Messy

by Katie Porter

  Even Ian smiles at me. I’d have thought he knew me better by now, but apparently not. He nods. “Good to hear. Lovely sentiment.”

  The bird’s wings catch the air and it’s almost instantly gone. I catch sight of it across the way, swooping over a black cab as if with no caution for its life. Surely it’s not so blind. So reckless. Some internal guidance must direct it. I don’t have any such guidance.

  I wonder what Ian would think of me if he knew the truth. I want to fuck a dying man’s daughter more desperately than I ever want to sing again.

  Chapter Six

  Harlow

  I LIVE IN TWO PLACES in San Francisco. Dad has a Victorian in the Castro, across the street from Dolores Park. He bought it immediately upon moving to California, and my mom lived there with us at first. Eventually she was crowded out by his rages and books.

  The neighbors liked Dad at first, when he put a fourteen-foot fir tree in the front parlor for Christmas and decorated it with old-fashioned candles and oranges and dolls. They liked him less by March, when he hadn’t taken it down yet. He was forgiven by June, until the cycle repeated year by year and got longer and longer, until the year it never came down. Mark Yagerstroom, two doors down, called the fire marshal. Dad got a ticket.

  The next year he bought an artificial tree. In July. He decorated it with flamingoes. It stayed that way the entire time I was in middle school.

  No one invited us to their Halloween parties.

  But that was alright with Dad, because it meant he no longer had to invite the outside world in. He could fill his space with more and more books, and with the newspapers he inspect for proof that the musical world is still conspiring against him. The second bedroom is filled with VHS tapes he’s filled with thousands of hours of programming—every minute of it from MTV and VH1, before they turned to reality TV shows.

  The attic was initially his studio. He had it soundproofed and modernized, and it was there that he wrote the songs he sold. The royalties sustain him to this day, as well as the proceeds he’s still entitled to from the first two albums released by The Skies. Through high school, I watched legendary producers and musicians troop through our home and up our back stairs to make their pilgrimages to Silas Tate. If they feted him for long enough, maybe he would give them a chart topper.

  Until he stopped being able to write anything, much less hits.

  They stopped visiting. They never came back.

  Then Dad filled the attic first with vintage Stratocasters. Then it was any Fender he could find. Then any guitar.

  When he paid over six grand for a LyxPro because someone had scribbled the name “Jimmie Hendricks” on it, I intervened. I’m his legal trustee now. I ensure that his house is clean, that no spiderwebs hang above the three-foot-tall sloping stacks of paper that cover the dining table. That there’s food in the fridge and someone available to serve it to him.

  I have an apartment in SoMa, in a fully modern building that houses one hundred and forty-nine other apartments. There’s a gym and a pool, and public gathering areas I never use. On the ground floor are shops where I can pick up a half gallon of milk if I need.

  My apartment has a single bedroom. The living room is blissfully tiny. There’s barely room for Dalia, my best friend, to come over. I can stand in the center of my kitchen and touch both counters and then the fridge without taking a step.

  The bedroom fits my queen bed and dresser. I know that the amount of rent I pay is ridiculous for such a small space, but I honestly don’t give a shit. The delicate proportions are safe to me. Nothing can get overpacked. Nothing is overwhelming. I can’t get lost in a warren of quixotic collections.

  Naturally Alec Davies’ home could not be called petite.

  It’s taken a few days to make all the necessary arrangements, most of them on behalf of Dad’s health. A hospital bed had to be installed, as well as the breathing equipment made necessary by his lung cancer. His nursing staff is part of the process. They seem to be both fairly relieved we’re moving out of a hotel, yet starry eyed at where we’re going. Despite my conversations with Sophette Gradine, the coordinator of the nursing program, I can’t tell if she’s impressed with Alec Davies as a musician or as a man who makes things happen.

  Nevertheless, three days later I stand beside Dad’s wheelchair in the front foyer of an elegant Kensington townhome. Frank is behind us, having just pushed Dad up the recently installed ramp that conceals marble entry stairs. The aluminum contraption gleams, grasping for what sad rays of English afternoon sunshine are available. It’s drawing attention—an eyesore in this elegant neighborhood.

