Interstate Page 3

  Has to serve his maximum sentence, minus a few months, and is let out, returns to his old city and rents a single room, gets a job in a cheap hamburger-steak place, work he learned in prison, not the hamburgers so much or steaks at all though they’re easy enough, steaks a bit trickier, but just weighing and frying and grilling and boiling and recooking lots of food quickly and on a much larger scale and dishing it out all at once and where he was one of many cooks rather than the only one behind the counter now who has to do some of the dishwashing too. Daughter marries but doesn’t tell him where or when—she stopped writing him a few months after that last visit and her mother, when he called for Margo’s phone number and address when he got out, told him about the marriage and said “I’ll tell her you called, next time I hear from her—it could be this week or next—and if she wants to get in touch with you I’ll give her your phone number and address—what are they, and by the way how are you?” and he said “Exhausted, demoralized, done in, badly off, but couldn’t you call her today and tell her I’m out and want very much to see her, at least hear from her?” and she said “I’ll try”—has a baby very quickly he hears soon after that from his ex-wife when he calls again for Margo’s phone number or address or even her city and husband’s last name and who won’t give it, “Once again, that’s her business,” she says, “she has her ways, which I don’t necessarily approve of regarding you, but nothing I can say—I’ll keep forwarding your letters and packages to her if you keep sending them here care of me or Dave, though with the packages, since we also aren’t in great financial shape, maybe you can mail them first class instead of fourth or parcel post so we don’t have to put out for the extra forwarding cost—and Margo says, well she still hasn’t said anything about not wanting your mail, so maybe one day, I’m sure this’ll be the case—she’s still a kid, even with one of her own, and congratulations, Grandpa, I’m sure nobody’s said that to you before, and kids change—she’ll switch over,” and he says “From what—seeing or hearing from me or something deeper I don’t know about? Or just the obvious—she say she’s ashamed of my having done time or frightened because I once pummeled and killed some guy, now that she has her own child?” and she says “Wish I knew, Nat, she’s closemouthed on the subject, but you remember her as a girl—supersensitive and always a reader, never one for talk or introspection except about her dreams and books—she in fact reprimands me when I ask what gives over you,” and he says “Plead with her, Lee, please plead with her for me—tell her prison neutered and weakened me and I’ve become the most harmless of men, slapping patties, going home and reading newspapers, on my days off taking walks and going to movies and museums and in the park looking at the kids playing in the playground till it gets to look suspicious and in the zoo throwing old restaurant rolls to those birds that stand on one leg, flamingos, and all kinds of no-flying ducks—sounds hokey, I know, but I’m not saying it to make me seem even more harmless to you so you can report back to her how much but because it’s what I am, or have become—which is it? for I truly forget a lot of what I was like before I bopped those guys—for there are no friends or nothing else from before, the jobs I had where I knew people I got so far behind at in twelve years, and no doubt my prison and what I did to get in didn’t help, that they wouldn’t hire me anymore, all of which I’ve said endlessly in my letters to her, and about my harmlessness, but maybe she’ll tune into it better coming from you,” and she says “I’ll try but not to the point where she then won’t want to speak to me,” and he says “So she lives nearby you?” and she says “No, why’d you say that?” and he says “I don’t know—thought if she did I could trick you into saying so and maybe where and if she didn’t and you said so, I’d know that too, which I now do and isn’t any help to me and just shows how desperate I am to know even the slightest inkling of her and just to see her, I’m sorry,” and she says “You ever think that perhaps desperation like that is what might be pushing her away?” and he says “Why should it be?—I’m just a familyless father showing normal loss and love after so many years with probably some holdover woe going all the way back to our poor Julie, for do you ever forget?” and she says “I don’t want to talk about it,” and he says “Okay, you got other people to do it to, which I’m glad for you, plus also you’ve another kid, but did Margo tell you that about pushing her away?” and she says “In all honesty, no,” and some years later Margo calls him at work—he’d given her the number in his letters, always at the top left under his address along with his home phone number and what times and days he’s usually at either place—and says “Hello, it’s Margo, your daughter, how are you?” and he says “Margo, my goodness, oh-h-h, gosh, where you calling from, how are you?” and she says “I tried getting you at home the last few hours but nobody answered and you have no answering machine,” and he says “My hours aren’t others’, and me, a machine? but I thought I gave my work and home hours in my letters in case you did call, and they haven’t changed in years,” and she says “I don’t remember seeing them, and it’s all right to talk to you here?” and he