8Ronnie
Blaze led the way to the diner Ronnie had seen on her walk through the business district, and Ronnie had to admit that it did have some charm, particularly if you were fond of the 1950s.
There was an old-fashioned counter flanked with stools, the floor was black and white tiles, and cracked red vinyl booths lined the walls. Behind the counter, the menu was written on a chalkboard, and as far as Ronnie could tell, the only change to it in the last thirty years had been the prices.
Blaze ordered a cheeseburger, a chocolate shake, and French fries; Ronnie couldnt decide and ended up ordering only a Diet Coke. She was hungry, but she wasnt exactly sure what kind of oil they used in their deep fryer, and neither, it seemed, was anyone else at the diner. Being a vegetarian wasnt always easy, and there were times when she wanted to give up the whole thing.
Like when her stomach was growling. Like right now.
But she wouldnt eat here. She couldnt eat here, not because she was a vegetarian-on-principle kind of person, but because she was vegetarian-because-she-didnt-want-to-feel-sick kind of person. She didnt care what other people ate; it was just that whenever she thought about where meat actually came from, shed imagine a cow standing in a meadow or Babe the pig, and shed feel herself getting nauseated.
Blaze seemed happy, though. After she placed her order, she leaned back in the booth.
What do you think about the place? she asked.
Its neat. Its kind of different.
Ive been coming here since I was a kid. My dad used to bring me every Sunday after church for a chocolate shake. Theyre the best. They get their ice cream from some tiny place in Georgia, but its amazing. You should get one.
Im not hungry.
Youre lying, Blaze said. I heard your stomach growling, but whatever. Its your loss.
But thanks for this.
No big deal.
Blaze smiled. So what happened last night? Are you like famous or something?
Why would you ask that?
Because of the cop and the way he singled you out. There had to be a reason.
Ronnie made a face. I think my dad told him to go find me. He even knew where I lived.
Sucks being you.
When Ronnie laughed, Blaze reached for the saltshaker. After tipping it over, she began sprinkling salt onto the table while using a finger to mold it into a pile.
What did you think of Marcus? she asked.
I didnt really talk to him. Why?
Blaze seemed to choose her words carefully. Marcus never liked me, she said. Growing up, I mean. I cant say that I liked him very much, either. He was always kind of mean, you know? But then, I dont know, a couple of years ago, things changed. And when I really needed someone, he was there for me.
Ronnie watched the salt pile grow. And?
I just wanted you to know.
Fine, she said. Whatever.
You too.
What are you talking about?
Blaze scraped some of the black polish from her fingernails. I used to compete in gymnastics, and for maybe four or five years, it was the biggest thing in my life. I ended up quitting because of my coach. He was a real hard-ass, always telling you what you did wrong, never complimenting you on what you did right. Anyway, I was doing a new dismount off the beam one day, and he marched forward screaming at me about the proper way to plant and how I have to freeze and everything Id heard him scream about a million times before. I was tired of hearing it, you know? So I said, Whatever, and he grabbed my arm so hard that he left bruises.
Anyway, he says to me, Do you know what youre saying when you say, Whatever? Its just a code word for the f-word, followed by you. And at your age, you never, ever say that to anyone. Blaze leaned back. So now, when someone says it to me, I just say, You too.
Right then, the waitress arrived with their food, and she placed it in front of them with an efficient flourish. When she was gone, Ronnie reached for her soda.
Thanks for the heartwarming story.
Whatever.
Ronnie laughed again, liking her sense of humor.
Blaze leaned across the table. So whats worst thing youve ever done?
What?
Im serious. I always ask people that question. I find it interesting.
All right, Ronnie countered. Whats the worst thing youve ever done?
Thats easy. When I was little, I had this neighborMrs. Banderson. She wasnt the nicest lady, but she wasnt a witch, either. I mean, its not like she locked her doors on Halloween or anything. But she was really into her garden, you know? And her lawn. I mean, if we ever walked across it on our way to the school bus, shed come storming out, screaming that we were ruining the grass. Anyway, one spring, she planted all these flowers in her garden. Hundreds of them. It was gorgeous. Well, there was this kid across the street named Billy, and he didnt like Mrs. Banderson much, either, because one time hed hit a baseball and it went into her backyard, and she wouldnt give it back. So one day, we were poking around his garden shed, and we came across this big sprayer filled with Roundup. The weed killer? Well, he and I snuck out after dark one night and sprayed all those new flowers, dont ask me why. I guess at the time we thought it would be kind of funny. No big deal. Just buy some new ones, right? You couldnt tell right away, of course. It takes a few days before it starts working. And Mrs. Banderson was out there every day, watering and pulling weeds before she noticed that all her new flowers had started to wilt. At first, Billy and I laughed about it, but then I started to notice shed be out there before school trying to figure out what was wrong, and shed still be out there when I came back from school. And by the end of the week, all of them were dead.
