Last Call (3 page)

“No. You go to work. No sense both of us losing our jobs. I’ll be fine, really. Tell Mom...tell her Dean and I made up. I don’t care.” She took Stacey’s hand. “But whatever you do, don’t tell her about my father. Please. I mean it.”

“Okay, I promise. But what if it really
is
your dad? You’ll have to tell her some day.”

“I will, just not today. Wait here a sec, okay?”

Before Stacey could reply, Trish ran upstairs to her bedroom and stuck her cell phone, the band photo and a change of clothes in a knapsack. Then she was back in the vestibule with Stacey, opening the front door, saying, “Come on. I’ll drop you off on the way.”

* * *

An hour south of Sudbury on Highway 69, Trish swerved into the passing lane and gunned it, leaving a slow-moving convoy of motor homes in her rearview. A few moments later a trucker in the oncoming lane blinked his headlights at her and Trish checked the speedometer—she was doing a hundred and forty kilometers an hour, fifty over the limit. She eased up on the gas pedal, realizing she’d had it glued to the mat. As she rounded the next bend, doing ninety now, she saw the nose of an O.P.P. cruiser poking out of a tree-lined side road. Cursing softly, she stared straight ahead and drove past, fists clamped to the wheel at ten and two, heart pounding. If he’d clocked her earlier he’d probably impound the car, and if that happened her father might die before she even got to him. The wholly insane notion of trying to outrun the cop entered her mind—Toronto was still three hours away—but repeated checks in her rearview revealed no pursuit.

Signaling now, Trish pulled into a vacant rest stop and shut off the engine. She was wired way too tight. Her hands were cramped from gripping the steering wheel and the long muscles in her back felt like steel cables. She had to calm down. If the man Dean had found really was her dad—and some unshakeable instinct insisted that he was—she’d be no good to him wrapped around a power pole or cooling her heels in a jail cell on a reckless driving charge. Her volleyball coach always told her that the wisest action proceeded from clear, unhurried thought, and she made an effort now to heed that advice. She’d torn out of the house with an empty stomach, twenty dollars in her pocket and nothing on her mind but getting to Toronto as quickly as she could. She had no plan—and worse, hadn’t called her mother or left her a note—and no idea of how she’d even approach her father...if he survived his injuries.

She opened her knapsack and took out the band photo, a faded black & white taken in a bar somewhere. In it a young Sally West posed in front of a microphone in skin-tight jeans, stage lights flaring through a frizzy afro; and next to her, a shirtless Jim Gamble, vintage hollow-body slung mean and low, the tattoo on his chest glistening with sweat against the pale of his skin. Trish had memorized every detail of his appearance, from the thick tumble of jet black hair and the unmistakable brightness of his smile—no question she’d inherited that trait from her dad—to his cute cleft chin and the lit cigarette tucked ember-up between the tuning keys of his guitar.

Before finding this photo—and learning that her parents had been recording artists—she’d had only her imagination, and as a little girl she’d retreated to it often, watching her school friends rush into their fathers’ arms at day’s end and picturing herself doing the same, or sitting alone at her bedroom window, spying on the twins next door playing with their dad on the swing-n-slide and wishing she was one of them.

Growing up, her fantasies had become more sophisticated, and Trish had often envisioned him appearing at her front door at the close of some lengthy and crucial endeavor—working undercover for the police, maybe, or fresh from some decades-long archeological expedition—full of sorrow for his prolonged absence from her life. Discovering he’d been a rock star had only enriched her fantasies.

Sitting here now in the summer heat, Trish remembered the day she’d found the album—and her mother’s less than pleasant reaction to the discovery...

* * *

Smiling, excited, Trish came down from the attic with the album in her hand, saying, “Mom, you never told me you and dad were recording artists.”

Not smiling, Sally said, “Where did you get that?” and snatched it away from her.

“In an old steamer trunk upstairs.”

“Who said you could go through my things? Haven’t I told you a thousand times you need to respect my privacy?”

“Yes, Mom, and I’m sorry. I just...I saw that trunk up there and I got curious, that’s all. There were some of your old clothes in it and I was trying them on.”