says “For the moment, sure, I practically run this joint, but don’t hang up without letting me know where you are,” and she says “You’re the manager?” and he says “Just a cook and counterman but of long standing and so honest they know they could never get another like me,” and she says “And that was a fib about the hours—I remember now—actually, I remembered when I mentioned them before, but I didn’t jot them down, only your phone numbers and home address,” and he says “It’s okay, it’s okay, and you’re okay, everything at home okay? nothing wrong I hope with your family or your mother or other sister, the one between Lee and her new husband—new, old, her second husband,” and she says “No, I’m just calling, and listen, I’m sorry I haven’t contacted you sooner, haven’t been in contact, period, I’m not certain why I haven’t though I know it’s inexcusable and more inexcusable why I didn’t answer even a fraction of your wonderful letters,” and he says “They weren’t wonderful, they were mostly sappy and dumb and maybe too beggarlike, right?” and she says “They were very nice, no excessive demands or reproaches on me, which I could have used to get me to write back, and also for the books and things for me you sent and birthday presents for what you thought were the birth dates of my boys,” and he says “I didn’t know the exact dates, and am only finding out now the exact genders, but just the approximate ones by a month or two which is all your mother would tell me—she said you’d have to tell me yourself and when I said ‘What’s the harm if I know the exact dates?’—though I’m not blaming her—‘in fact it’ll be clearer to her kids,’ I said, ‘why they’re getting these gifts and if I know what sex they are I can get them even more fitting gifts, dolls for the boys, catcher mitts for the girls, et cetera,’ only kidding, she said that’s all she’d tell me, that she possibly shouldn’t have even said you had kids, so I just guessed the sex and exact dates, hoping, sly devil I am, that you’d send a note back not thanking me so much as correcting me, but anyway, let’s forget it, just hearing your voice is all and I’m talking too much to hear much of it, and you sound so different, nowhere near like you did, your speaking manner, use of words and proper diction—you make me feel like a dolt in comparison—you sure this is my old Margo and not some practical-joker one? only kidding again—just put up with me, honey, I’m so excited I can’t stop mouthing, but where are you, in your city, the country?” and she says “No, yours, with my husband and oldest son,” and he says “That’s right, three, and now boys, I know, and all of them you had while working plus going to school and then getting not one but two after-college degrees, your mother said, and in very difficult fields,” and she says “Rigorous disciplines, perhaps, but not difficult—I must have had the knack, just as I probably couldn’t have done the schoolwork for what you did before, what was that?” and he says “Before what?” and she says “The present job,” and he says “Dental technician, something my father wanted me to do because he thought i
t a field where I’d always have a job, but by the time I got out, but wait a minute, the city? here? this one?” and she says “Glen, my husband, is attending a sales rally and the parent company of his firm wanted to have it here because of all the waterfront attractions and I guess the place caters to it, so I thought I’d turn it into a minivacation for me and sightseeing trip for our son and also a chance to see the few of my friends left here,” and he says “Oh, and who are they?” and she says “People, but getting back to before, I suppose part of why, if you don’t mind my saying, though I’d like to get it out right away—that’s the way I’ve become, open like that, though I’m not saying it’s the best quality or I’m boasting or occasionally couldn’t be more diplomatic at it,” and he says “Anyway, what were you saying?” and she says “That part of why I stopped having contact with you was that I wanted to cut myself off from my old life, childhood friends included, though perhaps not Mom—that would have been too radical a surgery—to develop on my own, if you can accept that,” and he says “Okay, that’s interesting, something to think about, but speaking of cutting off, honey, and this is in no way a reaction to what you said, for there’s nothing more in life I want to do than speak to you and soon after that to meet Glen and your boy, whatever his name is,” and she says “Saul,” and he says “Biblical—any reason, or Glen’s family?” and she says no and he says “And the other two?” and she says “Dyon and Carlos,” and he says “Nice names too—after anyone I know?” and she says “No, we liked them as names,” and he says “But I thought everyone’s named after someone—I’m named after my mother’s father Nathaniel, who I never knew—he died, that’s why, before I was born, which is how you usually did it, and ‘Margo’ comes from my mother’s brother Marvin who was killed in the war, and which your mother was kind enough to go along with, but you know this,” and she says “Not the particulars, so go on,” and he says “And who because I was so young when he died you could say I almost never saw, or actually as a result of injuries from it a year later—they say he blanked out at the wheel of his car because of being shell-shocked in battle, or something like that—it’s funny how you forget—I do, when at the time it’s the biggest thing existing—but anyway, being I was the only child I knew it’s what my mother would have wanted—it pleased her till she died that you were named Margo after him,” and she says “Well what can I say?