Something Is Out There (23 page)

She put the piece of paper in the pocket of her apron, and then brought it out and looked at it again.

“Well?” Mr. Green said. “You work here or not?”

She put it in her jeans pocket, and went on with her day, avoiding eye contact with Mr. Green.

By the time she left for her mother’s, she had tried to put the whole thing from her mind. It was perfectly silly, and she was more interested in her reaction to it all than to the thing itself. She drove across the bridge into Arkansas, thinking about the strangeness of stumbling into someone’s private life. Then she was thinking about the secrets of a lived life: the chain of events that made up the desperate seriousness of the private self, all that worry—everyone had some version of it. How did Keats put it? “The weariness, the fever, and the fret.” Something about the temper of her own last few days must have produced it—that bizarre sense that things were about to change because a stranger walked up from three blocks away and looked at her through a window, a man peering into an establishment, looking to see if it was open. This little moment, mingled with the genial exchange that followed and the fact of the twice-abandoned and unreadable note, with its one clear word, had brought her to her present state of odd disturbance and speculation.

By the time she reached her mother’s house, the sun was
going down among flaming red and orange and burned-looking clouds, and she was sleepy, tired, and putting the whole stupid business behind her. She got out of the car and started up the sidewalk, talking to herself.

“Ridiculous. Stop it. It means nothing.”

Her mother stood in the entrance, holding the screen door open.

“I hope you didn’t eat,” she said. “Who the hell are you talking to?”

“Myself.”

“Well, don’t do it so publicly. People will think you’re crazy.”

“Maybe I am.” Elaine stepped up on the little porch.

“Hungry?” Mother asked.

“Not really, yet.” Elaine kissed her cheek.

“Have I got a shock for you, kiddo. Guess who’s here?”

She looked into the dim space of the living room, with its clutter of antiques and its heavy-curtained windows looking out on the back patio, where her mother spent most of her time.

“Come on,” Mother said, leading her inside. “You won’t believe it.”

They walked through the living room and the little kitchen to the patio doorway, and there, seated on the lounge chair next to the TV tray full of bottles and glasses, was her father.

“Hello, kid,” he said, without rising. It was as if this were a normal visit, and he was sitting in his normal place. It had been more than three months since she’d heard from him, and that was a bought birthday card, merely signed with his full name under the word
love
. Long ago, she’d stopped wondering about him. He sent cards on birthdays, at Christmas; she flew out there one Thanksgiving, and he introduced her to his new wife, whose kindness made Elaine hope for her, knowing her
father. Within the year that woman, too, was gone. He had been married twice since then. The old man went about life cheerfully, without the slightest concern for anything but his own requirements. There was no malice nor any conscious greediness in anything he did. That was just how he was: a happy, funny, appealing man congenitally unable to sense in the slightest way the reality of other people. What she had from him was what all others ever had from him. A kind of customary attention, something that he knew intellectually was the expected norm by the society in which he lived, but which he did not truly feel. In all this, he could have been the standard Sean aspired to, if Sean had it in him to aspire to anything. But thinking this made her feel petty, and mean, and she put it away from herself. People were what they were.

“Good to see you,” he said, smiling. He had gleaming white, straight teeth. This was part of his charm, of course.

She stepped out onto the patio, but did not cross to where he was. Suddenly, her breath had seized up. She drew in air and held it. “You’re a ways from home,” she managed to say.

“Long time,” he said. “Why’re you hanging back on me? What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” she told him.

“Don’t I get a hug?”

She walked over and embraced him, bending down into his reaching arms. He still did not get up, and she had the thought that maybe he couldn’t. She smelled the coffee he had drunk, and the bay rum he always wore. Mother looked at her with something like expectation. “Aren’t you the slightest bit hungry?” she said. “You didn’t eat already.” But her eyes said
Please don’t say anything mean
.

“I’m fine,” Elaine told her.