  Does Alec hate it? Does he care?

  I resent that he wasn’t waiting for us. I loathe that I care.

  “Where is that fucker?” Dad mutters.

  And I despise that Dad and I are on the same page regarding our wait.

  “It’s kind that he’s allowing us to stay here,” I say in a soothing voice. “He’s a busy man. He’s not going to be at our beck and call.”

  “I don’t need him at my bloody beck and call.” Spittle gathers in the corner of Dad’s mouth. He was never a big man, but his illness has made him downright skeletal. The divots at his temples are deep enough to rest my entire thumb in. His veins are thick. “It’s like he’s always been. Rude. You’re supposed to greet guests.”

  Guests are different than ghosts. I turn away from the door and step deeper into the house. I adore it. I covet it, despite the spaciousness—or maybe because of the space, because it is nothing but void. The furniture is postmodern. Slim and sleek. Everything is leather, with the barest struts to keep structures aloft. The sofa looks as if it’s hovering.

  It’s so clean. It’s nearly bare.

  Frank pats Dad’s shoulder and says something polite and comforting. He’s a nice guy. I make a mental note to ask if his hourly pay needs to be bumped up. Combat wages.

  There are no real divisions between rooms. The downstairs was gutted at some point, putting lie to the ornate facade of the old building. I turn the corner, which is all that marks a separation between a living room-like space and a study. Alec is standing there in silence.

  He has his hands in the pockets of fine grey trousers. Paired with the trousers is a dark blue V-neck sweater. These are his at-home clothes. His casual wear. I want to claw his perfection apart. I want to see him undone and reckless.

  “Good afternoon, Ms. Tate.” By his tone, I know that he heard Dad’s bitter comments. I’m not sure that I feel any shame on his behalf, but my stomach takes a hard dive anyways.

  “Please, call me Harlow,” I reply, as if I haven’t had his mouth on me. As if I wouldn’t give anything for more.

  He inclines his head toward me in a silent acknowledgement. We’re both lying and dancing in the dark. The blue of his eyes is murkier today.

  “Hiding from me, Alec?” calls Dad in a whispery echo of his former voice. He makes up for his lack of volume with extra scorn. “You never used to be one for giving up the limelight. Not unless you were off your chump.”

  The angle of the walls means that I can see my father and Alec at the same time, but they can’t see each other. Dad delivers his blows with a smile that holds razors, and he keeps his chin up, his shoulders cocked. He hides behind the shields he’ll never admit to. Alec gazes back at me steadily. His posture forms a gentle C, both hips and shoulders canted toward me as if I am his magnet.

  “Let’s show you to your room,” he says, and I’m not sure if he’s speaking to me or to Dad. He’d like to be rid of both of us, I’m sure.

  He strolls forward and presents himself to Dad’s examination.

  “No witty comeback. Not feeling up to it today?” Dad looks him up and down like an inquisitor examining a witch. “Nothing to say for yourself?”

  Perhaps Alec is a witch. That would explain so much, for me at least.

  “I don’t see why,” Alec says evenly. “Sometimes there’s no changing things. People have been content to
think what they will about me for many years, including you.”

  “Including your pa, way back then. Maybe he was right about you.”

  Alec flinches. His skin goes pale under the dark fringe of his hair. Apparently Dad has discovered—or rediscovered?—the most painful target for his knives. He leans forward a fraction in his wheelchair. I almost feel bad for Alec, for the misery that’s coming for him. I’ve been there.

  But then, I think Alec has been there before too.

  I’d always thought my father’s English accent was dramatic, something that stood out compared to all the other dads. It made him special and it always sounded sharp to me. But he speaks as if he has a mouthful of marbles compared to how brittle Alec can make six words: “I think you’ll like your room.”

  He makes a subtle motion that urges Frank to start pushing Dad’s wheelchair. We follow Alec into his townhome.

