One Small Thing (5 page)

Back in Sacramento when he was growing up, Dan knew every yard because from the time he was eight until he was a teenager and looked at his father’s request for help with ridicule and a curled lip, he, Jared, and his father had helped pour patios, build retaining walls and fences, and plant sod for neighbors. He could look at someone’s fence, and think,
I did that
. He would find the corner of the Addonizio’s patio and see his and Jared’s thin initials, D.T. and J.T.

Here, none of the guys did any of their own work, even though, like Ralph Chatagnier, they talked about it enough. In the mornings, trucks full of plumbers, masons, gardeners, and pool men would roar into the cul-de-sac. Men would stream out, grab tools, slip into the back yards. In a few weeks, Dan and Avery would be invited over for a BBQ and see, amazingly, a new gazebo or a series of retaining walls and a new lawn. Sometimes on the weekends, neighbors would knock on Luis’ door, embarrassed, and say, “I was wondering if you’d be able to, um, talk to these fellows I have here to cut down the sycamore or rototille the vegetable garden or tear down the fence.” Luis would nod, walk over, slap the guys on the shoulders and listen. Dan never asked him how it felt to translate his neighbors’ demands, but he’d watch Luis walk home across the cul-de-sac, his hands in his pockets, his lips pressed together.

Dan never asked if Luis liked it here at all. His friend had moved to Monte Veda from Oakland only because of the schools, the safe, quiet streets, the farmer’s market on spring and summer Sunday mornings, the new library and community center. Because of the set of Luis’ face as he walked home from Frank’s or Ralph’s, the stories of Guatemalan, Salvadorian, Mexican immigrants in his head, men who stood to the side of the Home Store parking lots in the mornings looking for a contractor to pick them to work for a day, Dan never brought up anything related to Luis being Latino in a mostly white neighborhood. He knew that Valerie’s mother had helped them buy the house and he knew that they loved the spacious four-bedroom rancher, the Tacconi’s as neighbors, and the cul-de-sac in general. But he wondered what Luis thought as he walked home.

The children screamed and backed away as a Go Forever spun its red light in a whooshing circle. Dan sighed, ready to go inside, his lungs full of sulfur and memory. He’d had enough of talking to his brother. Jared recounted their childhood like it was some kind of fantasy adventure. “Oh, remember this?” and “Oh, remember that?” Every time he visited, Jared, a history professor at Contra Loma Community College, became a living example of the historical dictim: “Those who forget history are doomed to repeat it.” He couldn’t stop bringing up their childhood, Dan’s past, the stories that Dan needed to forget, not that he had the chance when Jared was around.

However, Jared was a revisionist, ignorning the part of the story that involved their father’s bullying and teasing, their mother’s passivity. He’d been able to forget some things, mercifully. But when Dan wanted to forget, Jared was there on his shoulder like a drunken parrot, forcing him to remember. Did Dan bring up Jared’s past, his failed relationships with women? All the history books in the world hadn’t taught Jared how to stick it outa relationship past six-months, a year. Dan didn’t say a word when Rita turned into Samantha, Samantha into Susie, Susie into Joan. He let go. Dan let his brother disremember what he wanted to.

Not Jared, though. Like tonight with the mailbox and the pool and her. Every time Dan thought he’d forgotten, there she was, smiling at him, her dark eyes, her freckles, the way she always made him do what scared him most.

“Dan?”

He almost spit out his swallow of beer, and then relaxed. It wasn’t 1984 or 1985. It was a whole new century. It was over. She wasn’t here, not any more. Only Avery. Avery. “Sorry. I was thinking.”

“I can see that.” Avery held his arm. “We think they’re about to start.”

And then as if Avery had control of the fire department, too, the first sizzle of rocket flew up and burst into the night, a sprinkling of gold and silver and then, yes, surprise, red, white, and blue. The cul-de-sac’s appreciative “yes” rose up high into the holiday night. And before they could even think to want another one, there it was, and then another, the sky so bright and full of light, Dan felt like it was morning.