—with each of ours we took the ten best names we found in the most complete namebook, considered Glen’s surname in relation to it, and narrowed it down to two or three—” and he says “Excuse me but by surname do you mean last name?” and she says yes and he says “What is it?” and she says “I still go by my maiden name, even if it’s yours, meaning a man’s, but at least I didn’t continue the custom I wasn’t so keen on, adopting my husband’s patronym,” and he says “It’s not a bad one, our last name—one syllable, confusing to spell if you think it’s the spat or shred Fray rather than an e. But anyway, my sweetheart, I am suddenly in the thick of work with two customers, and hungry ones, judging by their faces—in fact, not wanting to be a fibber either, they came in more than five minutes ago and have been good about it but they got to get back to work too and business hasn’t been that hot, so we need them, so give me your number where you are and I’ll call back soon,” and she says “I can call you at home later—when would be the best time?” and he says “No, please, I don’t want to miss you, long as you’re here—to be straight open, you might change your mind or have a memory lapse for your entire time here, only kidding, or even lose my phone numbers—that could happen, people lose things—and not remember how to get them—place I work at is called the Corner Cafe, but no ‘the’ before it, just Corner Cafe, so listed in the directory under C, for Corner, then ‘Cafe’ after it, and on Abbott Street, like Bud Abbott and Lou Costello—Abbott and Costello they were called, but you wouldn’t remember them, an old-time comedian team,” and she says “Sure, I once saw a movie with them on TV, or maybe it was a video with my kids—something with a ghost, the humor grossly dated and somewhat trite, but they didn’t like it much either—you have to understand I’m not that young and you’re not that old, you might have had me when you were past thirty but now I’m getting to be thirty,” and he says “Not possible,” and she says “I’m telling you, I’ll even show you my driver’s license,” and he says “You mean you’re old enough to drive?—only kidding, and I want to see it, you show it when you see me, and listen, Margo, if you don’t call I’ll only go from hotel to hotel looking for you and there has to be a couple of dozen of them by the harbor now, so wouldn’t that be a waste of time? and I’d also be putting my job on the line or my bosses in a tough spot because I wouldn’t go in when I’m supposed to and they need me, as I’d be out searching for you,” and she says “I swear I’ll call, or just meet us for lunch tomorrow,” and he says “Lunch is so short—I know, fellas,” he says to the customers at the counter, “I’ll be right there—my daughter,” pointing to the mouthpiece, then the ear part, “after I can’t tell you how many years,” and the men nod, say with their hands “Take your time,” and he says into the phone “Excuse me, I had to pause for work stuff, anyway, lunch is too short and I don’t think I could get off, so what about dinner tonight, out, my treat, all of you?” and she says “Dinner? tonight?—just a moment, Dad,” and she starts talking away from the phone—“He wants to take us all out for dinner tonight”—and another voice talks, but all garbled, and then he hears nothing, her hand must be muzzling the receiver, and one of the men says “Long as you’re just standing there, Nat, start my regular,” and he says “Hold it, she might suddenly come back on, and when it’s over I’ll be extra fast, making up for what time you lost,” and another man says “At least our coffee, or mine, heck with him,” and he puts his hand up for them to wait and she says “All right…Dad?” and he says yeah and she says “Tonight, but our treat, Glen didn’t think he could get away from a cocktail party-dinner his company’s throwing, but this comes first,” and he says “Great, but my treat, I insist on it,” and she says “We’ll meet only if you abide by this one condition—it’s on us,” and he says “I’ll abide, I’ll abide, I can’t wait to abide,” and she gives him the name of a restaurant near their hotel that she heard was good—“You still like seafood, or rather, did you ever?” and he says “Anything, pizza, even, Crackerjacks—just seeing you all is all I want, food’s no consequence but I’ll eat if that’s your second condition,” and what time to meet and they meet at the front of the restaurant, he’s there fifteen minutes before, thinking maybe they’ll get there early, can’t believe it’s her when she comes in, knows though immediately it is, very slim but not skinny, taller, even, and she was tall then, filled out on top or maybe it’s what she’s wearing, no, she was still developing when he last saw her, old as she was, hips, longer legs, the fashionable clothes it seems, anyway, well dressed, pretty as ever, prettier, beautiful and not just because she’s his daughter, any man would fall for her, a decent honest intelligent man but he bets the horns also can’t take their eyes off her when she walks down the street, a kid before, woman now, nice-looking son, tall, like him and her but not his father who’s a couple inches shorter than her and she’s not wearing heels, kid a little scared of him or just shy, almost no smile, fish handshake but he’s still very young, he likes the way they dress him for the restaurant or the occasion he could say, jacket and tie, husband seems nice, dignified, polite, bright, comes from money or made it on his own ethically, somewhat square or so it seems at first meeting, clothes, haircut, company man looks like, she hurries over to him second she sees him and kisses his cheek, “I know you, you must be my dad and practically unchanged,” smiling, stepping back, “Absolutely none, you’re amazing,” introduces her husband and son, he’s dressed up too, his one tie with his one suit he got married in almost thirty years ago and wore day after day in court and it still looks good, wore it into prison just to have it when he got out, they only allowed one outfit to br
