Across the table, he lowered his eyes,
and what I saw inside them made
me want to duck. You listen to me.
I never told you it was okay to go
in that woman’s room. You’re making
that up, and I won’t have my daughter
turn into a lying whore like her mother.
Do you understand me? You’d better.
I Didn’t Know
Exactly what a whore
was, but I understood
him just fine, and never
brought it up again.
Some things don’t need
a detailed explanation.
But it wasn’t the last
time he made me believe
one thing, then yanked
my certainty right out
from under me. He’s sort
of an expert, and even
though I realize it, I
always seem to give him
the benefit of the doubt
and heap blame on myself.
Does that make me crazy,
or only sympathetic to
his own eccentricities?
I think maybe he’s only testing
my sense of loyalty.
I hope I rate an A-plus.
Especially Because
I need his cooperation now.
The coffee idea seems to have
worked because he comes
padding into the kitchen,
wearing flannel pajamas
that have seen better days.
“God, Dad. Buy yourself
some new pj’s, would you
please? That material is so
thin, I can see your hairy
legs right through it.”
Didn’t anyone ever tell you
it’s creepy to check out your
old man’s leg hair? I didn’t
raise a pervert, did I? Now,
how about a cup of that coffee?
“I’ll pour it for you, but you
have to decide if you want
sugar and cream in it. I’m not
exactly experienced at
barista-ing. It could be gross.”
Maybe I should make you
take a sip first, prove it’s not
poison . . . or piss. Pretty sure
that’s how they make it
at the so-called coffee shop
Zelda is so damn fond of.
I hand him a cup without
tasting it first, and he takes
a tentative slurp. His eyes fly
open wide and his upper lip
snarls and I’m thinking I did
something terribly wrong
until he smiles. Just kidding.
It’s not bad at all. If your little
girlfriend was the one who taught
you how to make coffee, please
give her a big thank-you kiss
for me. Did he really just say that?
Does that mean he suspects?
But, no. It must be another
of his not-so-funny jokes,
or else I would’ve heard
judgment in his voice.
He carries his cup over to
the table, sits. What’ve you got
going on today? You planning
on seeing that boy or what?
Uh-oh. This could go a number
of ways, so I’ll head him off
at the pass. “No. But now that
you’ve asked, I’m hoping you’ll
drive me into town. I want to go
to the hospital and visit Hillary.”
He Looks at Me
Long and hard, but apparently
doesn’t discern anything
suspicious in my body language.
Still, he comments, I didn’t realize
that girl was a friend of yours.
I avoid saying she isn’t exactly.
“She’s starting guard on our team.
I want to find out how she’s doing.”
He shrugs. Okay by me. I was
going over to Zelda’s anyway.
Ka-ching. “I’m going to meet
Monica there and we’ll hang out
somewhere until you’re ready
to come get me, if that’s all right?”
As long as the two of you
aren’t picking up strange men.
No problem there, Dad, and
now I can quit worrying
that you’ve intuited our secret.
“When can we leave? I want
to give Monica a time frame.”
Time frame? How about when
I’m damn good and ready?
To Be Fair
He answered my question.
I go shower,
brush my teeth,
dress in my usual
jeans and tee, this
time a long-sleeved
shirt in pastel teal.
The shade of a sunrise sea.
Monica likes this
color on me, says
it contrasts nicely
with the quiet titian
of my hair. Well, not
in those exact words.
She said it en español.
I’m starting to like
the Spanish language,
not that I know much
of it yet, but it’s soft
and rolling and mostly
logical, near as I can tell.
If I were more fluent,
I’d make this call
in Monica’s family’s
native tongue. One day.
This Day
I manage a simple, “Hola,
novia. ¿Cómo estás?” Most
tourists would know how
to ask how someone’s doing
so I don’t feel especially
smug about remembering
that much. And now I switch
to the language I’m fluent in.
“Dad says he’ll bring me
to town when he’s ‘damn
good and ready.’ At least
he’s willing to get dressed
and drive. I’ll text you when
we’re about to go, okay?”
I expect her usual cheerful
banter, and a positive sign-
off, but her reply takes me
by surprise. Let me know
a little ahead of time. And
can you bring that boy?