“I’m on my way east,” the old man said. “Driving. Been on the road for four days, taking it slow. Going back to visit my uncle Freddy. You remember Freddy?”

“No.”

“Well, you were young.”

She nodded, then watched Mother pour him a glass of water on ice. The ice bucket was full and a lot of melting had taken place; apparently, the old man had been sitting here for some time. Elaine’s mother sat next to him, in her own lounge chair. The TV was on without sound.

“Uncle Freddy’s having his seventy-fifth birthday party.”

“Actually, to be honest, I don’t think I’ve ever even heard of him,” Elaine said.

“Sure you have,” said Mother, rising. “I’ve got to tend to dinner. We’re having pork chops.”

“My favorite,” said the old man. He leaned slightly toward Elaine. “I know we’ve talked about this, but I think Sean’s out of his mind.”

They had never talked about it. Elaine said, “Well, you know, Dad—it was mutual.”

“I know, but he should’ve fought for you.”

“He might’ve done that but I didn’t want it.”

“Well, I always said you’re a match for anything.”

A pet phrase of his. She reached over and touched his wrist. “Excuse me,” she murmured, and followed her mother into the kitchen. There, she picked up the spatula and opened the oven to turn the chops. Her mother sliced a carrot, and two stalks of celery. They worked side by side for a minute, without saying anything.

“I think he wants to stay a few days,” Mother said.

“And you’re gonna let him.”

She shrugged. “Kind of nice having him around.”

“You’re really thinking of it.”

“Hey—he’s your father.”

“A biological accident.”

“Oh, stop it, Elaine. For God’s sake.”

“You aren’t thinking what I think you’re thinking,” Elaine said.

“It’s a visit,” Mother said. “Leave me alone.”

They worked quietly for another few minutes. Elaine began cutting up the potatoes her mother had set out, and placing the pieces on a baking sheet. The old man liked to pour the juice of the chops over potatoes broiled in garlic and butter.

Her father walked in, looked at them both, smiled, opened the refrigerator, and stood there staring into it. He was already making himself at home. He reached in and got a beer, glanced at them again, and then went on outside.

“I don’t like being alone,” Mother said. “Okay? I’ve decided that I
hate
being alone. For you, now, it might be just the thing. I’m sure it is. I’m proud of you for it. And I was all right with it myself for a good while after we—after he was gone and you all were out in the world. I really was. But I’m tired of it now, Elaine. I am. I’m sick and tired of it all the way into my bones. And I like the sound of him in the rooms. He’s a mess. He’ll never be anything but what he is. And I don’t care anymore. I’ve tried with others and you know I have. And it was always so dull. Always so tense all the time and having to learn the new habits and running around pretending all the time, and I missed him and you can look down on me if you want to. But if he wants to stay, I’m going to let him stay. And you all will just have to live with that.”

“God, Mom. Okay.”

“Well, don’t look at me like that.”

“I’m sorry.”

Mother opened the refrigerator and brought out a bottle of salad dressing.

“How long’s he been here?” Elaine asked her.

“He got in yesterday morning.”

From the patio, he called to them. “You guys gonna stay in there all evening?”

“Do you want me to ask him how long he’s staying?” Elaine asked.

“No! Have you been listening to me?”

“I’m sorry.”

“I’ve already told him he can stay as long as he likes.”

“Have you talked to the others? Chloe?”

“Why would I want to do that? Look, this is my house.”

“I’m sorry,” Elaine said, and leaned over and kissed her cheek. “You’re absolutely right. I really am sorry. And good for you. Good for both of you.”

“Don’t patronize me either. I don’t need that from you or the others. This isn’t cute or sweet. It is what it is. It’s my life and my well-being, and I won’t have you all talking about me behind my back. I have a history with this man that none of you can know. I have a life with him. A whole life you all never saw. And whatever his faults have been, we got along pretty well, usually.”

“I know,” Elaine said. “I
am
sorry. I know. I know.”

