.
“She’s marking you,” the woman said. “They do that, you know.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Her,” the woman said, pointing. “It means you’re hers. You’ll always be tied to her. She’s making sure of it.”
The woman called Queequeg with a series of clicks and baby talk.
“Is this all right?” the woman said.
Her name was Natalie Purcell. She had been born in Annapolis and grown up in a town embedded among the numerous hamlets of eastern Maryland. She and Clay, her husband of nearly forty years, had a friend who had invited them to Norfolk.
Natalie was going to be a grandmother, she added, adjusting the stylish sunglasses atop her head. Mario didn’t ask if Clay would be joining them, nor did he tell her that he wasn’t exactly hungry, that he rarely ate, mornings. Queequeg went to the door that led to the sleeping quarters. It scratched at the bottom. It collapsed onto its back and kept trying to slip its paws underneath.
“That’s darling,” Natalie said.
“Is she going to wake your husband?”
He felt strangely responsible for the cat.
“It’s fine,” she said. “He loves animals. Both of our daughters had cats.”
If he concentrated, Mario could make out the sequence with which the boat brushed against the pier. The ropes stretched taut from cleat to cleat.
“Are you still in med school?”
She pointed at the shirt but then leaned down to place a saucer of milk on the floor. The cat sprang up. It pressed its nose into the milk so quickly that it sneezed.
“Don’t you worry,” the woman said to Queequeg. “There’s plenty more where that came from.”
Mario could make out the hospital in the distance, his second home. If Janet had gone into work at the children’s ward, she would be pushing a cart around. The cart would be filled with coloring books and other art supplies. She was a happy person, an honest person.
“I’m a surgeon at CHKD,” he announced to the woman.
“CHKD?”
“Children’s Hospital of the King’s Daughters.”
She nodded.
“Our eldest, Trina, is a doctor.”
“Is that right?”
“She went to Hopkins. She’s the one having a boy.”
“Hopkins is a great school.”
“Oh, I think I already mentioned that, didn’t I?” She knocked on her head, like she needed a jolt to set things right.
He stared at her for a moment.
“What is it?” she said.
“And your other daughter?”
“My other daughter?”
“You said your daughters had cats.”
“I did?” she said. “I’m surprised.”
He knew the look she gave him. She could have been a mirror made of water. He could dive within it and drown. Or she could have been made entirely of air, a breath he could have carried with him on a morning run, inhaling and exhaling. Carrying it for years.
“Does she have a name already picked out?” Mario said.
The woman smiled. “She does.”
“Would it be bad luck if you told me?”
He ran.
Ahead now were the homes that lined the inlet of The Hague. Textured brick Victorians. The city’s old money on display. Those stuck in traffic along the Brambleton Bridge could look over and dream.
His legs felt purposeful. T
hey burned. He knew all he had to do was keep going. The woman had never told him the child’s name. He felt lighter for it. He ran past the bronze sculpture in front of the Chrysler Museum. The giant horse suddenly looked real and violent.
He had been proud of himself until he made it back to the apartment. Janet’s VW was gone, the patio door left unlocked. The coffee pot was unplugged. There was no note. He sat down at the table and stared out onto the street.
The street ended.
In his bedroom, he found the bed made. The few things she had left in the bathroom were now gone. The counter looked as if it had been wiped clean. In fact, everything had been returned to its former place. As if she had never stepped foot inside.
In a few days, his uncle would be transferred to a halfway house downtown, where he would have to check in and check out, follow a new set of rules. His uncle was a child again.
Mario closed his eyes.
The room grew smaller.
When he opened them, everything felt askew.
The floor was seesawing.
The phone rang.
“I’m sorry,” he answered.
It was the wrong number anyway.
Earlier, when Tom had gone to pick up Micah, Rachel mentioned the impending release. Tom had wanted to reproach her for bringing it up, but instead, he took the overnight bag she held out and told Micah to get in the car.
They both watched him run.
“Bring him home safe,” she said.
“I always do,” he said.
When Tom pulled the Honda into his parents’ driveway, his mother and father were both standing at the front door. Micah jumped out of the passenger’s side. He was ten years old now and could sit up front without anyone saying a word about it.
The boy greeted his grandmother first, hugging her. With an air of reserve, he held out a hand to his grandfather. Manny took it with a laugh and shook it vigorously, nearly crying, he was so happy to see the boy.
That morning Manny had gone into the attic and rummaged through the storage area. Most of the items he had brought out were toys the kids had played with when they were young. Tom noticed his father was still in his pajamas.
Inside the living room, they walked around piles of toys.
“Look, Dad!” Micah said. He sat down next to a mound of Star Wars figures. Beside them was a box filled with ships and other vehicles.
“Good, good,” Manny said without looking.
Tom and his parents continued on into the kitchen.
There were more things piled next to the stove.
Tom studied his mother’s face.
“It’s because they’re letting him out,” she offered.
“What do you mean?” Manny said, watching her.
“Nothing,” she said.
She looked at Tom.
“I don’t want to start anything.” She smiled and patted her son on the arm.
Tom sat down beside his father, who was already scribbling into a crossword puzzle. Micah sped into the kitchen, flying an X-wing fighter in one hand and a B-52 bomber in the other.
“Lolo, have you been playing with these?” Micah said.
A slight moaning came from down the hall.
“I’ll go check on her,” Elinor said. “Come on, Luke Skywalker.”