It was late. Children were spread out on cool night lawns, talking as they looked up at the stars. Neighbors sat at tables, drinking beer, babies asleep in laps or on shoulders, laughter erupting up and over the cul-de-sac. Avery leaned against Dan’s shoulder, talking to Dolores about herbs and some cousin named Rosalinda. Luis and Valerie were listening to Loren’s husband talk about the difference between 403 B and 401 K plans. Jared had actually asked Ralph Chatagnier about his foundation, and was nodding as Ralph waxed on about retrofitting, bolts, sheer wall, rebar.

Dan closed his eyes, shifted as Avery stood up to sit closer to Dolores. The baby they didn’t have was never far away, the conversation somehow turning to how Avery should do this or that. At work, Dan forgot about the baby, focused instead on his clients and sales projections and how he could get ICX in the South Bay or Alliance Insurance in Marin to commit to telecommunication packages. He would get into the office at 7.30 or 8, go from client calls to a staff meeting to a working lunch to a field visit without thinking once about hormones or ovulation cycles—or even Avery. But the moment he walked in his house, he felt he was in an empty nursery, the whole house filled with hope and a thin sliver of despair.

When Avery first quit her job at PeopleWorks, he told her he would be working extra hours to make up for her lost income, which wasn’t necessary as she had a great severance package. He really worked late because he couldn’t handle the cutting edge of her incredible, needy hope that kept whacking him across the face. Each month, it was worse.

“Honey,” Avery said, looking back. “Could you go bring out that carafe of coffee? I actually think it’s cold enough for it.”

“Sure,” he said, standing up slowly, his body stiff with relaxation. “Anything else? Anyone?”

“A sleeping bag, man,” Luis said. “I don’t think I’ll make it into the house. The heat melted me to this damn bench.”

“Coming up.” Dan pushed his chair back in. “Last call.”

“Don’t forget the cream. And the cups.” Avery smiled and turned back to Dolores, Isabel now listening, too.

“No problem,” Dan walked toward the house, on the way teasing the youngest Chow boy about his red candy smile. In the driveway, he picked up three hefty bags full of garbage and pushed them down into the cans.

Inside, he was picking up the carafe and the cups and the small thermos of cream Avery had neatly laid out earlier, when he noticed the phone machine had three messages. The people he cared about were right outside his house, except his parents, of course. His parents. Dan put down everything and pressed the button, not wanting to hear his mother’s worried voice, the quaver of fear that ran through many of her conversations. Or the irritation. Or disgust. Maybe he should go get Jared to listen. They liked him best, anyway. Then Dan just listened.

“Hello, this is a call for Mr. Tacconi. This is Midori Nolan. Sorry for calling you on a holiday, but I need to talk to you. It’s urgent. Please call me at the following number. 209-555-4972. Thank you.”

Dan rubbed his forehead. Midori Nolan? And in area code 209? Aside from his parents and a couple of his old community college buddies, the only people he knew in the 209 area code worked for businesses in Modesto and Turlock and Stockton, folks from PacWest and RealCalls. But they wouldn’t call him at home on the Fourth of July. He pressed for the next call. “Hello, this is Midori Nolan again. You must be out. I’m calling from the Stanislaus County Social Services department. I don’t think I mentioned that on my first call. I’m calling you about an urgent matter regarding Randi Gold. Please call me as soon as you can. Here’s my cell number. 209-555-5689. Thank you.”

Dan sat down on one of the stools by the kitchen counter. Randi. Again. She was in front of him as she had been when Jared had mentioned Larch Bank Pool, her skin wet and shiny from pool water. Those had been the good times, during high school, before everything went to hell. Before he changed into something he couldn’t recognize in the mirror, another person inside his skin.

He looked at the phone machine. One message left. It had to Midori Nolan again. His parents didn’t need him, never would. He could erase all three messages and then try not to answer the phone for the rest of the weekend. Or, he could write these numbers down and go out and call back from his cell, tell her he didn’t care. He’d given up Randi and the past like a bad paperback novel, leaving it outside to weather and decompose. “Leave me alone,” he’d say. “My wife knows nothing about Randi. Do not call here ever again. I’ll sue you for harassment. I’ll call your boss. I don’t want to hear anything. Do I make myself perfectly clear?”

