by Lisa Tucker
Stephen wondered again what her father had put in those instructions. What could be so hard that Dorothea would be this hesitant? Maybe he should try to talk to the old man about it himself.
But when O’Brien did call later that morning, to see if she got the money he wired and find out how she was, Stephen had other, more important things on his mind. He told Dorothea’s father that she would be there in a minute and dropped the receiver on the counter; then he quickly took her down the hall.
“There’s something I need to tell you,” he said in a low voice. He was running his hands through his hair; she must have known he was nervous. She didn’t try to rush him, even though he paused for quite a while, trying to think of a way to explain this. “Okay,” he said, “the thing is, for some parents, it can be really upsetting to find out their child is growing up.” Talk about a stupid way of putting it. No wonder she looked confused. “What I’m trying to say is, even though there’s nothing wrong with what we’re doing together—the sex, I mean—you might want to be careful because if you mention this to your father he might …”
“Become upset?”
“Yes,” he said, exhaling. “I think there’s a better than excellent chance.”
“I know that.” She flashed him a goofy grin. “I wasn’t born yesterday.”
The last part was a quote from a movie they’d seen. He would have laughed if he hadn’t felt so guilty, thinking about when he’d told Dorothea’s father he’d look out for her. How the hell had he let this happen?
While she was talking on the phone, Stephen reminded himself that O’Brien was obviously out of touch with reality, and the reality here was that his daughter wasn’t a little girl anymore, but a twenty-three-year-old woman. Dorothea had made it very clear that she wanted to have sex, and not only the first night, but every time since. Stephen had asked her over and over if she was all right with what was going on and she’d not only said yes, but she’d made it easy to see that she meant it with how passionately she reacted.
If he needed more justification, all he had to do was look at what happened to Jimmy when he went out into the world. Sure, Dorothea was losing some innocence by being here with him, but she was gaining maturity, and maturity was what she needed. Even though she would go back to rancho weirdo when Jimmy was well enough to leave the hospital, the likelihood that she would stay there was diminishing with each day she was in the city, Stephen could tell. She was talking about a future with a job now. She was talking about a future outside of New Mexico.
And finally, really, the truth was he just couldn’t help himself. She was always right there, kissing him, hugging him, sleeping naked with him. Even if he could have backed away now, he would have hurt her feelings.
“Father would like to talk to you,” Dorothea said, appearing in the bedroom doorway. “Would you mind?”
As soon as Stephen picked up the kitchen phone and said hello, O’Brien said, “May I ask you a question?”
“Depends on the question,” Stephen said cautiously.
“Does my daughter know that your wife passed away?”
He certainly didn’t expect this. He turned the other way from Dorothea, who was in the kitchen too, standing in his robe, pouring way too much pepper into the eggs she was whisking.
“No,” he said.
“May I ask why?”
Stephen cleared his throat. “I find it hard to talk about.”
“I understand. But I think it’s very important that she know.” O’Brien paused. “I would consider it a personal favor if you would tell her.”
If the old man’s voice wasn’t so strangely kind, Stephen would have thrown it back on him, suggested that O’Brien tell Dorothea how her mother died first.
“I’ll see what I can do,” Stephen said flatly. “Is that it?”
“Yes. And thank you again for taking care of her.” His voice grew quiet. “I can tell she’s doing very well there.”
When Stephen hung up, he felt a little sorry for O’Brien. The old guy was alone now, and it had to be tough. Especially since Dorothea obviously was doing very well. She hadn’t had any breathing attacks and she’d even stopped taking the sedatives to visit her brother.
“No more pepper,” he said, turning around to see Dorothea still pouring it in. “No more whisking either,” he said, taking her hand and laughing because she’d whisked the eggs so thoroughly they’d transformed into a bubbly foam.
Later, while Stephen was in the shower, he wondered why, if O’Brien thought it was so important for Dorothea to know about Stephen’s wife, he hadn’t told his daughter himself. And why was it so important? What was Dorothea’s father getting at?
