Stop Here (17 page)

“Who told you?”

“I can't remember. My memory's shot and so is my hearing, so talk loud.”

“Was it awful?”

“Nothing good.”

“Thank heavens you weren't injured.”

“Not where you can see.” He chuckles.

“But you want to go back?” Easiness creeping in between them.

“Funny, huh? The weird crap happens here. Bad sleep, jumping at sounds, drink like you know . . . but over there I know the sounds, sleep like a seal in the sun. Still drink like a . . . Hey, why talk about it? It comes out like a long whine.” He downs the bourbon, takes a sip of the beer. Some of his color is from the booze. “How'd you find me?”

“I called some old friends . . . heard you were married.” All this banter with someone she hasn't seen in too many years to count. Still, it's what one does, she supposes, except these questions are not what she's here for.

He gazes at her a moment. “Katie left me after the last tour, took a job in Atlanta. Couldn't get far enough away, I guess.” He finishes the beer and looks around for the waiter. “Hey,” he calls too loudly. “Another round.”

The waiter frowns and the diner floats into her head. Murray barking at someone, customers impatient for service, Ava whirling from the counter to the tables. And Willy? She holds him there in his booth.

“Sorry about you and Katie. It's none of my business anyway.”

His fingers drum the table, eager for his drinks. “You still have that terrific face. I'd know you anywhere.”

Terrific face, unforgettable eyes . . . His husky voice comes back to her; so, too, the gentleness, how he cared for her. How could she forget? “That's sweet.”

“And you, babe? Married a few times or still with the same lucky guy?”

“I never married. My aunts, my cousins, my father all point this out whenever they can. Not that any of their marriages are very inspiring either.”

“Yeah, family. Best stay away from the bunch of them . . . or so I've learned. Anyway, if you never married I must've left an impression.” He tries for boyishness, but sounds sarcastic. Jack's gentle, comforting, though persistent voice comes to mind. But Jack's older, hasn't been to war, his tragedy endured slowly over time, water on a rock.

“An impression . . . absolutely,” she agrees. An impression she made sure to erase the way she managed to turn away from whatever needed tending. She won't let that happen again. She can't.

As soon as the waiter serves the drinks, Carl downs the shot of bourbon.

“You do that often?” She points to the empty glass.

“As often as I can. Don't worry. It takes a whole lot to knock me out. I'll be right back, going to visit a man about a—”

She watches him saunter to the restroom in his camouflage pants, a few bulging pockets with unbuttoned flaps. She remembers his tight jeans the night they broke up. She couldn't fit into hers. Her stomach was puffy and stretched. The stitches hadn't disappeared yet. Her breasts were still heavy. Her body felt unrecognizable, unlovable. His looked untouched, everything in place, without pain or scars.

It was a summer night and they took a blanket to the beach. Other couples were scattered about. They found a space to themselves. She remembers the water lapping gently at the shore, occasional laughter from somewhere nearby, a sky invaded by stars. He tried to kiss her. She turned away. He began stroking her hair. She told him to stop, said he made her want to vomit. He kept asking what's wrong, promising he could fix it. At first she didn't respond, then a stream of invective she's ashamed to recall burst from somewhere so deep inside and left her trembling. He drove her home without a word, didn't call again. It was what she wanted. She'd just given up her baby.

He slides in the booth and takes a long pull of the beer.

“I was remembering our breakup.”

“Oh yeah?” He doesn't sound interested.

“I owe you an apology.”

“Yeah . . . right . . . okay, I accept.”

“You're not the least bit curious?”

“Hey, I figured out why you didn't want to see me anymore.”

“Whew, that's a load off.” She wipes her brow.

He chuckles. “Why are we here, babe?”

“I need to know about our daughter.” There it is, the pussyfooting finished.

“What exactly?” She detects reluctance.

“I need information. Your sister's best friend took her.” She can still taste the weird mixture of emptiness and relief.

“Rosalyn, Rosalyn . . . Why would she want you in her life now?” He finishes the beer and looks for the waiter.

“I made a will. I'm leaving her my savings, my condo. The attorney needs to be able to contact her when the time comes.” Heat rushes to her cheeks as if she just spiked a fever. It's all she can do to sit still. But she can't take off, not yet.