ing in and for them to store, dry-cleaned it soon after his release but hasn’t worn it once till now, didn’t need a pressing though, kept its shape, wood hanger instead of wire and the plastic bag never off it, heavy wool on this warm June day, trouser legs might be a bit baggy but his weight’s the same, maybe differently distributed but he can’t see, as it was some fifteen years ago and he doesn’t seem to have shrunk any, shirt is one of the two he wears at work and last night washed and hung-dried, tie he used for a few of his job interviews years before, shaved though he’d shaved at six this morning before going to work, said to himself in the bathroom mirror while shaving “Feel like I’m going to meet this love-of-my-life girlfriend of ten years ago who I’m still crazy about and she’s just split up with her husband and I think there’s a chance between us—look at yourself, that’s how nervous and scared you are,” lots of questions while they sit at their table and all have drinks, kid a Shirley Temple but he says, after Glen gives the waitress their drink order, “For a boy it’s a Jackie Coogan, I think,” and all three of them and the waitress say “Who’s he?” or “What’s that?” and he says “Abbott and Costello’s roommate and sidekick,” and Margo laughs and Glen says “What gives—old family joke?” and the waitress says “But same thing as a Shirley Temple, correct—no alcohol, dash of grenadine, a bar cherry?” and goes and he says “Could be I’m wrong and for all I know a Coogan gets club soda instead of ginger ale and maybe even a couple of drops of rye—what do I know about heavy drinking? and also Coogan was probably more Shirley Temple’s contemporary than Bud and Lou’s,” and Glen says “Pardon me again, sir, but who are they?” and he says “What kind of cloaked—what’s the word, closeted, closed-off, maybe—family you grow up in that you don’t know them?—mine we made sure my kids learned important things like that—only kidding,” and Saul says “You said ‘my kids,’ Grandpa—you have any more children after you and Grandma Lee got a divorce? Because it’d be nice knowing I have another aunt and uncle and cousins somewhere, even if only step ones,” and he says “You would have an aunt and no doubt the rest but we don’t want to go into it now—she was younger than you when she passed away—is that remarkable, Margo, can that be believed, that she was probably younger than your son here?—sweetest kid,” he says to Saul, “outside of your mother, of course—they were equals in sweetness—that was ever alive,” and starts to cry and Saul says to his parents “Did I do something?” and Margo says “Dad,” and to Saul “I’ll explain it all later,” and Glen says “Maybe one day,” Margo a dark beer, two men scotch on the rocks water in back, Glen, when they talked about what they’d have, said it first and he said “Ah, I’ll have that too though I hardly ever drink, and not before eight or nine when I do, then I have to admit I mostly just sit there in my armchair with something to read on my lap and maybe some chips or cheese on the side and slowly get sloshed, which is awful, I know, but what it has to do with, anyone but this boy can guess,” and Saul said “What does it?” and she said “You shouldn’t let it disturb you so, Dad, especially for your health,” and he said “But when your mind’s running while you’re nipping, or the reverse, what else can it end up doing and you thinking and then drinking more and more till you conk out? but I said it was only occasionally and maybe that occasionally only rarely, but because you brought it up, even that little I’ll try to stop,” what she does an average workday? done the last few years? exactly Glen do? he still doesn’t understand what that particularly is but that’s okay, he gets the gist, schools they went to? where’d they meet, something with every married couple he’s always been interested in: he and Lee, as she must know, met coming out of a legitimate theater in New York: “We both, if you can believe it—well, I’m sure your mother you can still tell just by her voice and face or at least recent past photos of it—wanted to be actors, and she, if you can also believe, picked me up: thought I was cute and maybe for a week I was,” where Glen was raised? his folks and what they do? “You think now that we know each other better you can reveal his last name?” city they live in, will they also let him in on that? heard it’s a good place, safe, slower paced, great for kids, any reason they each married an only child, at least she is to a degree? “Oh, forgot Lee had another kid soon after she dumped me, just as I would have liked to do almost immediately to sort of make up for Julie and we probably would have if we both weren’t so messed up right after