“Boy? You mean Gabe?”
The last thing I want to do
is introduce those two.
What’s up her sleeve? “Why?”
I can almost hear her shrug.
I want to meet him is all.
You’ve been spending lots
of time with him. Sometimes
I’m kind of jealous, and I want
to make sure I’ve got nothing
to worry about. Maybe we could
hang out together once in a while.
Usually I find her honesty
refreshing. Today it’s unsettling,
but I don’t see how I can say no
unless I go ahead and lie to her.
Which I refuse to do. Anyway,
upon further consideration,
maybe it would be good to put
the pair of them in the same
place, if only for comparison’s
sake. And maybe a wider buffer
zone between Gabe’s kiss yesterday
and the one I wanted to coax
from Monica today would be
an okay thing. “I’ll give him a call
and see if he’s free, then I’ll go
give Dad a nudge. See you soon.”
She Makes Me Promise
I’ll follow through,
which is weird for
Monica, but whatever.
When I call Gabe
it’s almost like he’s
been
waiting for
the phone to ring.
And apparently he was.
I was hoping you’d call.
You’ve been on my mind
since I left yesterday.
There’s something
new in his voice—
a hint of affection
that puts me slightly
on edge. Pretty sure
this is where I’m
supposed to get
all flirty. “Yeah? And
what exactly have
you been thinking?”
That I wish I would’ve
chanced the shotgun
and stayed longer.
I’m craving more of you.
Straightforward
Five simple words.
Five direct words.
I’m craving more of you.
I’ve been honest with
him, I’ve shared secrets.
I’ve confessed misgivings.
He might not understand
that’s what they were.
And now he’s waiting
for me to respond, hoping
I’ll say what he wants to hear.
The crazy thing is, at
the sound of his voice,
my heart stutters, my pulse
quickens, and minute
electric jolts prickle
my skin, make me shiver.
The reaction is almost
as intense as interlacing
my fingers with Monica’s.
It Comes Close
But as Dad always says, close
only counts in horseshoes and
hand grenades. I rein it in. Rein
him in, too. “You want to meet
me at the hospital in a little while?
I’m going to try to get in and see
Hillary, or at least find out how
she’s doing.” I take a deep breath.
“Oh, and Monica wants to meet you.”
Who’s Monica?
“My friend.”
Your best friend?
“That’s the one.”
Who’s a lesbian?
“That is correct.”
She wants to meet me?
“That’s what she said.”
I don’t get it. Why?
“She said so she can stop
being jealous of you.”
Did you tell her I kissed you?
“I did not tell her that, no.”
So why is she jealous of me?
“Because she knows I like you.”
She doesn’t own a shotgun, does she?
I have to laugh at that. “No way,
and don’t worry. You’ll be safe
with me.” I glance at the clock.
“Okay, it’s quarter to ten now.
I’ll light a fire under my dad
and try to be there by eleven
thirty. Does that work for you?”
I didn’t say I was coming.
“No. But you and I both know
you want to meet Monica, too,
if only to satisfy your curiosity.”
He’s quiet for a moment.
Are you going to satisfy your curiosity?
I’m quiet for a longer moment.
“Probably. But not today. And not
in front of you. We’re good to go?”
He Agrees We Are
And that is an unspoken vow
between us to leave intact
this odd web of friendships.
His and mine.
Mine and hers.
Hers and his,
soon to come.
The logical side of me says
I’m playing with dynamite,
that sooner or later:
He’ll get hurt.
She’ll get hurt.
I’ll get hurt, and
the fault will be mine.
The emotional half tries
to insist there’s no such
thing as too much connection.
One plus one.
Plus one plus one.
Totals four, and
that’s better than three.
But when Gabe leaves,
is that four minus one, or two?
Math was never my best subject.
I Make an Executive Decision
Call Monica and tell her we’ll meet
(the “we” including Gabe) in front
of the hospital in an hour and a half, so
now I have to nag Dad into the shower.
“The game starts at one,” I remind him.
“You have to drop me off first,” I underline.
“Zelda never has enough beer,” I push,
“so you have to stop at the store.”
Stop bitching at me, he insists.
