Arizona Allspice (33 page)

Elaine sits unblinking. Then her eyebrows rise. “Okay, okay. You’re sorry. I get it,” she drags each word out, as if giving her a true apology was uncalled for. I watch her take the first bite of her burger. She chews it dispassionately and her eyes dart around the restaurant. I scratch my head, like a confused chimpanzee, and go back to eating my afternoon breakfast. A family that enters the restaurant catches her eye. The man is tall with his hair cut low like Manny keeps his, and his two small children stand not much higher than his knee. The children, a boy and a girl, have large curious eyes and knobby knees as most little kids do. The girl holds tightly the hand of her mother who is short but shapely and the boy stands with his father’s hand on his shoulder. The father has a smile on his long brown face as he speaks with the waitress who then seats them all.

As they walk to their booth, the black and gold beads in the girl’s hair rattle and I also glimpse the cool lightning bolt that a barber etched into the boy’s hair.  The children scoot into one side of the booth and the father guides his wife with a large hand at the small of her back to sit first in their side of the booth, then he slides in next to her. His long legs are cramped under the table, but he doesn’t mind as he is comforted to be with the important people in his life. He says something to his son and the son grins and nods. I clench my teeth and look away. Elaine glances at me and then watches them a moment more.

“We sort of looked like them,” she says, “Except add a random white man into the mix and that’s my family.”

I laugh. “Your uncle is randomly white?”

“If I was white and Uncle Frank was black, then he’d be the random black guy. It goes both ways.”

“Okay. So, me, sitting here with you, am I a random white guy?” I smile.

She smiles and looks down at her food.
“Nah.”
Her smile wavers. “More like you’re here sitting with a random black girl.”

I feel my face flush. “Says who?
You?”

“Says the world.”

“Well, the world is stupid,” I respond quickly and seriously.

She meets my gaze and nods. “True.”

“And I know
you
aren’t stupid, so it shouldn’t influence how you think and feel about yourself or anything else.”

“Yes, wise Sensei,” she jokes as she bows her head.

I bow my head and we smile at each other. I maintain the gaze but drop my smile. “I’ve never cared about what ignorant people might think.
Never.”
Elaine’s chest falls as she exhales deeply. She slowly tears her eyes away from mine, nods, and then returns to her meal. I hear the smooth deep voice of the tall man, the one in the diner with his family. “How’s your dad?” I ask.

“Good, I think. I haven’t talked to him since the day I went to Palo Verde to get him and he decided he wanted to stay.”

My mouth hangs open. He
wanted
to stay? I imagine Elaine was…really hurt.

“I know you probably think he belongs there,” she says.

I snap close my gaping mouth. I can’t deny it.

“And I understand why you thought that was best.”
She does?

“But I love my dad and that means I’ll weather any storm for him, even if the storm is him, you know?”

Yes. I would do that for my mom. I’ve done that for my mom.

“Even if he is absolutely frustrating sometimes,” she laughs. “I want to just walk into that hospital and shake him and scream at him and beg him to come home. I know that he’s thinking of Manny and I. He wants us to have our freedoms, but I want to have my father and I am thinking of him. No nurse or doctor is going to care for him with patience and understanding because they don’t love him. He’s a paycheck to them, but he’s my
father. He should be home with his family.” She shrugs. “And there’s no need for you or anyone else to agree.”

For the first time in all of this, I recognize that I had been in a similar situation to Elaine’s, except it wasn’t with my father. It was with my mom. My mom stayed with Mason and put her and me in danger, but it never occurred to me to run and leave her behind. That’s how Elaine and Manny feel about their father. Even if Mr. Roberts does the wrong things, he is still their father.

Why didn’t I just understand that before?  I was thinking of my own feelings. I wanted the helplessness and anger I felt to go away. I wanted peace in
my
mind, in
my
heart, because all I could think about when Mr. Roberts was here was how he hurt Miss
Marna
and how he would hurt Elaine and Manny. Even after watching Elaine explain it so clearly, with her doleful brown eyes, every instinct is still telling me “Don’t trust that man, Keep her away from that man”.

Maybe it’s because Mr. Roberts is a man.
Because I’ve never really had a father.
Because I harbor hatred against my “father” and step-”father”, so I can’t imagine having that much love and respect for a man who would hurt their family, even if he was nice enough to be there to raise his children. At least Mr. Roberts has an excuse because his own mind betrays him. It’s just hard for me not to be disgusted with her father for putting his hands on a woman. I want to be understanding but it’s so hard. I want Elaine to know I’m not completely close-minded or bullheaded. It’s the situation. It’s the memories. I can’t see past them.  I want her to know that, so I tell her in a way I know she’ll understand. I hesitate, but find the courage to lay down my armor, expose my weak flesh, and say, “If I’d just had a father so I could say Father, Father.”

******

I understood.