and later if she had stayed, otherwise we felt two were plenty enough, one for each hand I liked to say and that’s how we’d cross streets, remember?” and she says “For me it’s too far back and possibly I’ve a block, but I take your word,” and Saul says “You said you wanted to be actors, how come you and Grandma Lee didn’t?” and he says “She to raise kids and me because I had no talent from the start and saw that in the first classes I took and I also think I was only in it to meet pretty girls, which I did with Lee so didn’t see the need for it anymore, and that happened at the standing-room section behind the orchestra at the Music Box and not leaving a theater: she asked me for the time though I never wore a watch,” questions, he has so many questions, do they mind? for instance—“Oh by the way, how did you two meet? and sorry for cutting in on myself like I have,” and she says at college in a chem lab: they shared the same Bunsen burner and sink, their other kids are like? ages and how tall they are? interested in sports more than books? that’s good, as the Greeks said or something like: the balanced life, color hair and eyes? all three inherited Lee’s honey blonde and yellow-green which perplexed the geneticists since Glen’s are supposed to be predominantly dark, “Mom said you thought her eyes the best feature of her looks so I guess we should consider the kids lucky, though they’re boys,” and he says “She had lots of nice features—I can kick myself to hell for making it so easy for her to leave, but nothing I could’ve done—I was crazed, as they say—‘nuts,’” to Saul—“since I knew but couldn’t do anything about it that nothing like finding and knocking off those guys or beating my head blue against a wall would help, and after I left my long-term residence…how much does he know?” and Glen says “Niente,” and Saul says “Niente what?” and she says “Nothing, it means nothing,” “…it was too late for a second wife if she couldn’t be another mother and I was in such ugly shape that none that young could be gotten around,” their other sons’ names again? how come nobody in their family’s got a nickname? his is Nat which he hates for it sounds like a buggy rat, but at the place he works he can’t escape from, what’re they doing this summer for vacation? “Me, I’m staying home for the two weeks I get and just sleep—I’ll be that bushed…oops, sorry again and then for the last time before for not waiting for your answer but I guess I’m in too much of a rush to let you know everything about me before dinner’s finished and you’re gone,” and she says “Don’t worry, there’ll be other times,” and he says “When, you coming in again?” and Glen says usually they go to a British Columbian beach for three weeks but this summer they’re driving to Alaska for a month and he says “Boy, what I wouldn’t have given to do either of those with my family but closer to home in the East—Maine, upper Canada or just Canada, camping and occasionally stopping off at sort of an inexpensive sea resort to sleep and eat and wash off, flying into the ocean with my two kids or if the water’s too cold, into a pool or just stepping into one and splashing and swimming around, worth almost the other fifty working weeks, why didn’t we ever do that? how come I think of these things always much too late?” and she says “Maybe we did them and you don’t remember, for I think we once went to Chincoteague for a weekend—I remember the name and wild ponies or mules by the ocean and that you got me a plastic figure of one that I slept with I loved so much,” and he says “I don’t remember but I’ll have to work on it till I do,” and what did the figure look like? how big? did she give it a name? did it have a mane? attached straps or any apparatus like that? saddle and rider? but wouldn’t if it was wild, dessert, coffee, Glen pays and gets up and taps Saul’s shoulder to and he says �
�Well, guess I ought to be going too,” and starts to stand and she presses his hand to the table and says “Stay for more coffee, Dad, or another beer—they have a discount record store to go to the likes of which doesn’t exist in our neck of the woods and I’m sure you’ve plenty more you want to talk over with me,” and they go, “It’s been great, Mr. Frey, and hope to see you again soon,” “Nathan, or Nat if you prefer and which I promise to answer to without asking if you like your coffee black or with sugar and milk or cream,” “What do you mean?” “Nothing, just being silly, and I saw and am such a pro that I’ll probably never forget how you like your coffee unless you switch it around from day to day,” “Nice to meet you, Grandpa,” and he kisses Saul’s head when Saul sticks out his hand to shake, and she stares at him while they share another beer and he says “What’re you staring at, do I look that funny, like a big wizened old fart?—excuse me,” and she says “Not at all, for your excuse or your supposition, this is an event and I’m remembering it and then remembering that I’m remembering it to help me not to forget, and what are you saying?