Okay, maybe you’re right, he concedes.
But now it sinks in. What’ve you got
up your sleeve? You planning mischief?
Mischief? Is that word in actual
circulation? “Nothing up my sleeve
but . . . pesto!” It’s an old joke,
something to do with an ancient
cartoon Dad watched in reruns
as a kid. Can’t remember the name,
but “moose and squirrel” comes
to mind, and even then I don’t have
it right. Not pesto. Presto. You know,
like magic? Presto-change-o? I’ve got
to find Bullwinkle online somewhere.
They don’t make ’em like that anymore.
Pretty Sure
There’s a reason for that,
but I stuff the thought and
shut my mouth. Listening to
Dad go on about Russian spies
cast members in The Rocky
and Bullwinkle Show buys
me a ticket into town within
the relative time frame I had
in mind. We arrive at the hospital
at 11:40, and it’s swirling
with activity. “What the . . . ?”
Almost as soon as Dad puts the car
in park, Gabe raps on my window,
opens the door. So, I met Monica
and that . . . He points toward
the front doors, where a small knot
of people, including what looks to be
a cameraman, have gathered.
That right there is all her doing.
Monica spots us, waves us over.
Dad gets out of the car, audibly
sputtering, but before he can say
anything, Gabe nudges me forward.
Over my shoulder, I hear Dad say,
What the holy hell is going on?
Now Monica sprints toward us.
Come on, baby. They’re waiting.
“Who’s waiting?” The words barely
clear my lips before she grabs hold
of my right arm, tugs me toward
the scene at the front of the building.
Gabe hustles along at my left,
leaving Dad to bring up the rear,
still demanding an explanation
he won’t receive from Monica.
As we approach the group, a man
peels off and comes toward us.
He extends a hand. You must be
Ariel. I’m Charles Grantham.
Hillary’s Father
Is tall, fit, and extremely handsome
for a man in his fifties. I always
considered Dad, who is forty-eight,
“older,” at least compared to my peers’
parents. But Mr. Grantham has at least
six or seven years on my father.
“Good to meet you, sir. How is Hillary?
They wouldn’t tell me anything
when I called for information yesterday.”
First of all, please call me Charles.
Hillary has a concussion and some
swelling around the brain, which
they’ll monitor for a few days. But
they expect a full recovery, thanks
to you two. I’m extremely grateful.
My dad wanders up and I take
the time to introduce him to Charles.
Charles. Huh. First time a man his age
has invited a first-name basis.
Before Dad has a chance to say anything,
a well-dressed woman in her early twenties
comes over and says, I’m Kelly Waits
from KCRA, and I’d like to do an on-camera
interview with you and your friend
for our six o’clock newscast. Just a couple
of questions. Would that be okay?
I’m going to be on TV? Good thing I
put on makeup. “Well, sure. I guess.”
As she goes to round up her crew,
I can’t help but notice Monica’s gleeful
smile, and I’ve got no doubt about who
called the press. She’s downright giddy.
Dad, however, is anything but.
He’s breathing hard, in the way
that I know means he’s pissed,
and big ropy veins have popped
out on his face, which is the color
of ripe persimmons. He looks
about ready to have a stroke.
You don’t want to be on TV,
he hisses, eyes darting around
to see who might’ve heard him.
Sure she does! argues Monica.
Ariel and Gabe are heroes.
Don’t talk to me about heroism.
Dad fights to control the anger
in his voice. I was in the army.
I knew real heroes, and none
of them went looking for publicity.
“I didn’t go looking for publicity,
Dad. It found me.” With help from
Monica. “You don’t really care, do you?”
He does, I can tell, but before he can
make a scene the news crew gathers.
Next thing I know, Gabe and I are
standing in front of a camera, telling
our story. Then the young reporter
moves over to interview Charles,
who informs her of his undying gratitude
to the young people who went out of
their way to go looking for his daughter.
While that happens, a guy from
the Union Democrat comes over
and gets comments. He’s nice
enough to interview Monica,
too. Ariel, she’s my friend, and
a real hero. I love this girl.
She’s good at basketball, too.
Okay, that was random, but
he writes it down anyway.