His words were heavy with meaning, but floated warm and easy to my ears. He was using a line from
The Sound and the Fury
, one of my favorite books. In the novel, a deeply troubled young man named Quentin
Compson
ordered his mind so tightly around the Southern Code of family honor and female purity that when his beloved unmarried sister becomes pregnant he falls into a deep despair. His mother hardly took notice of him when he was growing up, favoring one of her other sons, so he formed an unhealthy attachment and obsession with his older sister to fill the void and mentally cope with the severe rejection. Within Quentin’s mind his world became unbearably chaotic and immoral. So unbearable that he takes his own life. Before he drowns himself, his scattered thoughts circle back multiple times to the phrase,
“
If I’d just had a mother so I could say Mother, Mother.”

Mom was always concerned a story as twisted and sad as
The Sound and the Fury
was my favorite novel when I read it in eighth grade. But the novel wasn’t just about mental
illness,
it was about family, too. It was about how family can deteriorate if everyone doesn’t value it. How a person can be emotionally trodden if a parent doesn’t value them or their child doesn’t appreciate them. I didn’t know just how true that would be for me years later. Mommy was gone and I hadn’t appreciated her enough. Nowhere near enough for all the things she did for us.

“I wish…I wish I could say,
Mom
. Just pick up the phone and say… or walk into my house and call out,
Mom,
but she’s not here.” The tears begin to trail down my face. “I guess that’s how you feel?
About your dad?”
I ask as the tears silently fall.

“No,” he says. “I don’t think I hurt as bad. I never knew him,” he answers, soft and low. Joey’s eyes quietly caress me with their warmth. Frustrated with my tears, I smack my hand on the table. My palm stings in protest. “I hate it when I let things get to me. Like today at the gas station when all of them got me worked up. I yelled and now I’m crying. I
hate that
.”

“Me, too,” he admits, and I wonder if he means that about himself or me. “It’s okay.” His voice is so soothing I almost let my eyes close to savor the sound of it. He reaches his hand across the table towards mine, but upon second thought, or upon first thought, he pulls it back before they can connect. A faulty stab of disappointment sobers me. I sniffle, wipe my face, and then sit up straight, composing myself with surprising speed. I don’t think that’s normal. That can’t be normal to be able to stomp grief and pain down inside myself so efficiently.

“Want a French fry?” I smile.

“Sure,” he says without skipping a beat, without any questioning glance. I’m thankful. Joey reaches across the table and takes a curly fry. He pops it into his mouth. “Very salty, but delicious,” he decides, smiling. “That root beer
float
any good?”

“The best.”

“I’ve never had one.”

“
Here.
Try some.”

“You don’t mind me drinking off of you?” he smirks.

“You said you never went out with Denise, right? So, no, I’m not worried.”

He bites his lip, trying not to laugh, but he does. He stifles the sound, but his body shakes with laughter. He tries to be such a nice guy most of the time, so it was good to see him laugh at someone else’s expense. I’m a bad influence. I know.

******

 
“Where to?
Living room?
Your room?”

“Um, over there on the couch.”
I help him to the couch and he plops onto it with a grunt. “My legs hurt,” he complains, but it’s cute because he yawns through his words like a sleepy headed little boy.

“Do you need to take some medication right now?”

“Yes actually,” he glances at the clock. “Could you get the, um, the Baclofen pills from my night table? Thanks.” I nod and start to walk to his room. “Oh, and Elaine, while you’re in there you can get that ten bucks I owe you for lunch. It’s in the second drawer of my dresser.”

“Okay.” I reach Joey’s room and feel nervous being
there,
as if Joey has a hidden camera set up somewhere and is currently watching me from the TV in the living room. Quickly, I pick up the orange pill bottles and scan the labels until I find the Baclofen and then go over to his dresser for the money. I pull open the drawer and see three stacks of plain white t-shirts. A shaky hand lifts one of the neatly folded stacks. “Holy...,” I whisper. Five thick leafy wads of cash held together with blue rubber bands lay in a row at the bottom of the drawer. Benjamin Franklin’s face, with his aristocratic pursed lip smile, eyes me from each bundle. Why in the world would Joey have all his money sitting around like this? Upset, I unroll one of the wads, flip through it and find a ten dollar bill and stuff it into my jeans pocket. I rewrap the wad with the rubber band, toss it back under the white t-shirts and slam the drawer.

“You never told me about that drug and prostitution ring you were running.” I throw the pill bottle to him. He fumbles it and it falls against his chest and into his lap.

“What?” he laughs wide eyed.

“If it’s not dirty money, why do you have to hide it from all federal banks?”

“The only
dirty money
I come in contact with is from the soccer bets and that only accounts for maybe a tenth of my money. Everything else is legit, earned from working at
PiCo
.” He begins to read the label on the pill bottle.

“
Okaaay
, you ever heard of a bank account?”

He chuckles as he twists the bottle open and shakes out two pills. “My mom had a bank account once, when she was married to my stepdad. One day he thought she was enjoying too many freedoms so he went to the bank to close her account, and the idiots at the bank let him do it on the basis that he was her husband. So, yeah, my mom and I don’t care for using banks anymore.” He pops the pills and swallows them dry. I forgot to get him a glass of water.