Please Don't Go (12 page)

Aleesha and I talked of our respective families next. Something in the hardness of that rich scotch had dragged her into this new comfort zone of sociable discourse. With hesitance, she spoke of her abusive father. He had many times wrestled her to the floor were she to allow his dinner to be taken by the grip of chill, spitting in her face and declaring to her onlooking mother that he would kill them all if things did not change for the better, and soon. The dinner was to be hot, piping at that, so much so that it would scold his mouth when he bit into it. His evening drink was to be poured, waiting on his end table by his rocking chair when he walked through their door. His pipe was to be stuffed to the brim, ready to light and puff. And when these temperamental stars of fancy did not properly align, it was an absolute inferno for all that stood in his devastating path. Aleesha’s mother had certain tasks that were to be completed, as did she. Her mother did them great harm by never leaving the treacherous bleeding scab, but they had never brought this horror to light, for fear that they would be overheard and trampled to death beneath his drunken heel. Her mother had died only a year earlier to our meeting. “And I still mourn her,” Aleesha had told me. I touched her hands, and then wiped away the unexpected tears from her face. The poor girl was stricken by a life that she had never asked for, but was destined to cope with. “My family is gone. Father died when I was still very young, which I guess I should be quite thankful for. But I am the last of my line. Myself and little Emily.” She spoke this name with such ease that it troubled me in some inexplicable way.

“
Emily?” I asked, assuming this to be Aleesha’s younger sister, though she had not mentioned any siblings in her previous tales. Nor had she given lip service to cousins, aunts, uncles, or grandparents. Her stories had consisted of nothing more than art and her ineffective (mother) or vile (father) parents.

“
Emily is my sweet darling. My daughter,” Aleesha admitted, her face growing sour at the mere mention of Emily’s name. It was as though she had no pride in this child, and I could not imagine why. I would be a blatant liar to say that this revelation helped her case in my staying on with her as a more regular mate (how had I ever considered this even a remote possibility?), to become an American refugee in the port city of Galway. Though this new bit of information was shocking to me, it did not seem out of character for Aleesha to hide something for so long. I could not gauge what she would have NORMALLY done, given no historical empirical evidence. If she held such tricks up her sleeve in the course of one day (it had lasted four lifetimes, though, believe me when I say this to you), what would be in store for me in the long run, were I so bold to invest a lifetime into a woman with less than fourteen hours in her presence? This was the kind of madness that men of erratic character engaged in, and I was relatively sure that I was not one of those men, though I could easily slip down that slope with my electrifying impulses. But still, I led the reddish young mess along.

“
You have a daughter?”

She nodded slowly, studying my face as though I would dart from her presence at any moment, and maybe I would have, were it not for the pity I felt for her. “I should have told you. You must think me an idiot! Why have I not mentioned her before?” she asked herself in a most genuine manner. I honestly believe that the notion of her motherhood had not crossed her mind in our spinning moments together. Had she fallen so horribly in love that she could not see beyond herself, to her commitments and convictions that lay outside of my apparently mesmerizing eyes?

I told her, “Please, don’t berate yourself for that. I find it all the more charming that you are also a mother. And so young at that.” And apparently, I thought, a mother who rarely thought of her child during the course of a day—amidst booze, food, and sexual relaxation.

“
I was so young when I had her. A pup myself, really. The church wasn’t very happy with me, being an unwed mother. They were especially rotten back then... although they’ve grown more liberal since the fifties and sixties, but they’re mostly the same cantankerous lot of gripers. I was banned for a year, but they allowed me in again after my mother pleaded with them. I never returned though. The damage had been done and if they wouldn’t have me without stipulations, I chose to not have
them
. The terrible looks they give my Emily, even still. Born in sin, forever in sin. Father McGregor dared say that in front of her,” she replied. Aleesha ground her teeth, seething in the recollection of the despicable words from the mouth of her church’s holy leader.