—you look fantastic for your age, lean, one of those going-to-outlive-us-all vigors and physiques, a little less hair than from the photographs of around the last time I saw you, or a few years before—you didn’t take any in there, did you? and I’m not being facetious either—in most ways you don’t seem to have aged a day in twenty years,” and he says “Which ways have I, outside of my hair?” and she says “Your elbows, nobody can do anything to conceal aging elbows,” and he says “But I’m wearing a jacket and long-sleeved shirt,” and she says “I know, so maybe your humor and quick-wittedness have suffered a little too—I’m not serious,” and he says “Listen, don’t kid me, I’m just an old blowhard now, which when you think of it is not too far from being a loud fart, excuse me, must be the beer and just seeing you which is making me talk to my daughter so sillily like this, though actually talking to you alone here—before with them, Saul and Glen, I was just feeling better than I have in years—but with you now I feel less stupid, even half intelligent which I almost never feel, than I have since I went to prison, as much as I tried to keep and even advance my mind in there, but here the words, even, that have eluded me—like ‘eluded’—or I’ve simply forgotten, and just speaking them—the fluidity in the way I speak—and ‘fluidity,’ for christsake—it must be that among other things you’re the first really brainy person I’ve talked to in twenty years, at least one brimming with mental nimbleness and ideas and intelligent intelligible speech, if that’s how long it’s been since I went in, or that speaking to someone like you, even one’s daughter who I’m supposed to, I suppose, posture and lord over, that if this person—me—had something of a mind before, generates or regenerates something like it in him, but you want to know something?—and most of that was confusing, wasn’t it?” and she says “Some, but what ‘do I want to know something?’” and he says “And cut me off if I’m running on too much, and I am but if you think it’s just irritating boring stuff, but you said I should stay if I wanted to say something to you,” and she says “I said stay because there may be things, with the implication being it’s been so many years, you only want to talk over with me,” and he says “Anyway, my darling child, and you’re not getting angry with me, are you?” and she says “No, or only a little, but I’m always a bit of a grouch,” and he says “Anyway,” and takes her hands and rubs them on his cheek and kisses them, “now that I’ve seen you again—” and starts crying on her hands and she pulls them away and wipes them and says “Dad, please don’t, it’s not that it’s embarrassing for a public place, although it is in a way, or that I hate or disapprove of seeing you cry,” and he says “But you don’t know what this means to me—no, that’s too baloney a thing to say, and when I said it I wasn’t talking about just holding and kissing your hands,” and she says “I know, but what is it you want to say, because really I can’t understand you when you’re choking and coughing up tears and phlegm,” and he says “I’ve killed it for ever seeing you again, haven’t I, with all my whining and crying and sentimentalizing?” and she says “We’ll see each other again, you heard Glen,” and he says “But when I asked one or the other of you when, you went into this double-or just avoiding talk,” and she says “We’ll call, we’ll write, this is Convention City now so before you know it we’ll be flying in again or Glen will and he’ll call and if he can make it or same time you can you’ll see him for dinner or lunch and everything you talk about he’ll tell me,” and he says “But you know what I’ve been wanting to say to you now so I don’t have to, right?” and she says “If it’s not that you’re very pleased to be with me here and somewhat despondent that we’re leaving tomorrow,” and he says “Tomorrow?” and she says “The other kids, Dad…but that sort of thing, then I don’t,” and he says “It’s more, but that also, but of course, but okay, here: now that I’ve seen you, and excuse me for blubbering again, even these little tears now, but that’s good, isn’t it? not bad, for these compared to the bigger ones before for Julie and also your mom leaving me, are radically different tears, but where was I?” and she says “‘Now that you’ve seen me again,’” and he says “And one of my wonderful grandkids—let’s skip the ‘wonderful,’ he’s obviously a good kid but it’d be dumb or just what? presuming to think I really know yet what kind deep down inside—presumptuous, or anyone but his parents and later on his wife and maybe much later on his own kids at a later age could, but now that I’ve seen you, sure, and to a smaller extent, Saul, and that you seem quite happy with Glen and same with him with you and so on and that he seems like a nice guy—sweet to you and kind to the kid and attentive to you both and that sort of thing…oh, this is such silly awful straight-from-the-farty-heart crappy shit-stupid talk, and no excuse me’s,” and she says “No, go on, not so much with the profanities if you prefer, but you started, so get it over with,” and he says “Words right out of, for that’s essentially what I was going to say—now that I’ve seen you I feel I’ve done everything in my life I ever wanted to except maybe—no ‘maybe’—except to see my kids grow up before me and maybe get married at their actual marriage, the ceremony I’m saying, and maybe to have stayed married another ten years myself or at least for those years hooked up with someone else; now, as for your little sister,” and she says “Let’s not go into her again, it affects me too,” and he says “Let me just say this about her and that’ll be it, not forever, but I swear—that as for her, thinking of how old she’d be now as I did before and all the things that wonderful big brain and person of hers could be and also have done, like the marriage I