He leans forward. The bourbon's worked itself into his face, sweating now. “I can't help you. I have nothing to do with her.”

“She doesn't know you're her father?” her voice rising. Why would she? They gave her up. They have no rights. It's there again, the tunnel with him at the far end.

“The girl knows she's adopted. I hear the girl's mother filled her in some about us, how young we were . . . so on.” His eyes are on her, but she's not sure what he's seeing. Suddenly his reticence, her powerlessness, the whole encounter pisses her off. And his drinking doesn't thrill her either.

“Think! Remember
something
for god's sake.” She stares hard at him.

“Jesus where's the fucking waiter?” His hands open and close, his jaw slack. He used to be laid-back, pliable. Now he's brittle enough to break, and he knows it. Jack comes to mind again, his ability to withstand turmoil, his voice asking her to lean on him.

Two people talk softly in a nearby booth, their words hum past her ears. A few streaks of bright sun invade the room, land on the stained wooden floorboards. She takes a sip of the wine. It tastes old, rancid, vinegary, and she remembers the Chablis in her fridge.

“I'm going up there to get another drink. Fucking waiter.” He grabs the table to steady himself. “Her name's Lacy Marino.” Then sways toward the bar, his head bent beneath the mess of his life.

• • •

Home at last, the drive back was endless. Phone messages blink on the machine. Her flowers need fresh water. When they begin to wilt, she tosses them. These, though, meaty yellow roses, she bought yesterday. The girl's name repeats in her head as it has since he said it. A name matters. A name gives substance, rhythm, color—allows an image to form. Lacy as a grown woman, a combination of Carl and herself, dark eyes for sure, thick, wavy hair. Maybe she's petite like her or sturdy like Carl.

She finds herself in the bedroom closet pushing aside shoeboxes, scarves, purses on the too-high shelf till her fingers press the soft leather-like surface of an old photo album, which she retrieves. Dropping on the bed, she turns pages, a picture of her mom—who loved her children—reading the newspaper, which she did from back to front, wanting to fill her head with trivia before letting in bad news. Photos of friends she hasn't seen in years. And here's one of her at Lacy's age now. She's wearing jeans and a tank top, leaning against some guy's old jeep, holding back a curtain of hair to reveal what must've been new dangling earrings. She's grinning. When she was Lacy's age she flaunted her appeal yet worked hard, saved money, had lots of friends. Someone Lacy might approve of. Removing the photo carefully, she returns to the living room, slides it in the manila envelope on the coffee table. Then she picks up the cordless and calls Dina.

“It's me. There's something else I never told you.”

“Hold on.” She can almost hear Dina settling into her chair.

“Yes, Rosalyn, what is it?” her friend careful not to sound eager.

“When I was seventeen I had a baby . . .” she begins. It's a story she no longer wants to keep secret, the names and events unfurling easily. Lacy, Carl, the Manhattan foundling home where she lived for the final trimester, the nuns who cared for her, Carl's sister who took away the baby she never saw, her meeting with Carl today. She doesn't stop there but goes on about the envelope on the table, which contains her will, her father's address, other documents, and now a photo of her. “We'll never meet but Lacy will have something of me, of mine. Don't you see?”

“Rosalyn, you should meet your daughter,” Dina declares.

Her eyes flit to the black-and-white print on the wall that resembles a Rorschach blot. “Well I hadn't thought.”

“What's to think about?”

“Lacy, her family. I can't just walk into their lives and—” Again, saying her name feels gratifying, proprietary.

“She must be curious about you.”

The phone at her ear, she pads across the gleaming terra-cotta floor, the aqua rug catching the last light of day, wondering what it would be like to actually see the girl. In the kitchen, she pours Chablis in a glass and takes a sip.

“Are you there?”

“I'm thinking. And drinking.”

“I'll say one thing: do what pleases you, never mind the result.”

“You speaking from experience?” She's aiming to tease her, but finds she's listening intently.

“I rarely did what pleased me, only what was necessary. After a while, I didn't know the difference.”

It's not entirely true. Dina loved her work. Perhaps she's speaking of Tim, but it's too coded to get into now.

“Dina, I'm sorry.”