  The room is up the elevator to the first floor. It’s grand, really. Likely the size of my entire apartment. The hospital bed is set toward the rear. Near the windows is a sitting area clustered around a stone coffee table. A pair of walnut panel room dividers wait to gracefully screen the ugliness of medical science. The bathroom is all-white marble with an open-design shower.

  I think this is the master suite. I’d be surprised if it isn’t. There is a grandness of scale and design that says a king lives here. If not a king, then a master of industry. Dad will like it. But it makes me wonder how much of his own space Alec is giving up.

  I trace my fingers over the horsehair inset of the walnut panels, as Frank does necessary medical checks. Blood pressure. Oxygen stats. It’s easier to look at the contrast between my bitten-down nails and the glossy wood than it is to confront the truth of my dad’s health.

  Alec watches, of course. He stands at the end of the bed, one hand on the unseemly cream plastic footboard that’s marring the beauty of his master suite. I had wanted to resent him but I can’t. I’m grateful. So grateful I could cry with it. As mad and bad as my father can be, no one deserves to be alone in their illness. Suffering should be witnessed and I am not strong enough to do it alone.

  Dad’s breathing roughens and turns raspy. “Quite the improvement in circumstances from your first bedsit.”

  “I’m grateful,” Alec says simply.

  “That place was a nightmare. I can’t count how many times I woke with insects crawling over my face.”

  I hold my breath and shrink into my skin. This is what I want. My father’s history, since it’s my history as well. It’s what made me. The things that linger under my skin and knit my bones. I don’t want Dad to notice me and stop talking.

  “Anything to save a quid,” Alec says.

  “We forgot what it was to have privacy.” Dad’s eyes close as he leans back in his chair. His skin is grey. “Remember the time you stuffed that Latvian bird right on our bar table?”

  “Regrettably, I do.”

  “That was on our first tour, the stop in Belgium. She had nice tits.” Dad lifts his hands to his sunken chest, showing how big the girl was. Ample, apparently.

  I try not to die. I wanted these stories, after all. I should be adult enough to deal with them.

  “Aren’t you worried about respecting your daughter?”

  Dad looks over at me, half hidden behind the screen. He gives a bewildered frown. “I treat her like I do any of my friends. She’s not upset.”

  “Thanks for that update on my feelings, father of mine,” I say as dryly as I can manage. I lift my chin and let my shoulders stay loose. Never let the bastards get you down, after all. It was one of the first lessons Dad taught me.

  He nods with pride. “See? She’s a tough girl. She gives as good as she gets.” He breathes in a way I’d like to interpret as a regretful sigh. It’s most likely the illness eating away at his lungs. “I raised her strong.”

  Fuck, that’s what I hate. I can still see so clearly that he loves me. It’s a rotted-up kind of love. All this would be easier if he didn’t care.

  Alec is considering us both, observing us like we’re a science experiment. More likely, we’re a vignette bound for his next song.

  I turn away and look out the front window. There’s a false balcony made of wrought iron. I pretend I’m Juliette, compelled to a bad end and all.

  “I’m tired,” Dad declares. “I’ll retire.”

  “Would you like me to lift you into bed?”

  I want to stuff a sock in Alec’s mouth as soon as he makes the offer. He’s opened himself up to hurt and I want to push the invitation back into his mouth.

  Dad takes it as well as I’d expect. “Fuck you, tosser. You’d like that well enough. Lord it about, won’t you? I should smash your bloody teeth in.”

  We are all blessed that Alec doesn’t point out the obvious, that Dad barely has the strength to hold his lap blanket over his toothpick legs. “I apologize.”

  “You should, you fetid gammon.”

  Frank steps between them. “I’ll assist you, Mr. Tate.”

  “Goddamn right you will,” Dad mutters. His face is ashen, his lips blue. “Your job. Your paycheck is riding on it.”

  Alec and I both step into the hallway without saying goodbye to him. It’s better that way. Cleaner. Nothing can be said at this point that won’t make Dad angrier.

  I take a shaky breath. Alec stops beside me. I want to touch his neck, to see if his pulse is racing as hard as mine. I don’t let myself.