“
That’s awful. I am so sorry,” I stated, rubbing her wrist again. It was truly a shame how one’s religion could turn on them in their time of greatest need. It was not the first time I had witnessed such hypocrisy, and it would surely not be the last. “Would it be rude of me to ask where Emily is now?”

Aleesha’s face turned pale at the realization that she had let so much of the day slip away without even having laid an eye upon her daughter. She thought herself to be a terrible mother, like her mother before her, and I could practically see this new comprehension bursting into life behind her glossy eyeballs. “With a friend. I’ve been so awful today. I really must go.” She scanned the table for something that was not there. The clarified understanding I had indirectly bestowed upon her was somewhat heavy to the wings of her fantasy, in which I was the primary actor and playwright.

“
I understand. There’s always tomorrow,” I replied, unsure of whether I would still be in town tomorrow. It was not that she scared me away, but that I had missed out on so much of the culture of Galway by becoming engrossed with this strange seductive, but quite buggy, woman. Suddenly, I craved the art and history of the museums and the Spanish Arch, more so than this ghastly, yet enchanting, woman. Maybe, I concluded, the mystery had been drained from her during our day-long tornado of love. “We can pick this up again tomorrow,” I half-lied.

“
Or tonight,” she replied, her face alight with a new prospect. “You’ll come home with me. We’ll make you breakfast in the morning. Myself and Emily. She is a wonderful cook, you’ll see. She will simply adore you!” Aleesha shouted, downing the last of her scotch and grabbing my hesitant hand, trying to drag me away to the streets of Galway without the dignity of a certified reaction. I was quite puzzled by the chaos that this woman ensued upon my formerly rigid itinerary. She was so inflexible to the will of others!

The sap I was, I could not hold my ground and say with any sort of masculine fortitude that our fling had ended. Our time together had run its course, though only hours earlier I was on the verge of pledging my life to this fiery vixen. I was disgusted by my carelessness, but I felt as if I had no control over that haphazard dizziness. The worm had turned for me and I was done with Galway altogether, let alone this solitary troubled female that inhabited it.

Without pause, I was whisked through the streets of Galway, set to meet the young lady Emily, the scorn of the Catholic Church and the eventual cook-ette of blood sausage and toast for my upcoming morning. Before I could take stock of the situation that so dizzily swam around me, my eyes dashing down each dark alley that we passed in search of a proper escape route, I was standing at the door of their scandalous home.

The lights were on, and I could hear faint chatter from inside. “I live on the top floor. You don’t mind stairs, do you? Five flights of them, isn’t that exhausting?” I feigned interest in the treacherous path to her upper sanctuary, the place where the little imp Emily presumably sat with dried up spittle all over her bib. I pictured her with a bulbous forehead and a birthmark on her chin, tattered clothes and a devious overbite. I was ashamed of myself for thinking such putrid thoughts on such an innocent child, and one that I had not yet cast eyes upon to validate these flaws! She could very easily be a soft cherub in the making, and I would be even further ashamed of myself for such personal imperfections. Perhaps
I
was the dribbling, birth-marked imp.

I cursed myself and offered a smile. She fiddled with her keys and allowed me entry.

The steps were steeper than advertised and I...

Zephyr’s phone chirped with life. The caller ID indicated that it was Jackie (spelled “Jackee”, a typo from when they had first begun dating). He hit the bright green GO button and answered in his best Vincent Price voice, “Helllllo?”

“
Tire. Flat. Help,” she replied in a robotic tone, her voice as deflated as her rubber tire.

“
Will be right there. What street?” he replied, slamming the book shut after a newly applied dog-ear. He would learn more of Emily, Aleesha, and the narrator (Charles?) at a later point in time.

“
Hogan Road. Near the dealership. Near the one where the guy on TV says
come join the pahhhhhhty!
Don’t you hate that guy? I detest him.” Jackie had a knack for making light of her terrible situations, and it often helped to balance out Zephyr when he lost control of his own
moments of suck
, as he called them.