mentioned and schools—medicine, I thought, since she was always so caring of people, asking them this and that when they were sick and saying she’s sorry and so on, maybe a passing phase but it really hit me, and interested in books in just looking at them so much because she was only starting to read and so curious of bugs and leaves and other scientific things—plus the kid or kids she would have had and the side things and ideas and stuff, all still in there to come out, but still knowing me through all this right till today, that it kills me, literally kills me every single day, for that’s how often—” and she says “I know, you’ve said, I don’t think of her as often as that, having my own children in a way that you didn’t after she died and still don’t have me and also that second but much younger sister Mom gave me, but I certainly think of her and miss her or sort of like you when I do, but let me tell you also, Mom says she thinks of her that way too, maybe more like I do and around the same amount or maybe a lot more than I do but not as much as you because I still lived with her and she fairly soon after had that other child, so it was equal in a way for all of us, you can say, or a little to maybe a little more than a little for you than Mom and me or maybe a lot more for you but still a hell of a lot for us too, but you dealt with it differently than us—well, I was too young to deal with it any other way than I did—but you simply handled it differently than practically anyone would and it fucked up
your life almost completely, certainly I don’t see how you could have done a better job at fucking things up for yourself and us other than bashing our brains in too and leaving us for dead when we weren’t, for in most ways what happened to Julie and then what you did to those men and as a result of that what happened to you fucked us up pretty well too,” and he says “I’m sorry for what I did to you and your mother, sorrier I swear I don’t see how I could be, but tell me though, aren’t you glad, when you think back on it, that I at least, for all that I screwed up for you two in other ways, got the fucking, since you’re using the word, scum that did it—I mean, in all honesty, sweetheart, aren’t you glad I made them suffer as much as they did our darling Julie and then us in other ways because of her?” and she says no and he says “Come on, the honest truth now,” and she says “That is,” and he says “There’s got to be more,” and she says “I’m telling you, no, or not really, and if I did feel glad it was only for a day here and there and really only a half hour of those days and each one ten years apart and maybe two out of three of those sprung from some sadness or bitterness about something else, because those men were nobody to me, nothing, just filthy little pieces of shit whom I never wanted to think of again,” and he says “But they fucked up my life, as you say, and as a result, yours and Lee’s for a while, besides we won’t even say again what they did to Julie,” and she says “But they also should have been nothings and nobodies to you, that’s what I’m saying, and then everything in time would have almost been evened out and gone on okay,” and he says “Well, I’m glad and for all I know the two of you are too, especially for killing the one who killed Julie, which was probably the highlight of my life, losing her the lowest of the all-time low, the highlight in other ways, you understand, being just having you kids—I’m talking about the births and you the most for you were the first—and marrying your mother another, first knowing we’d mutually fallen in love with each other, also maybe first meeting her and sort of seeing straight off what she was going to mean and be to me and the kids she’d give, besides just little things that are big without you knowing it at the time, like climb ing up a park hill with you on my shoulders and at the top just looking out, taking a photo of you both and Mommy in a bathtub and the photo not coming out, first day I drove Julie to preschool, first day I picked you up after regular kindergarten school, driving on the Interstate with you and Julie in back playing cards or whatever you were playing”—“It was a tiny board game where the pieces had magnets, though what particular game I forget, but not checkers or chess”—“Well that trip before those scumbags drove up especially stands out among a few others, for it was so peaceful and cheerful till then, two of you getting along so well, which you did on and off most of the time, and so nice for once to have you both in the car all to myself for a long drive with a couple of rest stops—I can spoil you the way I want at Bob’s Big Boy or Roy’s, I remember thinking—and that night alone seeing to all your needs and day after next after school the three of us picking your mom up at the train, though maybe that recollection’s big only because how it turned out to be so with those two scummy men, anyway, I’m glad what I did to them, never that I can remember had a doubt even for half an hour on a single day, but a bit sorry you haven’t been glad at least once or twice or in some way said I did the right or natural thing, though I think I can understand why, but we’ll forget it for now for I can tell what the whole conversation and subject and so forth is doing to you and of course what it’s done and continues to do to me needs no further going into, am I right?” and she says “Okay,” and he says “Want to share another beer?