Mother looked like she might cry, but she sniffled into a crushed paper towel and waved Elaine away, moved to the sink and washed her hands, then went back to working on the salad. Elaine finished cutting the potatoes, then walked over and hugged her.

“Sweetie,” Mother said to her.

“Actually, it makes me happy,” said Elaine, forcing a smile.

A little later, she excused herself, claiming a headache, and went up to her old room. It always surprised her, coming back, how small it was; her memory kept adding length and breadth to it. The closed feel of it now made her a little breathless, so she stood out in the hall for a spell, breathing slowly. Her mother and father began laughing at something out on the patio. Back in the room, she sat at her old night table.

On the night table was her old telephone, with the clear plastic dial. She stood and took the little piece of paper out of her jeans pocket, sat on the bed, and gazed at it. She murmured the word:
can’t
. She tried to parse the others. It was all just too blurred. What was it that the woman scribbling tightly on the little piece of paper said that she could not do, or see, or feel, or understand? The daughter who hadn’t spoken to her father in all that time.
Can’t. Can’t. Can’t
. How deeply Elaine wanted to
know the answer. And the very depth of her desire to know it appalled her. She looked at the phone number.

Her mother came to the foot of the stairs, asking if she wanted something brought up there to eat or drink.

“No, thanks.”

“You coming back down?”

“In a while,” Elaine said. “I have to make a call.”

“Are you all right?”

“I know it’s hard to imagine I’d have anyone to call.”

“I can’t hear you, honey.”

“It’s fine,” Elaine said, loud enough to be heard. “I’m fine.”

“We’ll be out on the patio.”

“Okay.”

She sat on the edge of the bed and reflected that she was not fine, after all. Her hands were shaking. She looked at them. She would never have believed she could be so frail inside, sitting here shivering, the inner cloud settling over her.

She picked up the phone and dialed the number, and waited through five rings. No answer. No machine. She put the receiver back in its cradle, then stood and moved to the window. The street was melting into darkness, and the reflection of her face. She called the number again, and again there was no answer. Finally she turned the light off and lay down with her hands folded across her chest, as she used to do when she was a devout teenager, and wanted to pray herself to sleep. She thought of those nights she lay wide awake in the dark trying to dream up her life out in the world, wondering and worrying about where she might go, who she might come to be with, what she might find to do or be, and whether or not she would be happy there, so far away, in the magical distance, the future that was taking so long to arrive.

Here are some people sitting in partial sunlight at one end of the Fresh Café patio, on Queen Street in the beautiful city of Toronto. Early fall, shades of burnt orange and red and bright yellow in the trees lining the street. The café is not crowded. The lunch hour hasn’t quite come into full swing. It’s not quite noon.

At one table two young couples sit facing each other: Dale and Tracy, Gabe and Martha. The two couples are having a reunion. Dale and Tracy are newlyweds, and Martha introduced them. They have come north from Niagara, where they now live. The girls have gifts for each other in little designer bags, and are exchanging them—soaps, scented candles, scarves. They’ve been friends since grade school. The men, who haven’t known each other that long, have ordered a bottle of Viognier, and while they wait for it they sip water from tall glasses, and talk about flying in the post-9/11 world. When Dale rests his elbow on the table, it wobbles toward him. He sits back and folds his ruddy arms. A moment later, Gabe leans on it, and it wobbles back. So Dale tears off the end of a book of matches, folds it tight, and reaches down to wedge it under the bottom of one leg. But the table’s still wobbly.

His new wife, Tracy, says, “We could move to another table.”

“It’s better now, isn’t it?” says Martha. “I don’t want to move. I’m tired.”

Tracy and Dale were married this past April, only one month after they met. It has been six months and four days since the wedding, and Martha’s the one who’s counting. She and Dale worked together for a time at the Canadian Broadcasting Corporation; she introduced Tracy to him on the three-year anniversary of her first date with Gabe. Gabe has yet to commit.