Stephen wasn’t opposed to telling her about Ellen. If only it had been that simple. The problem was, for Stephen to tell Dorothea about Ellen, he’d have to think about Ellen, and that he was determined not to do.
He’d put the photo of Ellen and Lizzie in a drawer after that first night, so Dorothea wouldn’t ask him about them. He didn’t intend to put his past away too, but now that it had happened, he wanted to keep it that way.
He knew he couldn’t last like this forever, but then Dorothea wouldn’t be here forever. This period was a little vacation from his life, and he didn’t see why he shouldn’t enjoy it as much as possible. As long as he made sure Dorothea enjoyed it too, he didn’t see the harm.
thirteen
ON SUNDAY AFTERNOON, Nancy Baker told Dorothea and Stephen that Jimmy had been pacing his room all morning, waiting for his sister to arrive. He’d remembered something important about his father, he said, though he hadn’t told Nancy what it was.
“I’ll be interested in hearing about this,” Nancy whispered to Stephen, on the way down the hall. “Did I tell you the father sent a twenty-thousand-dollar check and called it a ‘down payment on the bill’? That has to be a first for this place.”
“True,” Stephen said, but he was looking at Dorothea, who was walking about ten feet ahead, obviously eager to get to her brother. He glanced at Nancy. “Any talk of releasing him?”
“I don’t think he’s ready, but if he wanted to go home, we wouldn’t stop him. At this point, it’s his call.”
“Stephen!” Dorothea said, turning back to him and smiling. “Could you please hurry?”
Nancy took a long look at him, but she didn’t say anything. He walked faster to catch up with Dorothea.
Jimmy was looking better every day. All of his stitches were out now, and he was healing fast, as fair-skinned people often did. He smelled of oil paints, as usual; he seemed to spend every free moment in art therapy. Nancy was right about how excited he was. He ran over to Dorothea and slipped his arm through hers. They’d barely sat down together when he said he’d been trying all week to remember what their father was like when they lived in California. “It’s been driving me crazy,” he said, and smiled weakly. “Crazier, at least.”
“I can see why this is so important to you,” Dorothea said, patting his hand. “Stephen explained this to me. He said learning about someone’s past helps you to know them better.”
Jimmy shook his head. “I don’t want to know Father better. After what I remembered, I don’t care if I ever see him again.”
Her face crumpled. “You can’t possibly mean that.”
“I mean it, Thea. If for no other reason, because he still has the fucking gall to talk about honesty and principles.”
“But Father does believe in those things.”
“No, he’s a liar, and now I can prove it.”
“Oh,” she said, in the smallest voice, barely audible.
Stephen wished he could hold her then, but he knew how she felt about keeping their distance in front of Jimmy. She’d told him she was afraid her brother would feel uncomfortable, even like an outsider, if he knew they were “seriously dating.”
He was listening carefully to see if Dorothea was going to have an anxiety attack. She’d already given up breathing through her nose. Her mouth
was open, just a little, but he could hear the effort it was taking to fill her lungs.
“Maybe you should wait on this,” Stephen said to Jimmy. He nodded at Dorothea.
“Oh, I’m sorry.” Jimmy’s face went even whiter than usual. “I wasn’t thinking about—”
“No,” she said. “I want to hear it.” She panted for a moment. “Please, just tell me all at once.”
“All right. I remembered the way he treated Mom when she had to work.”
“Treated her?” she gasped. “What do you mean?”
“He didn’t want her to work. I don’t know why, but it made him very angry.”
“Father never gets angry.”
“He used to. I think he even cut her hand once, so she couldn’t go.” Jimmy looked at the wall. “I keep remembering her walking in with her hand bandaged. She was in her nightgown with the yellow flowers. Father told us she was sick, but I knew he was lying. He didn’t say anything to her, even though she looked so scared. I knew he didn’t love her. He was lying about that too.”