But if his past had taught him one thing, it was that he could never escape it entirely. Look at tonight. Jared wanted to talk about it, even though Dan had asked him several times before to let it lie, bury the bones, forget. This baby thing brought it up, too. He knew he was being punished. He hadn’t escaped after all. But he could try. He would listen to the message and then deal with this Midori Nolan.

Dan pressed the button, and there was her voice again. “This is Midori Nolan. I guess you’re away for the long weekend. Here is what you need to know. Randi Gold has passed—has died. Over a month ago.” He pressed the stop button, his heart pounding, unwelcome tears at the corners of his eyes. Randi? He breathed out and pressed the button again. “When we finally found out she had a child, we also found some materials that mentioned you. The boy is currently in foster care, and we need to look into this situation as soon as possible. It’s for the child’s sake. He had a very difficult experience. The last few months for him . . . well, whenever you get in from the holiday, please call. If it weren’t urgent, I wouldn’t have called this often. Again, my cell is 209-555-5689.”

Sitting back, wiping his eyes, Dan tried to breathe. She was dead. He hadn’t seen her for ten years and hadn’t wanted to, but she was alive still in his mind, her dark eyes, the way she flipped her curly hair away from her face, her arms akimbo as she said, laughing, “Tell me something, bonehead, that I don’t know.” There were the later memories, the hazy, bruised, dirty ones, but he’d cleared those away so that she was always sixteen in his mind. Larch Bank Pool memories. High school memories. Before memories.

And now she was dead and had left a son. Why did Midori Nolan want him to know that? Why had Randi left his name? He ran his hands through his hair, and then stopped. Oh, God. It couldn’t be.

“Dan? Dan? What’s going on? They’re dying for the coffee out there.”

He looked up, trying to focus. Avery stood before him, her hands on her hips. Just like Randi used to hold her hip bones, but Avery’s held no baby between them. A baby? A boy.

“I . . .”

“What is it?”

He swallowed and looked at his wife, knowing he didn’t have an answer that either of them wanted to hear.

THREE

After Dan had disappeared into the house, and Valerie and Loren had fallen silent, watching neighbor children play tag in the court, Avery had stood up. “I don’t know where he went. I think we all need some coffee about now. There is a definite lull in this conversation.”

“Bring on the caffeine,” Loren said. “I think I’ll need a jolt to make my legs work. I’m so full, my stomach must be pressing down on necessary nerves or something.”

“Bring out that whiskey, man,” Luis said. “Who needs cream? Who needs conversation?”

Avery laughed. “That’s a good way to wrap up this party. We’ll just fall asleep out here.”

“Dan’s bringing me a sleeping bag, remember?” Luis laughed. “I’ll be all set.”

Avery pushed in her chair. “Valerie would just love a break from you, huh, Val?”

“No way. He’s stuck in the house. He covers the two o’clock feeding.”

“My god,” Dolores said, patting Luis’ hand. “My husband, he never changed a diaper.”

Avery felt a snippy feminist comeback slip up the back of her tongue, but it disappeared into sadness. A two o’clock feeding. Would she ever know what that was like, even enough to hate it? Would Dan ever change his own baby’s diapers? Would there even be a baby to even wear them?

“I’ll be right back.”

Inside, Avery heard a phone message, a stop, and then the message again. She closed the laundry room door and headed toward the voice. Dan was sitting still at the kitchen counter. As she asked him questions, he looked at her as if he couldn’t quite place her.

“Dan? I said, ‘What’s going on?’”

“I—there was a message.”

“Yeah. They were there when I made the coffee. Why did you have to answer them now? They could have waited.”

“I was worried about my parents.”

“Is it your parents?” She’d always feared the time when something might happen to Dan’s parents because he was so tender about them, which always struck her as odd because they didn’t seem to pay any attention to him, to them, to their lives. She knew that if Marian or Bill got sick or died before Dan could fix this estrangment, she’d lose him in some way, into depression or anger. They didn’t need that now. They both needed to focus on the baby, on their own lives.