Sally aimed an accusatory finger at her, gathering steam for a fresh outburst...and then she laughed. “You tried on those clothes?”

“Yeah,” Trish said, hoping the worst was over. She was always startled by the emotional swings any mention of her father could spark in her mother, and today was no exception. In the interest of self preservation, she tried to cultivate this apparent reversal. “Some pretty cool stuff in there, too, Mom. I especially liked the super-tight T-shirt with the huge marijuana leaf on the front. And those cutoffs? Did you wear those in public or was your butt a lot higher off the ground in those days?”

Sally gave her a fierce stare, but the anger was gone. “Don’t try to con me, young lady. I don’t appreciate you rummaging around in my things.” She grinned. “But, Jesus, you tried that stuff
on
?”

They shared a good laugh over that, and in the end her mother let her keep the album. The only thing she refused to do was discuss it.

“That was a long time ago, sweetie. Your mother was young and headstrong and more than a little foolish. Your father—Christ, I hate even calling him that. The guy who got me pregnant with you is a non-entity to me. He no longer exists, and hasn’t for a very long time. I’m sorry you had to grow up without a dad, but there was no way I was letting that son of a bitch anywhere near you. Can you understand that?”

Trish could not, but she held her tongue.

“Maybe someday, when you’re older or I figure out what to do with the hate, I’ll tell you all about him and...those days. Until then, my darling, the books are closed.” She handed the album back to Trish, saying, “Take care of that, okay? Your dear old ma was pretty hot in those days—I was two years younger than you—and I like to take it out every once in a while and give it a listen. Gloat a bit.” She said, “Did you find anything else in that trunk?”

Afraid to reopen a can of worms, Trish said, “No, Mom, that was it.”

* * *

Trish put the band photo on the passenger seat and started the car, deciding the first place she saw, she’d stop and get something to eat.

As she merged into traffic, it occurred to her that she’d have to lie to her mom again, this time about why she was in Toronto when she was supposed to be at work with Stacey at the Radisson Hotel.

She stuck to the speed limit now, trying to imagine what her father would be like.

––––––––

JUST OUTSIDE THE city of Barrie, about an hour north of Toronto, Highway 69 became the 400, a well-maintained four-lane along which motorists ripped at treacherous speeds, lane-hopping and cursing each other, prepping themselves for everyday driving in Toronto. Anyone making the trek from the north immediately recalled why they tolerated the protracted winters, the bug infested summers and the apparent cultural void of their chosen home. Internal clocks were wound much tighter down here. Tolerance levels hovered in the red zone. It was a never ending circus of aggressive motion with the city at its congested hub—and it provided a unique brand of cover for its predators. And that, simply stated, was the deliberate blindness of their prey; because it imagined that if it avoided eye contact it became invisible, never realizing that by keeping its head down it made the hunter invisible, even when he stood in plain sight...

Such were the thoughts of a man who leaned against the railing outside a large fast food and filling station complex that flanked the 400, ninety klicks north of Toronto. He stood in plain sight, nursing a milk shake in the muggy heat of mid day. The downpour that had drenched the area overnight had ceased as abruptly as it began, the only signs of its passing a few scattered puddles in the parking lot that surrounded the complex. Travelers streamed through here incessantly, either pulling in for gas before merging back into traffic or staying for cold drinks, burgers and fries. To the man leaning invisibly against the railing, they were like ants. Not the constructive, voracious, brutal ants he’d incinerated with a magnifying glass as a kid. No. These ants were sickly mutations, most of them fat and pale, in constant motion but only rarely under their own steam, filing back and forth and filling their faces. For the most part he found them tedious, the majority not worth a second glance.

But there were a few...

With a hunter’s patience he stood in the sun with his soupy milk shake and waited, keen eyes narrowed to slits, constantly scanning.

Now here was something, coming out of the restaurant into the daylight. How had he missed this little beauty? What he liked to call a ‘lithe’ one. Showing all that skin, little miss supermodel, the whole world her runway. A smile would have been nice, but judging by the rest of her, he was sure it was a sweet one.

