Hold-Up

by E. B. Duchanaud

  “The guy threatened to kill my parents if we called the police or chased him down!” Charlotte’s cheeks have turned beet red and she’s got daggers for eyes, but Detective Roberts is used to looks like that, I’m sure. I watch him slide ungracefully from the desk and pace the carpeted room. I know exactly the kind of detective he’s trying to be, but his efforts are undermined by the leather phenomena on his feet that slide out from under him as he strides with purpose across the room.

  “Y’all go back inta this hallway and wait for yah families,” he says. “Ah’ll see y’all again.”

  As we file out of the room, I hear him mumble “Jesus H. Chrahst!” under his breath, and when I turn around, I see his polyester daisies speckled with coffee. A smile curls up the corners of my mouth without my control and pulls at my sore nose, which in turn starts to give me a headache. I try to uncurl the corners of my lips in the names of pain and the fear of offending Roberts, but it’s too late on both counts.

  “Nahaw, you git yoahself out that door, son,” he says with a shake of his head.

  And I do. I get myself out that door.

  I catch up with Zefi, who’s still taking notes.

  “Don’t you ever stop?”

  “This is an amazing story, Alex.”

  “Nothing about Detective Roberts makes a great story.”

  “You heard what he said about it being an inside job.”

  “No, I heard nothing of the kind, Zef.”

  From the bench, I can just barely see the front entrance over the officers bobbing up and down between desks. This is where Mom will be rushing in after work, tired and “not in the mood.” And I dread it, because if she thinks this is bad, she hasn’t heard the last of it. “Mom, I lost my ride to and from school.” That’s the tidbit of news guaranteed to send her over the edge, hands flying and voice raised. And so far since Dad left, I’ve been able to avoid that.

  A chubby, pale woman who somehow looks just like the skinny, Chinese Peg next to me pushes open the door, and right behind her is Zefi’s mom. They look worried, and when Zefi’s mom lays her eyes on her beloved son, she starts to cry. I don’t know if it’s seeing her son in a police setting or if it’s the black eye. I figure it’s a little of both.

  “Jesus H. Christ,” Zefi mumbles to me. “She’s crying.”

  He’s escorted from the bench to the front desk, where his mom, who I have to admit is one of the sweetest moms I know, hugs him like she hasn’t seen him for weeks. She’s still got her arms around him as they push out the door into the night. Peg and her mom follow behind them.

  “My parents! Suspects!” Charlotte whispers to Jarrid and me. “That detective is crazy.”

  “Everyone’s a suspect,” Jarrid says. “Haven’t you seen any of those old courtroom thrillers on TV?”

  Amen, brother.

  “It’s offensive,” she scoffs.

  Jarrid puts his arm around her shoulders and she nestles inside like she belongs there. Just yesterday, I could have sworn Charlotte was giving me looks like she was interested in me. When she introduced herself and I told her I already knew her name, she practically melted, which had surprised me, because between Todd and Ina and Dad’s leaving, I haven’t felt melt-worthy for a long time. Bottom line: females are all lunatics. Mammy’s just the icing on the cake.

  As I’m thinking about how crazy women are, in walks Mom. She whooshes to the front desk and is already talking with an officer before the door has had time to close behind her. She’s probably the only one in a tailored pantsuit on the floor, and I can see the male officers checking her out. All of them. With heels, she’s as tall as the average man, which always makes her stand out in a crowd. Her hair is slicked back from her face and looks wet, but it’s not. It’s the gel she puts in to keep it back. Her hair is actually shorter than mine, which I kind of like. Between the high heels and the slicked-back blond hair and the confidence, you can see my mom coming from a mile away; and if you were anyone but me, the wedding ring she still wears wouldn’t mean anything except that there’s someone out there good enough to be her husband. To me, however, that ring makes the hair and the pantsuit and the high heels nothing but distractions. With that ring on her finger, all I see is someone falling apart. As far as the lunatic gender goes, Mom is no exception.

  Officer Jackass comes out of the woodwork to take me to the front desk. “Good luck explaining that face to Mommy,” he says. “Good luck with the ‘It’s nothing’ line.”

  “Yeah,” I say.

  “Tell her it was the burglar,” he says. “That the burglar slapped you around a little.”