Thats terrible! Ronnie cried, giggling despite herself.
I know. And I still feel bad about it. Its one of those things that I wish I could undo.
Did you ever tell her? Or offer to replace the flowers?
My parents would have killed me. But I never, ever walked across her lawn again.
Wow.
Like I said, its the worst thing Ive ever done. Now its your turn.
Ronnie thought about it. I didnt talk to my dad for three years.
I already know that. And its not that bad. Like I said, I try not to talk to my dad, either.
And my mom has no idea where I am most of the time.
Ronnie glanced away. Above the jukebox was a picture of Bill Haley & His Comets.
I used to shoplift, she said, subdued. A lot. Nothing big. Just more for the thrill of doing it.
Used to?
Not anymore. I got caught. Actually, I got caught twice, but the second time it was an accident. It went to court, but the charges were continued for a year. Basically, it means that if I dont get in trouble again, the charges will be dismissed.
Blaze lowered her burger. Thats it? Thats the worst thing youve ever done?
I never killed someones flowers, if thats what you mean. Or vandalized anything.
Youve never stuck your brothers head in the toilet? Or crashed the car? Or shaved the cat or something?
Ronnie gave a small smile. No.
Youre probably the most boring teenager in the world.
Ronnie giggled again before taking a sip of her soda. Can I ask you a question?
Go ahead.
Why didnt you go home last night?
Blaze took a pinch of the salt shed piled up and sprinkled it over her fries. I didnt want to.
What about your mom? Doesnt she get mad?
Probably, Blaze said.
Off to the side, the door to the diner swung open and Ronnie turned to see Marcus, Teddy, and Lance heading toward their booth. Marcus wore a T-shirt emblazoned with a skull, and a chain was attached to the belt loop of his jeans.
Blaze scooted over, but strangely, Teddy took a seat beside her while Marcus squeezed in next to Ronnie. As Lance pulled up a chair from an adjoining table and flipped it around before sitting, Marcus reached for Blazes plate. Both Teddy and Lance automatically grabbed for the fries.
Hey, thats for Blaze, Ronnie cried, trying to stop them. Get your own.
Marcus turned from one to the other. Yeah?
Its okay, Blaze said, pushing the plate toward him. Really. I wont be able to eat it all anyway.
Marcus reached for the ketchup, acting as though hed proved his point. So what are you two talking about? From the window, it looked intense.
Nothing, Blaze said.
Let me guess. Shes telling you about her moms sexy boyfriend and their late night trapeze acts, right?
Blaze wiggled in her seat. Dont be gross.
Marcus gave Ronnie a frank stare. Did she tell you about the night one of her moms boyfriends came sneaking into her room? She was like, Youve got fifteen minutes to get the hell out of here.
Shut up, okay? Thats not funny. And we werent talking about him.
Whatever, he said, smirking.
Blaze reached for her shake as Marcus began eating the burger. Teddy and Lance grabbed more fries, and over the next few minutes, the three of them devoured most of what was on the plate. To Ronnies dismay, Blaze said nothing, and Ronnie wondered about that.
Or actually, she didnt wonder. It seemed obvious that Blaze didnt want Marcus to get mad at her, so she let him do whatever he wanted. Shed seen it before: Kayla, for all her tough posturing, was the same way when it came to guys. And generally, they treated her like dirt.
But she wouldnt say that here. She knew it would only make things worse.
Blaze sipped her milkshake and put it back on the table. So what do you guys want to do after this?
Were out, Teddy grunted. Our old man needs me and Lance to work today.
Theyre brothers, Blaze explained.
Ronnie studied them, not seeing the resemblance. You are?
Marcus finished the burger and pushed the plate to the center of the table. I know. Its hard to believe parents could have two such ugly kids, huh? Anyway, their family owns a piece-of-crap motel just over the bridge. The pipes are like a hundred years old, and Teddys job is to plunge the toilets when they get clogged.
Ronnie wrinkled her nose, trying to imagine it. Really?
Marcus nodded. Gross, huh? But dont worry about Teddy. Hes great at it. A real prodigy.
He actually enjoys it. And Lance herehis job is to clean the sheets after the noontime crowd rolls through.
Ew, Ronnie said.
I know. Its totally disgusting, Blaze added. And you should see some of the people that go for the hourly rates. You could catch a disease just walking into the room.