He tracked her as she scooted down the steps, bright eyes glued to a cell phone instead of watching where she was going—or paying attention to who was watching her.

Fish in a barrel.

He removed a heavy black sap from his jacket pocket and followed her into the lot. She was moving through the rows of parked vehicles now, oblivious to his silent approach. They came alongside a transport trailer and he raised the sap—

A carload of teenagers screeched to a halt in the driving lane five feet in front of them and the man deftly pocketed the sap. The driver, a stoned-looking mutt with a scruffy beard, hollered out the window, “Hey, Jess, let the farmboy pass,” and the girl spun to face him, startled and clearly repulsed, squeezing herself against the side of the trailer to let him by.

He glided past without missing a beat. As he approached the car, he looked directly at the driver and gave him a grin. The kid’s wiseguy expression vanished and he looked away.

That’s right, asshole. You’d better look away.

He continued his march through the rows of vehicles, moving with the light-footed agility of a cat. When he got to the end of the lot, he circled back to resume his position at the railing.

The day was still young.

* * *

A faded brown Jetta rolled into the lot, belching smoke as it slowed. The driver chose a spot between an aging gray campervan and a forest green Porsche 911. The camper belonged to the man leaning against the railing, his milk shake container empty now. When the driver of the Jetta opened her door to step out, the man rose to his full height and pulled off his sunglasses.

A little girl scampering up the steps saw the man move and froze in her tracks, staring at the man in a kind of mute trance. When the girl’s father caught up to her, she grabbed his hand and pressed herself against his leg until they were inside the big double doors. Then she ran ahead again.

The man reined himself in now, resuming his position at the railing, becoming invisible again. He knew he should replace the sunglasses, but he wanted to see this one in natural light. As she opened the car door to climb out, a relay flipped in his brain—

And now the clarity was indescribable.

Her tan legs cleared the doorway as she stood, and even from thirty yards away he could see the downy hairs on her muscular thighs. Red-painted nails, faded denim cutoffs and a loose green sweatshirt, too hot for this weather and the only disappointment, hiding the athletic torso he knew she must possess. Long neck, blond hair cropped short, eyes sky-blue in a fresh round face.

Crossing the lot now in languid half time, long legs reflected in the puddles. A small boy in a cowboy suit toddled past, running playfully from his dad, and she gave the kid a wistful smile, unleashing a brilliant flash of white that took the man’s breath away.

“Glory,” he said to no one, slipping his shades back on. “Would you look at that.”

It appeared the day had not been wasted after all.

* * *

Trish was starving, her bladder full to bursting, and a nidus of pain the size of a chestnut had settled behind her eyes and taken up the beat of her heart. She stepped out of the car into the full force of the afternoon heat and had to steady herself against a wave of vertigo, thinking her blood sugar must be zero. When the feeling passed, she closed the door and started across the lot, noticing the puddles and hoping she wasn’t heading into bad weather; it looked stormy off to the east now, thunderheads massing over there against a gunmetal sky.

She smiled at a little cowpoke running from his dad, and was startled when a group of kids came barreling out of nowhere, shrieking and racing past her up the steps. Out of the corner of her eye she saw a creep in a ballcap leaning against the railing, eyeballing her over the rims of his shades, and she looked away, feeling the hackles stir on the back of her neck. She opened the door and went inside.

The restaurant was swarming, the lineups huge, and Trish almost turned on her heel. Then a new cash opened and she was first in line. Five minutes later she was in the bathroom, draining her bladder in a grubby stall and munching French fries out of a take-out bag on her lap.

Five minutes after that, feeling refreshed, she made her way to the exit, wolfing her burger on the fly. Lunch had come to just under five dollars, leaving her with fifteen and change in case she needed gas; although if her fuel gauge was accurate, she still had a little over half a tank left from the fill-up her mother had paid for this morning.

Out on the steps, which were abandoned now, Trish tossed her garbage into a brown receptacle, then hurried back to her car. She could feel the anxiety stirring again, her mind racing ahead into different scenarios ranging from mistaken identity to her father’s death to all manner of happy ending. At least the food was stopping her hands from shaking, and she thought the headache might be backing off a little.