Dorothea didn’t move or breathe for what felt like a full minute. Stephen was ready to buzz the nurse for a sedative, but then she was okay.
“I’m sorry, but I know this isn’t true.” Her voice was kind but firm. “Father is too gentle to cut anyone.”
“Why do you always have to defend him?” Jimmy jumped up and walked to the door and back. “Why can’t you ever defend me?”
“I do defend you,” she said. “I can defend you both, can’t I?”
“No. He ruined my life, and you either understand that or you don’t!”
Jimmy babbled for a while then, stomping around the room, slapping his hands against his chest, shaking his head so hard his messy red hair kept falling into his eyes. None of the things he was saying made any sense, until suddenly Jimmy said, “He took my mother away from me!”
Stephen looked at Dorothea, but she was still okay. In fact, she was breathing better than before.
“I’m glad you know that you didn’t hurt our mother,” she said, putting her arm around her brother when he slumped down next to her.
“I didn’t say that,” he cried. “I was there, but the Liar was there too. I know I didn’t do it alone.”
Dorothea gave Stephen a look, and it was obvious she didn’t believe this. Neither did he, though he was beginning to think something had happened or Jimmy wouldn’t cling to this “dream” so tenaciously. He may have had all the details wrong, but there was something he had right. Stephen hoped it wasn’t really something Dorothea’s father had done to her mother. If he’d killed her, that would certainly explain why he’d taken those kids and disappeared.
“Was I there too?” Dorothea said. She sounded surprised by her own question, as if she’d never thought of it before.
“No.” Jimmy sniffed back tears. “I know how foolish this seems, but I keep thinking you were in a dresser drawer.”
Dorothea held him for a while until he calmed down. She told him she loved him several times. She showed him pictures from the California book, as she did every day, because it always seemed to make him happier.
“I’m all right,” Jimmy finally said to his sister. Then he pointed at the chessboard sitting on the table by the bed. “Are you ready to play?”
Nancy Baker had thought of this as something the two of them could do together, knowing only that Jimmy enjoyed the game. But Jimmy didn’t just enjoy it, he was really good at it. Dorothea said he’d always been good at chess and drawing, both of which she said she was terrible at.
But she wasn’t terrible, Stephen discovered, when Dorothea talked him into playing with her brother this time, and letting her watch. It usually took Jimmy about an hour to beat Dorothea, but Jimmy had him mated in little more than a dozen moves.
“I’m impressed,” Stephen said. He’d played a fair amount of chess in his life, and he’d never run into anyone who could crush him as thoroughly as Jimmy just had. He was just about to ask Jimmy who had taught him to play when he realized how ridiculous that question was.
Before they left, Jimmy whispered something to Dorothea and she nodded. Nancy was with another patient, so they left without giving her any report. They were back in the Checker, heading to his apartment, when Dorothea asked if he thought it could be true that her father hadn’t wanted her mother to work.
“Sure, it’s possible. This was twenty years ago, but there are still guys like that. Some of them don’t think women should work at all.”
“Yes, this is what Jimmy wants me to ask Father the next time he calls. Should women be employed.” She sighed. “He thinks if I ask that question I will see that Father’s view is very different than I think.”
“You sound a little reluctant.”
“It would be different if I could tell Father why I was asking.” She placed her palm on the foggy window. It was raining and the defroster wasn’t keeping up. “It feels manipulative, even dishonest.”
“Maybe you shouldn’t do it then.”
“I have to. I told Jimmy I would.”
Stephen could hear the sadness in her voice. He knew she felt like she was having to choose between them, and he felt irritated with Jimmy for doing this to her, but then he decided it was really O’Brien’s fault. The man could send twenty thousand dollars without blinking, but he’d never bothered to answer basic questions about their past.
He took her hand. “Want to go to the library on the way to dinner?”