Ronnie wasnt sure how to respond to that, so instead she turned to Marcus. So what do you do? she asked.
Whatever I want, he answered.
Which means? Ronnie challenged.
Why do you care?
I dont, she said, keeping her voice cool. I was just asking.
Teddy grabbed the last of the fries from Blazes plate. It means he hangs out at the motel with us. In his room.
You have a room at the motel?
I live there, he said.
The obvious question was why, and she waited for more, but Marcus stayed quiet. She suspected he wanted her to attempt to tease the information out of him. Maybe she was reading
too much into it, but she had the sudden sense that he wanted her to be interested in him. Wanted her to like him. Even though Blaze was right there.
Her suspicions were confirmed when he reached for a cigarette. After he lit it, he blew the smoke toward Blaze, then turned to Ronnie.
What are you doing tonight? he asked.
Ronnie shifted in her seat, suddenly uncomfortable. It seemed like everyone, Blaze included, was waiting for her answer.
Why?
Were having a little get-together at Bowers Point. Not just us. A bunch of people. I want you to come. Without the cops this time.
Blaze studied the tabletop, toying with the pile of salt. When Ronnie didnt answer, Marcus rose from the table and headed for the door without turning back.
9Steve
Hey, Dad, Jonah called out. He was standing behind the piano in the alcove as Steve brought the plates of spaghetti to the table. Is that a picture of you with Grandma and Grandpa?
Yeah, thats my mom and dad.
I dont remember that picture. From the apartment, I mean.
For a long time, it was in my office at school.
Oh, Jonah said. He leaned closer to the photo, studying it. You kind of look like Grandpa.
Steve wasnt sure what to think about that. Maybe a little.
Do you miss him?
He was my dad. What do you think?
Id miss you.
As Jonah came to the table, Steve reflected that it had been a satisfying, if uneventful, day.
Theyd spent the morning in the shop, where Steve had taught Jonah to cut glass; theyd eaten sandwiches on the porch and collected seashells in the late afternoon. And Steve had promised that as soon as it was dark, he would take Jonah for a walk down the beach with flashlights to watch the hundreds of spider crabs darting in and out of their sand burrows.
Jonah pulled out his chair and plopped down. He took a drink of milk, leaving a white mustache. Do you think Ronnies coming home soon?
I hope so.
Jonah wiped his lip with the back of his hand. Sometimes she stays out pretty late.
I know.
Is the police officer going to bring her back home again?
Steve glanced out the window; dusk was coming, and the water was turning opaque. He wondered where she was and what she was doing.
No, he said. Not tonight.
After their walk along the beach, Jonah took a shower before crawling into bed. Steve pulled up the covers and kissed him on the cheek.
Thanks for the great day, Steve whispered.
Youre welcome.
Good night, Jonah. I love you.
Me, too, Dad.
Steve rose and started for the door.
Hey, Dad?
Steve turned. Yes?
Did your dad ever take you out to look for spider crabs?
No, Steve said.
Why not? That was awesome.
He wasnt that kind of father.
What kind was he?
Steve considered the question. He was complicated, he finally said.
At the piano, Steve recalled the afternoon six years earlier when he took his fathers hand for the first time in his life. He had told his father that he knew hed done the best he could in raising him, that he didnt blame his father for anything, and that most of all, he loved him.
His father turned toward him. His eyes were focused, and despite the high doses of morphine that hed been taking, his mind was clear. He stared at Steve for a long time before pulling his hand away.
You sound like a woman when you talk like that, he said.
They were in a semiprivate room on the fourth floor of the hospital. His father had been there for three days. IV tubes snaked out of his arms, and he hadnt eaten solid food in more than a month. His cheeks were sunken, and his skin was translucent. Up close, Steve thought his fathers breath smelled of decay, another sign the cancer was announcing its victory.
Steve turned toward the window. Outside, he could see nothing but blue skies, a bright, unyielding bubble surrounding the room. No birds, no clouds, no visible trees. Behind him, he could hear the steady beep of the heart monitor. It sounded strong and steady, with regular rhythm, making it seem that his father would live another twenty years. But it wasnt his heart that was killing him.
How is he? Kim asked later that night when they were talking on the phone.
Not good, he said. I dont know how much longer he has, but
He trailed off. He could imagine Kim on the other end, standing near the stove, stirring pasta or dicing tomatoes, the phone cocked between her ear and shoulder. Shed never been able to sit still when talking on the phone.
Did anyone else come by?
No, he answered. What he didnt tell her was that according to the nurses, no one else had visited at all.