—this is one I’ll surely remember: first time not only having but sharing a beer with you,” “You used to let me take occasional sips but I guess those don’t count, and no, I think I better go and help Glen tuck Saul in,” “But he seems a competent man and Saul a big boy,” “It was more an excuse, Dad, I’m pooped out, much as I’m enjoying this,” “Well, it hasn’t been that great for you, I can tell, but it has in doubles for me,” “Don’t speak or think for me—I have a head and it has, it’s been nice,” “Nice isn’t so okay,” “Nice is nice which to me means really good, with Glen and Saul before with you and now just us two, so don’t start ruining it,” “Ruin it like I do everything, is that right?” “I didn’t say that, but you’re at it again, making me feel like why am I staying here the extra few minutes?” “I’m sorry, my apologies, I’ll try not to—ruin it and stick my thoughts in your head and mouth and that kind of thing—speak and think for you what you’re not, but you know what I mean: I’m just, because I think I’ve ruined it with you now for maybe a long time, confused, so therefore these thoughts, jumbled and so forth,” and she says “You haven’t ruined it yet so now just stop,” and he puts up his hand in the stop sign, says “Will do, madame,” laughs, she, he pays for the beer, “‘You’re right, I won’t try to speak and think for you, period,’ is what I wanted to say or all I should have,” he thinks, puts down several bills for a tip, she fingers the money and says “Not so much,” he says “Ah, we restaurant-bar people, meaning also bartenders and even the cooks who hear the waiters bellyaching and so on, are usually big tippers, since we know how hard we work or at least the long hours and how the feet get to hurt and what it is to be tipped little for it or stiffed, but besides, for me, my sweetie, this has been one very big day, among the best in my life, which maybe doesn’t say much but it is,” and kisses the top of her head, “Still,” she says, “Glen gave a more than adequate tip already,” and takes two of the four dollar bills off the table and sticks them into his jacket pocket, “What you just did,” he says, “is something waitresses could kill you for, so let’s hope she didn’t see,” “You’d protect me,” and he says “I don’t know if I’d be able to control her, but I’d try,” and walks her to the hotel a few blocks away, “‘Maybe I shouldn’t profess to speak or think for you any time of the day,’ is all I should have said,” he thinks, “but too late, it’d seem like studied afterthought if I said it now,” points out some changes in the skyline, new tall pointy all-glass building there he doesn’t like, beautiful old full-of-ornate-work smaller one demolished for no doubt something ugly like another cement stickpin or wraparound glass suitcase on its end going up, “Change is so stupid and useless most times, what do you think? and I mean it when I say I’m only talking about architecture and let’s say hairdos and cooking fads and things,” and she says “Why, what else would you be talking about?” and he says “People and their spur-of-the-moment sometimes lifetime changing plans for their inner selves, I think, but what about the architecture?” and she says “It’s not my city anymore and I never felt much for it before and the memories I have of it are mainly bad, principally because the last ones were the worst ones so the ones I remember best, so let them change the city all they want,” “Anyway, who cares?” he says, “for none of it’s important but as a place to walk safely through with you and I guess the new modern tall hotels and such and their elevators on the outside walls like crawling bugs and the people who are drawn to it all make it more safe, and let’s face it, Glen’s company wouldn’t have held its sales meeting here if it hadn’t been for the changes in this part of town, so suddenly I’m going to have one of those spur-of-the-moment even lifetime changes of opinion of this place, though I don’t know if it’s an inner one, whatever I mean by that, and say the whole change of it is great, for you wouldn’t be here with me now if it wasn’t for what they did to the waterfront and the new convention center and hotels and restaurants and all sorts of tourist draws, individual pad-dleboats in the harbor, for christsake, the aquarium with performing fish,” sees her to the lobby, “Well, this is it, I guess,” “We’ll see and speak to you, Dad, okay?” and offers her cheek, he kisses it, takes her hands and kisses them, “What pretty hands, what a pretty face, what a wonderful girl you are, do you need any money?” “Dad, Glen and I are working people with more than decent salaries or certainly one very decent one between
us and we’re also not big-time spenders as you loved to call it or said your dad did—” “My dad,” “—so no, but thanks,” “Well, if you ever do need anything on the money end, you’ll let me know, all right? or the boys for school, I mean it—it might sound silly, on my income, but I’ve lived cheap since I got out and put some away only for you,” and she says she’ll remember and thanks him again and kisses his cheek and he stays there looking at her as she gets in the elevator, turns around and blows a kiss at him and doors close and he thinks “What now? what do I do? where do I go? just don’t get drunk or too depressed—that’s it, call her early tomorrow from work, well, not too early, and maybe she and Saul and even Glen can stop by the place before they leave,” and goes home.