He knew Dorothea would say yes: the library was her new favorite place to be. He’d only thought to take her there on Friday, but she immediately fell in love with it. She said someday she was going to live right next door to a library. “That way I can always have another book the minute I finish one.” The fact that the books were free amazed her, and Stephen had to admit it was pretty incredible. He didn’t have a library card, but he signed up for a temporary one that allowed him to check out two books and they’d each picked one. Stephen hadn’t even cracked the cover of his, but somehow, probably while he was sleeping, Dorothea had already finished hers. It was a popular novel about a girl who was murdered and went to heaven, which made Dorothea cry, though she insisted it was actually very happy, since most novels don’t have heaven at all. She also loved that the story had what she described as “a charming coincidence involving an icicle.” “You don’t see that every day,” she’d said, and he couldn’t disagree.
They had to run by the apartment first, to get the card and the book to return. They’d gone up the stairs and were just rounding the corner—when Stephen saw his parents. They were standing outside his door, arms loaded with groceries. His dad had two bags; his mom had one, and a sack of potatoes clutched in her other hand.
He knew this was his own fault. Whenever his parents didn’t hear from him for a while, they inevitably showed up, and always with groceries, as if the only possible reason for his not calling was starvation.
“There you are!” his mother said, but she dropped the potatoes when she noticed Dorothea. The sack burst and the potatoes spilled out onto the floor. His father leaned down to start picking them up and the bread fell out of one of his bags, a can of soup out of another. Dorothea giggled like she always did at slapstick on television. Stephen wished it seemed funnier to him.
He managed to introduce everybody. He cleaned up all the potatoes. He let his parents come inside because he couldn’t very well keep them out, even though he knew Dorothea’s things were all over the apartment. A pair of her shoes under the coffee table. A sweater draped over the couch. A white belt she’d decided didn’t go with her skirt thrown on a chair. One of her bras drying on the shower curtain rod.
It looked like she was living there, which, since they’d never even heard her name before, naturally surprised the hell out of Bob and Lynn Spaulding.
If they’d just been surprised, Stephen could have handled it. But they were just so glad about everything. So glad to meet you, Dorothea. So glad you like mushroom
s/potatoes/eggs/steak/you name it, and they did name almost every item as they took it out of the grocery bag and displayed it for her approval. So glad you know our boy, Stephen (they actually said “boy”). Where did you two meet again? The bus station. What a nice place.
“It’s not nice, Mom. It’s a shithole.”
“Don’t cuss in front of your mother,” his dad said, which he hadn’t said since Stephen was probably eight. But he was looking at Dorothea, and his real meaning was: Don’t cuss around this woman we are so glad to see you with, finally.
“He can cuss around me, Bob,” his mom said, also looking at Dorothea, winking. “We don’t mind a little salty language, do we?”
Dorothea was sitting on the bar stool, with her legs crossed at the ankles. “Actually, I’m very fond of the word ‘shit’ since Stephen introduced it to me. I didn’t know curses were referred to as ‘salty language’ though. I love that. So one could say about a person: his talk was peppered with salty language.”
His parents seemed a little confused, but they were still smiling. They sat down at the kitchen table and asked Dorothea the usual questions: where she was from, what her parents did, what schools she went to, where she worked. No matter how bizarre her answers must have sounded to them, they continued to smile. His dad even nodded approvingly when Dorothea said she was looking forward to working someday because she thought it would be “wonderful.” This from a man who’d worked forty-four years behind a desk at an insurance company before he retired, a job he’d said he’d hated most of the time.
“Isn’t she a pretty girl?” his mother whispered to his father. At least she thought she was whispering, but their hearing wasn’t what it used to be. Dorothea let out a nervous giggle.
“How long have you been in St. Louis?” his mom said.
“All right then.” Stephen stood up. “Don’t you guys need to get going before it gets dark? I know you hate driving in the dark, Dad.”
“But we’re just getting to know her,” his mom said.