She placed her hand on Micah’s back to guide him. He stood straighter, remembering what his father had said about such things. No slouching, no dragging your feet.
Near the stove was a wall of old bread machines and juicers, rusted pots and pans. Cookbooks were used as shims to keep the wall braced and level so that more items could be stacked. In the attic, there was more inventory. He had not managed to bring it all out.
“It’s good you’re here,” Manny said.
“I wanted to see you,” Tom said.
“Kumusta?”
“Mabuti.”
“That’s good,” Manny said.
“I wanted to see Mom and Sissy, too. Actually, Micah said he wanted to see his Aunt Sissy. He keeps asking about her.”
“That’s good. That’s real good.”
The boy came back into the kitchen and took a seat at the table. Elinor did the same. One side of her face was bright red.
“Aunt Sissy hit Grandma,” Micah said without looking up.
“She’s been just full of herself,” Elinor said.
She touched her cheek, then dropped her hand. It fell into her lap.
“They’re letting the bastard out tomorrow,” his father said to no one.
“I know,” Tom said.
“If I could see him, I’d kill him,” Manny said.
“I’m sure you would, Dad,” Tom said.
Micah got up from his chair. The spaceship and plane flew into the other room.
His father had borrowed their neighbor’s rototiller and was in the backyard crouching beside the bulky machinery, studying the network of levers. He was checking to see what went to where and why. Teagan wanted to leave for the back fence. She wanted to show Micah the buttercups and the dandelions.
Tom thought his sister had said she was going to make Micah a bucket.
“That’s good, Sissy,” his mother had added. “Micah, you help your Aunt Sissy make a bouquet.”
“Bouquet,” Teagan corrected and gulped hard, as if swallowing the word’s new pronunciation. She gaped at Micah for a moment and then took off in her awkward way.
The boy chased after her.
“He’s a gawky kid,” Tom said.
“They both are,” his mother said. She laughed to herself.
“Rachel thinks I’m too protective,” Tom said. “I should have let him start baseball sooner. The other kids throw so hard now.”
“He’ll be fine,” his mother said. “He’s taking life at his own pace.”
“Have you figured it out yet, Manny?” his mother yelled. His father was still crouched beside the tiller. He twisted nervously at his gray beard. He had taken off his straw hat with its wide brim and frayed ends. It was his beachcomber look. His time in the islands seemed so long ago. He fanned himself with the hat, even though it was not especially hot.
“Manny?” Elinor said.
“I’m fine, I’m fine,” he said. “I’m not an idiot, you know.”
Tom stared up at the sky.
. . . .
Manny pushed one of the levers and then pushed it back to where it had been. He stood up and put on his hat. He pulled the cord to turn the engine. It sputtered on, and as it did, his hat fell off his head.
The metallic blades looked like claws frozen in place. Manny pushed his weight down on the shuddering handles, but he was having some trouble. The machine finally leaned back. He pulled another lever and the claws began to churn freely above the ground.
He lowered the front so the gouging would begin.
He walked it forward through the vegetable bed, pulling back in spots. When he reached the end of the row, he turned and started a new row.
It was this small progress that made Tom smile. He glanced over at his mother. She had been crying.
“I’m sorry,” Elinor said. “This is rare for him.”
Tom looked past his father to see how Micah was doing.
“He’s all right with her,” he said, not realizing it had sounded like a question.
“He’s fine,” his mother said. “She just doesn’t like me lately.”
His mother took a minute to get to her feet and peered to where Teagan was bending down and pointing out more flowers for Micah to pull.
“She seems better,” Tom said.
His mother glared at him.
“She does,” he said, as if to convince himself.
“It’s not her, Tommy.”
He noticed she was observing his father.
Manny guided the rototiller slowly.
“Look at me,” she said. She wiped at her face.
“How long has she been like this, Mom?”
She stopped him. “It was really nothing.�
�
Tom watched his father. Manny turned the rototiller and started going in the opposite direction. He went back over the black rows of soil. The square he was making grew darker.
“Do you ever wonder?” Tom said. He didn’t finish his thought.
“All the time,” his mother said.
Micah was holding two of the dandelions he had gathered above his head. They dangled like a pair of antennae. Teagan was squealing, running up to him and then away. He was pretending to be an alien. Tom smiled. He remembered he had done the same thing to Micah a few weeks back at a park.
“We found a place that will take her,” his mother said finally. “It’s really pretty.”
. . . .
Micah and Teagan brought over a handful of buttercups.
He knew he had no right to be angry.
“Did you have fun?” Tom asked Micah.
Before the boy could answer, Teagan shouted, “Fun, fun, fun!”
She asked her mother if she would weave the flowers into her hair.
Tom didn’t think the flowers would stay and said so.
Elinor smiled and reached into her jacket pocket. She produced long pieces of string, all of equal length. She used the string to weave and hold together a tiny crown of flowers. Teagan blinked as the crown was fastened on her head.
“You look like a princess, Aunt Sissy,” Micah said.
“Princess!” Teagan said and clapped.
“That’s right,” his mother said. “You’re our princess.”
“When I’m old like Tommy, I get to be a woman.”
“That’s right.”
“Then I live in castles and you come visit me,” Teagan laughed. “I tell you what to do, and you do it, Mama.”
Micah laughed.
“That’s right,” Tom’s mother said absently. “I’ll come visit you in your castle. Stay steady now, or the flowers are going to fall out.”
Teagan froze.
“It’s hard, Mama.”