Were you able to talk to him? she asked.
Yes, but not for long. He was drifting in and out most of the day.
Did you say what I told you to say?
Yes, he said.
What did he say? she asked. Did he say he loved you, too?
Steve knew the answer she wanted. He was standing in his fathers home, inspecting the photos on the mantel: the family after Steve was baptized, a wedding photo of Kim and Steve, Ronnie and Jonah as toddlers. The frames were dusty, untouched in years. He knew that it had been his mother who put them there, and as he stared at them, he wondered what his father thought as he looked at them, or if he even saw them at all, or if he even realized they were there.
Yes, he finally said. He told me he loved me.
Im glad, she said. Her tone was relieved and satisfied, as though his answer had affirmed something to her about the world. I know how important that was to you.
Steve grew up in a white ranch-style house, in a neighborhood of white ranch-style houses on the intracoastal side of the island. It was small, with two bedrooms, a single bathroom, and a separate garage that housed his fathers tools and smelled permanently of sawdust. The backyard, shaded by a gnarled live oak that held its leaves year-round, didnt get enough sun, so his mother planted the vegetable garden in the front. She grew tomatoes and onions, turnips and beans, cabbage and corn, and in the summers, it was impossible to see the road that fronted the house from the living room. Sometimes Steve would overhear the neighbors grumbling in hushed voices, complaining about declining property values, but the garden was replanted every spring, and no one ever said a word directly to his father. They knew, as well as he did, that it wouldnt have done them any good. Besides, they liked his wife, and they all knew they would need his services one day.
His father was a trim carpenter by trade, but he had a gift for fixing anything. Over the years, Steve had seen him repair radios, televisions, auto and lawn mower engines, leaking pipes, dangling gutters, broken windows, and once, even the hydraulic presses of a small tool-manufacturing plant near the state line. Hed never attended high school, but he had an innate understanding of mechanics and building concepts. At night, when the phone rang, his father always answered, since it was usually for him. Most of the time, he said very little, listening as one emergency or another was described, and then Steve would watch him carefully jot the address on pieces of scratch paper torn from old newspapers. After hanging up, his father would venture to the garage, fill his toolbox, and head out, usually without mentioning where he was going or when he would be back home. In the morning, the check would be tucked neatly beneath the statue of Robert E. Lee that his father had carved from a piece of driftwood, and his mother would rub his back and promise to deposit it at the bank as his father ate his breakfast. It was the only regular affection he noticed between them. They didnt argue and avoided conflict as a rule. They seemed to enjoy each others company when they were together, and once, hed caught them holding hands while watching TV; but in the eighteen years Steve had lived at home, he never saw his parents kiss.
If his father had one passion in life, it was poker. On the nights the phone didnt ring, his father went to one of the lodges to play. He was a member of those lodges, not for the camaraderie, but for the games. There, he would sit at the table with other Freemasons or Elks or Shriners or veterans, playing Texas hold em for hours. The game transfixed him; he loved computing the probabilities of drawing an outside straight or deciding whether to bluff when all he held was a pair of sixes. When he talked about the game, he described it as a science, as if the luck of the draw had nothing to do with winning. The secret is to know how to lie, he used to say, and to know when someones lying to you. His father, Steve eventually decided, must have known how to lie. In his fifties, with his hands nearly crippled from over thirty years of carpentry, his father stopped installing crown molding and door frames in the custom oceanfront homes that had begun to spring up on the island; he also began to leave the phone unanswered in the evenings. Somehow, he continued to pay his bills, and by the end of his life, he had more than enough in his accounts to pay for the medical care his insurance didnt cover.
He never played poker on Saturday or Sunday. Saturdays were reserved for chores around the house, and while the garden in the front yard may have bothered the neighbors, the interior was a showpiece. Over the years, his father added crown molding and wainscoting; he carved the fireplace corbels from two blocks of maple. He built the cabinets in the kitchen and installed wood floors that were as flat and sure as a billiard table. He remodeled the bathroom, then remodeled it again eight years later. Every Saturday evening, he put on a jacket and tie and took his wife to dinner. Sundays, he reserved for himself. After church, he would tinker in his workshop, while his wife baked pies or canned vegetables in the kitchen.
On Monday, the routine started all over again.
His father never taught him to play the game. Steve was smart enough to learn the basics on his own, and he liked to think he was keen enough to spot someone bluffing. He played a few times with fellow students in college and found out he was simply average, no better or worse than any of the others. After he graduated and moved to New York, hed occasionally come down to visit his parents. The first time, he hadnt seen them in two years, and when he walked through the door, his mom hugged him fiercely and kissed him on the cheek. His father shook his hand and said, Your moms missed you. Apple pie and coffee were served, and after they finished eating, his dad stood, reaching for his jacket and car keys. It was a Tuesday; that meant he was going to the Elks lodge. The game ended at ten and he would be home fifteen minutes later.