  “Should I offer an apology?” I ask, in a deliberate echo of what he said when he turned up at my hotel door.

  His mouth turns up in the tiniest, most subtle one-sided smile. I want to put my mouth over that crook.

  “No,” he says. “I knew what I was getting into.”

  “How did you know?” I laugh, a little helpless. I give up my posturing and cover my face with both hands. They’re shaking. “Because I had no idea. I never have. I never know.”

  I don’t think I’m making sense although what I’m saying feels true.

  “Your father’s always been a complicated person.”

  “Fuck him. Fuck you. Being complicated doesn’t mean you get to treat people like trash.”

  “No, but it means when you do, your daughter still ferries you across an ocean. Still waits on you and loves you and her heart still breaks when you die.”

  I shudder. “You’re not as deep as you think, Alec.”

  He frames my face with his hands. His thumbs rub my cheeks. They’re wet, but it’s not as if I’m crying because I’m sad. “I’ve been told that before,” he says.

  “I don’t know why my eyes are watering.” I blink fast, trying to dry out my lashes. “I think I’m allergic to something in your house.”

  He bends his head and kisses me. I hold his wrists. I’m not sure if I’m trying to keep him closer to me or make sure he doesn’t escape. His lips are soft. Kissing him is a drug. I let the heady sensation take me over for a long, dizzying minute.

  Then I shove him away. “You’re not getting off that easy, Alec Davies. Come for me when you’re ready to be honest about wanting me. I won’t let you soothe yourself with the lie that I’m a pity fuck.”

  Chapter Seven

  Harlow

  LIVING IN ALEC’S HOUSE turns me into a nocturnal animal. I’d like to believe myself a dangerous predator, strolling through the empty hallways and circling the darkened living room. A puma or a jaguar. Able to defend myself with teeth and claw if set upon. I lay on his leather sofa and stare at the ceiling and wish to be found so that I can prove my ferocity.

  More likely, I am a hedgehog. I’m a scurrying rodent, but not even one that housewives fear. I’m prickly, but a fourth grader wouldn’t flinch when tucking me into a terrarium. Alec’s home is my hamster wheel. I run frantically but get nowhere.

  It’s past two in the morning, deep in the night, when I hear a noise from above my room. I am curled in a chaise lounge that’s stuffed with goose down. The chaise was originally positio
ned under a window with a beautiful view of the back garden. I dragged it to an oddly sized corner between the closet and a dresser, which remains empty. By safety-pinning an expensive cashmere blanket to a light fixture, I’ve created a safe hidey-hole for myself. I’m in a tent where I can pretend it’s okay to be a child, or at least okay to be as frightened as a child.

  I stare at my open laptop, with my drawing tablet in my lap. I have a watercolor-style painting of Dad on the screen, where he’s looking away from me. His mouth is pulled down in an expression more severe than what one might call a frown. A grimace? As if the pain were sinking its claws deep into him. I thought painting the way he looks at me might exorcise my demons, or his, but it hasn’t helped. I still don’t have answers to our shared history.

  A quiet clatter sounds through the ceiling above me. If I had been doing anything but breathing my grief in and out, I’d have likely missed it. Alec. He’s up there. He keeps the entire third floor as his. I wonder how grand his rooms must be, looking at the size of what he’s given to Dad and me.

  He must be awake. I wonder what he does in the dark of the night when he’s alone with his ghosts. Do they look like mine?

  I slap the computer shut and push away from my tent. This isn’t helping. I should find a snack. Maybe a glass of milk or some cheese and crackers. Dairy helps sleep or something.

  Maybe a bottle of red wine. Or three.

  The kitchen isn’t dark. A bright, stark band of white light lays across the hallway. It starts from the cracked-open kitchen door and stretches halfway down the hall floor toward me. A forcefield. A dare.

  Beyond the door are the comforting, terrifying small noises of a man making tea. Milk splashes in the cup. The kettle boils.

  I stand in the dark hallway. My throat is tight. My chest is even tighter. I don’t think I have the courage to cross that barrier of white light.