“That's not the point. It's a lesson to share. Or at least to ponder.”

“I hear you.”

“It won't be that difficult to find her.”

Suddenly the success of learning the girl's name slips away, the closure she sought reopened. “Listen, I can't talk about it right now.”

“I didn't mean to—”

“I know. See you tomorrow.” She clicks off. Though she's not sorry she told Dina—her secrets less amazing to others than she would have expected—a claw of anxiety tears at her.

The yellow-striped watering can sits on the counter. She fills it and steps out onto her small patio, scanning the darkening lawn, the starless sky. She hopes for a better night. The last two have been fitful. Sleep came late and only for several hours, kaleidoscopic images racing around her head leaving blurry smears.

She waters the spider plants, their tendrils nearly touching the ground, then goes in to look at her messages. There are three. Two from Jack asking her to call him, he misses her, he's worried, please phone him. One from Carl, whose slurry voice recites an address. She replays it twice to be certain.

• • •

Her car inches along in the early evening rush-hour traffic. The MapQ uest directions Bobby downloaded are on her lap. Reaching Bruckner Boulevard, the lanes fan out like fingers on a hand. It's bewildering till she spies the North Bronx exit sign underscored on the map. Then it's one bleak street after another toward Gun Hill Road. What a strange name. She's never been in the Bronx, though her mother often talked about her childhood there. She tries to recall the stories but her memory has become selective, permits only events involving her. She understands. She's rechewing experience, can taste it. It's made her talkative.

She chattered on and on the other night when Ava and Mila visited. She described her work as an escort, her dates that never mattered, except for Jack. Then Lacy, all about Lacy, how Carl wanted to marry, how her mother dissuaded her. How her father wants to know his granddaughter. How Dina suggested meeting her daughter. How what to do feels beyond her. Ava said little, refilling Rosalyn's wineglass till she was dizzy with words and drink. Mila, though, made comments all along . . . mothers and daughters, great stuff, unbeatable, deep love but not easy, even after a million years together, and warned that the girl might not jump for joy on hearing from Rosalyn.

Also on the phone with Jack, she gave him what he wanted, a dose of her life. Then she added her indecision about Lacy, her confusion about what to do next. To her surprise he didn't recommend a path, instead assured her she'd figure it out. But she hasn't. She thought about sending the girl a note. If no reply came, well, then it would be an answer of sorts. But she doesn't want an answer. What does she want? A reconciliation, a meeting, a sighting . . . she has no idea. If she were a private eye, she'd park the car near where Lacy lived, camera at hand, hat pulled low. She has no hat, no camera, no plan, and no clue what the next hours will bring, only the destination.

• • •

Her car scales the lengthy incline of Gun Hill Road. Six-story buildings climb the hill with her, gray brick façades, small-paned windows, some curtained, some not, others protected with bars. Worn stone steps lead to run-down entrance courtyards. Covered garbage cans cluster in front of locked alleys. Do poor people live here? She sees no boarded-up or half-gated shops, broken pavements or skinny kids sitting on stoops. Is it more or less impoverished than other places in the city? It's difficult to say.

Cars are parked on both sides of the street. There's an empty space in front of Lacy's building and she pulls in.

The summer's evening light is waning, the sky a mass of clouds. She turns off the A/C, rolls down the windows. A weak breeze crosses her shoulders, bare in a pale blue T-strap sundress; her head wrapped in a navy scarf. Choosing what to wear was a trip in itself, trying on and discarding one outfit after another. She felt she was preparing for an audition. Exasperated, Dina finally decided for her. How many times did she check her face in the mirror, thinner, longer, her eyes, thank god, no different. Her skin, though, not the least bit rosy.

If Lacy appears—perhaps on her way home from work—will their glances meet in some mystical recognition? More likely the girl will walk past her. How will she know it's her daughter? She's given Lacy a height, a weight, even color and style of dressing, created an image out of a name. What if Lacy doesn't resemble her or Carl? It happens. What image does Lacy have of her? The seventeen-year-old her adoptive mother glimpsed? Or one Lacy cobbled together from bits and pieces of overheard conversation. Whatever it is, it's not a woman without hair, sick, pale, in bad repair.