“
I find it humorous that you poke fun at
my
car. And who’s the one up shit’s creek with a turd for a paddle? Looks like my sturdy chariot will come to your rescue once again. Tisk. Tisk. Tisk,” he goaded her. “Goodbye!” he announced, hanging up without giving her a chance to shoot back her own jesting barb. Zephyr set off to rescue his damsel in distress.

13.

Richter had assigned Zephyr a delivery task to the noble elder Rattup on the inconvenient day of a crucial (and mandatory, if he hoped to keep his shaky scholarship) exam. The day before, in a dash of good luck, Rattup had called in his obtuse order to the market, once again requesting Zephyr, and no other. It had not yet come to an understanding between he and Richter that this was to be the standard for future deliveries, but Richter was starting to see this development with his obstinate eyes.

Though it was not part of Zephyr’s usual school schedule to be committed to an exam, he had requested the day off ahead of time. Upon protesting to Richter, he felt a growing blossom of guilt in his belly, that he would disappoint Rattup in some way by passing off the responsibility to another employee. He had promised Rattup that he would come, but had lacked foresight on his schedule when it came to irregular milestones. His first of many finals exams had been scheduled early, in the middle of April which was unprecedented. Dr. Paulson of the literature department had confessed that he would be in Bermuda for the final four weeks of school, and that the dean had “halfheartedly” approved of his early summer. “I can’t work my regular shift, but I’ll stop in for Rattup’s groceries. I’ll bring them out to Holyoke Road after the exam. You won’t even have to pay me.”

“
Pro bono?” Richter had replied, great big green dollar signs emerging from where his irises once existed. “No problem by me. But if Rattup complains, it’s your ass,” he added, already losing sight of his supposed gratefulness for gaining Zephyr’s free services on his day off.

***

On the way to his exam, he had stopped at the market. Scampering through the aisles, he had picked out all the requested goods. He scurried through a closed register, using the bagging area to nestle away each item in turn. As he was processing the order through and calculating Rattup’s tab, several other employees had nagged him with their inane questions. “Working today?” Cindy Marquez had prodded him with her gritty brown smile. “Can I get a price check, Z?” Tonya Woodman had called across to him from register number three, but Zephyr had ignored her as though she was a phantom. Couldn’t she see he was in
civilian
clothing? If she asked again, Zephyr told himself, he would reply that he was off duty, and that he was regretful that he could not comply to her wishes. But she had not asked again. Of course, Karen the gum-snapper had goaded him as well, “Jeans and a hoodie?” she asked of his unusual garb. There was always a certain sense of wonder when work mates observed somebody as a human being, in their “street clothes.” Karen, the two-dimensional dullard that she was, seemed to be no exception to that rule. “Jeans and a hoodie,” she whispered to Trudy, but loud enough so that Zephyr could hear her. “That’s what scrubby little college hipsters wear when they’re not mopping aisles.” Zephyr wondered to himself how she would react if he walked up to her and punched her in the mouth. She was the type who may have even enjoyed the unpleasant experience, but he decided not to find out. There was no time for her. Not today.

***

Zephyr breezed through the four questions of his exam. Dr. Paulson had a nasty habit of telling his class the questions from his written exams ahead of time. They would scribble the questions into their notebooks, the trick being that he would provide them with ten questions, and only four would be on the exam. Each question required no less than seven pages of response in the little blue written exam pamphlets, standard for the University of Maine English Department. The grating crux of preparation was that the subjects were broad enough that any number of responses would be adequate. The overall scope of the ten questions covered each and every assigned reading and textbook from the course. If you were not knowledgeable on any one of the stories in the curriculum, then you would fail on that related question. Even Cliff Notes would not help you, since the questions were detailed and tailored to the class discussions and analysis. Unfortunately for Zephyr, one of the four questions pertained to Dickens’
David Copperfield
, of which he had not read a single word. Again, like with his avoidance of Rattup’s story when earlier assigned, he had shot himself in the foot. The only novel he had not engorged himself with during the time frame of Paulson’s class... and it was one-quarter of the final exam.