  Brilliant, except that it doesn’t make sense that a burglar with a gun would bother. He pats me on the back and pushes me toward the front desk. I watch Mom’s face decompose when she sees me. Her shoulders slump, the arch of her eyebrows inverts, and her eyes fill with tears.

  “Oh my Gawd! Aaaalex!” She skitters toward me in her two-inch heels and throws her arms around my neck, burying my head in the wool pashmina that is like an extension of her body at this point. If she doesn’t let me up for air, I might suffocate in the spicy-rose scent of Hunger, last year’s Mother’s Day gift.

  “Ma’am, your son’s a hero,” he says, and I pop my head out from Mom’s embrace in utter shock.

  “Huh?”

  “Don’t be modest, son,” Jackass says.

  “My Alex! A hero!” Mom pulls me from the pashmina to admire me, and I breathe in a lungful of “fresh” air before she pulls me back inside her shoulder.

  “I’d call fighting an armed burglar heroic.” Jackass gives me a noogie the way Dad used to, and that’s when I realize that this little exchange isn’t about me. This guy is putting on a show for Mom. There’s that glimmer in his eye that reminds me of Charlotte’s yesterday, which means—as much as I don’t like to think it—that Mom is melt-worthy too. She loosens her grip and I crane my chin over Mom’s shoulder to see Detective Roberts with a paper towel still dabbing away at his daisy tie. Between Officer Jackass and Detective Roberts—and I guess I can throw Dad in there too—men are just as crazy as women.

  Mom’s laugh is fake, and I can feel her tugging my hood toward the door.

  “Thanks, officer,” she says. As soon as we’re out the door, she sighs. “He was trouble for you, wasn’t he?”

  “You mean Officer Jackass?” I am happy to see Mom, not just because I’m at a police station, but because I don’t spend much time with Mom out of the house. When I think about it, I don’t spend much time with her, period. I catch her eye and she smiles despite my beat-up face. I guess any time together is better than none.

  “Your face looks awful, honey,” she says once we’re stopped at the car and directly under a lamppost. “Let’s get you home.”

  I squeeze into the passenger seat and am hit by another barrage of Hunger that gives me an instant headache.

  “You’ve got to stop with the perfume, Mom.”

  “It was from you,” she says. “And I like it.”

  “It’s giving me a headache.”

  “Open your window,” she says, her smile quickly fading. “Tell me what happened.”

  “It’s nothing.”

  “Don’t blow me off.”

  “I got a little beat up.”

  She shakes her head and purses her lips. “This never would’ve happened at Greenbriar.”

  “It was the burglar, Mom.”

  “Is that what that officer told you to say?”

  I cock my head halfway out the window and pretend not to hear her.

  “A burglar isn’t going to waste his time beating up an innocent bystander. He’s going to get the hell out of there once he’s got his money.” She puts her hand on my shoulder. “Who’s giving you trouble?”

  “It’s not going to happen again,” I say.

  “Did you beat up the
other boy?” She sighs. “I’ll need to talk to the boy’s parents, Alex. These things don’t just work themselves out on their own.”

  “These things do just work themselves out, Mom.”

  She shakes her head and scoffs, and I watch as her hands tighten around the steering wheel. “You’re just like your father.”

  “That’s a shitty thing to say,” I mumble under my breath.

  “If it’s such an awful thing to say, why did you give the station his contact number and not mine?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  I rewind to the sign-in sheet at the front desk and remember picking up the sticky Bic pen attached to a clipboard.

  “Your father called me at work, Alex, telling me I’m a bad mother.”

  “Who cares what he says,” I say.

  Mom chuckles, but it’s the sniffly, complicated kind that comes with tears.

  “I’m doing the best I can,” she says, pulling out the last tissue from the box on the dashboard. In police cars, it’s military-grade equipment. In Mom’s car, it’s boxes of tissues.

  “And you’re doing great,” I say. “Minus the perfume.”

  She chuckles. “Well, you still have to call him when you get home.”

  “No way.”

  “You haven’t returned his calls, Alex. He says your voicemail is full.” She turns into the driveway, stops the car, and looks at me. “You haven’t even listened to his messages, have you?”

  “He left us behind, not the other way around.” I push out of the car.

  “He’s your father.”

  “He’s gone.”