No no go tonight, his mom urged, her European accent as heavy as ever. Steve just got home.
He remembered thinking that it was the only time hed ever heard his mom ask his father not to go to the lodge, but if he was surprised, his father didnt show it. He paused at the doorway, and when he turned around, his face was unreadable.
Or take him with you, she urged.
He draped his jacket over his arm. Do you want to go?
Sure. Steve drummed his fingers on the table. Why not? That sounds like fun.
After a moment, his fathers mouth twitched, exhibiting the tiniest and briefest of smiles.
Had they been at the poker table, Steve doubted he would have shown even that much.
Youre lying, he said.
His mom passed away suddenly a few years after that encounter when an artery burst in her brain, and in the hospital, Steve was thinking of her sturdy kindness when his father woke with a low wheeze. He rolled his head and spotted Steve in the corner. At that angle, with shadows playing across the sharp angles of his face, he gave the impression of being a skeleton.
Youre still here.
Steve set aside the score and scooted the chair closer. Yeah, Im still here.
Why?
What do you mean, why? Because youre in the hospital.
Im in the hospital because Im dying. And Id be dying whether you were here or not.
You should go home. You have a wife and kids. Theres nothing you can do for me here.
I want to be here, Steve said. Youre my father. Why? Dont you want me here?
Maybe I dont want you to see me die.
Ill leave if you want.
His father made a noise akin to a snort. See, thats your problem. You want me to make the decision for you. Thats always been your problem.
Maybe I just want to spend time with you.
You want to? Or did your wife want you to?
Does it matter?
His dad tried to smile, but it came out like a grimace. I dont know. Does it?
From his spot at the piano, Steve heard an approaching car. The headlights flashed through the window and raced across the walls, and for an instant he thought that Ronnie might have gotten a ride home. But just as quickly the light shrank to nothing, and Ronnie still wasnt here.
It was after midnight. He wondered whether he should try to find her.
Some years ago, before Ronnie had stopped talking to him, he and Kim had gone to see a marriage counselor whose office was located near Gramercy Park, in a renovated building. Steve remembered sitting beside Kim on a couch and facing a thin, angular woman in her thirties who wore gray slacks and liked to press her fingertips together. When she did, Steve noticed she didnt wear a wedding band.
Steve was uncomfortable; the counseling had been Kims idea, and shed already gone alone. This was their first joint session, and by way of introduction, she told the counselor that Steve kept his feelings bottled up inside but that it wasnt his fault. Neither of his parents had been expressive people, she said. Nor had he grown up in a family that discussed their problems.
He sought out music as an escape, she went on to say, and it was only through the piano that he learned to feel anything at all.
Is that true? the counselor asked.
My parents were good people, he answered.
That doesnt answer the question.
I dont know what you want me to say.
The counselor sighed. Okay, how about this? We all know what happened and why youre here. I think what Kim wants is for you to tell her how it made you feel.
Steve considered the question. He wanted to say that all this talk of feelings was irrelevant.
That emotions come and go and cant be controlled, so theres no reason to worry about them.
That in the end, people should be judged by their actions, since in the end, it was actions that defined everyone.
But he didnt say this. Instead, he threaded his fingers together. You want to know how it made me feel.
Yes. But dont tell me. She gestured to his wife. Tell Kim.
He faced his wife, sensing her anticipation.
I felt
He was in an office with his wife and a stranger, engaged in the type of conversation he could never have imagined growing up. It was a few minutes past ten oclock in the morning, and hed been back in New York for only a few days. His tour had taken him to twenty-some different cities, while Kim worked as a paralegal at a Wall Street law firm.
I felt, he said again.
When the clock struck one a.m., Steve went outside to stand on the back porch. The blackness of the night had given way to the purple light of the moon, making it possible to see up and down the beach. He hadnt seen her in sixteen hours and was concerned, if not quite worried. He trusted she was smart and careful enough to take care of herself.
Okay, maybe he was a little worried.
And despite himself, he wondered if she was going to vanish tomorrow, the same way she had today. And whether it would be the same story day after day, all summer.
Spending time with Jonah had been like finding special treasure, and he wanted to spend time with her as well. He turned from the porch and went back inside.
As he took his seat at the piano, he felt it again, the same thing hed told the marriage counselor as hed sat on the couch.