  I bolt up the walkway, dying to drop onto my bed and put on my headphones.

  “Give me the name of the boy who beat you up, Alex.”

  I ignored the question once, but this time it throws me into caged-animal mode and I lash back. I twist the front doorknob open, and right before stepping inside, I drop the bomb. “School rides are off with Todd, by the way,” I holler back. “Effective immediately.”

  As soon as I’m out of sight, I race to my room. I hear her slam the car door and scurry up the steps behind me.

  “It’s that Todd, isn’t it? That’s why the rides are suddenly off.” Mom swings into my room for visual confirmation, which I must have given her, because the next thing I know, she’s pulling her cell phone from her purse. Before I can explain, she’s talking to someone on the other end. When Dad nicknamed her Speedy, after Speedy Gonzales, he wasn’t shitting around.

  “Darla? It’s Janet. I believe our boys have been in a fight.”

  I slam my bedroom door and plop onto my bed that, to my surprise, doesn’t feel so soft and cozy. I stop breathing to eavesdrop better, but unfortunately between the black eyes and the perfume-induced headache, I can’t hold my breath for long before the throbbing in my temples becomes too much to take. I breathe out and let my shoulders melt into the wall behind me.

  “May I come in?” Mom asks, but her hand has already twisted open the doorknob.

  “He’s a maniac, Mom. We spun out of control yesterday on our way to school.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Because I can handle it.”

  “You got beat up handling it, honey.” She’s leaning in my doorway with her shoes off. I can see a red line around the top of her feet where the edge of her shoes has rubbed into her skin.

  “But it’s over now.” When I say this, a rush of relief washes through me because it’s true. The Todd saga is over.

  “You need to call your dad,” she says, pushing off down the hall.

  “What about school tomorrow?”

  “We’ll figure it out,” she answers all nonchalant, like we’re talking about a toilet-paper shortage.

  I wait for her head to pop in once more.

  “Call him, Alex.” Her voice is firm. “Now.”

  “You shouldn’t stick up for him, Mom. He’s not worth it.”

  “Well, he’s still your father.”

  “Tomorrow,” I say, rolling over for a magazine, but Mom pulls me upright by my ear.

  “He’s been sick, for God’s sake!” She lets go of my ear and I drop to the bed. “Call him,” she sighs. “And I’m not talking about a cold, Alex.”

  My mind latches on to the one word Mom—the most articulate person I know—cannot say, and I suddenly feel dizzy despite my resolve not to care. Cancer.

  “Voicemail first and then I’ll call. I promise.” No matter what he’s got, I make a pact with myself not to care. And it’s this coldheartedness that knocks the wind out of me.

  Mom swings back into the doorway and drops a plastic bag onto my bed. “Almost forgot.” Inside is the Vaseline.

  In the end, despite the wedding ring on her finger and the crying, Mom’s a kick-ass warrior. Maybe that’s her lawyer side. Or maybe it’s her feminine side. I let the dust of today settle, and I think about Charlotte and the nail file she jammed in the burglar’s hand; about Peg and her blanket, which seemed lame at the time, but probably wasn’t. I even think about Mammy, who whipped the shit out of me in her bathrobe and slippers.

  In the unavoidable spirit of comparison, I think about today’s roster of men. From Detective Roberts to Officer Jackass to Todd and finally to me. And then there’s Dad, who sits like a cherry on top of the list, like he sits on top of every shitty day that’s passed since he’s left.

  I’m lying back on my pillow with my teeth gritted. My hands are squeezed tightly around the thin little metal box that is my cell phone. I call my voicemail, which I have successfully avoided since he left. It may seem irresponsible not to check my messages, but Dad is the only person who doesn’t text.

  I try to imagine Dad’s voice, the depth and rasp of it. His nagging cough and the cherry cough drops he perpetually rolled from one side of his mouth to the other, knocking against his teeth as they went. I squeeze my eyes shut to concentrate and breathe in deeply. For a split second, it’s like he’s here with me.

  I swipe open my voicemail and brace myself for the listening experience.

  “Give me a call, Alex. It’s Dad.”

  And the second.

  “Dad again. Call me.”

  The first dozen or so messages are quick and easy. But then there’s a longer message.

  “Alex, you’re avoiding my calls, and I get it. But we need to talk [cough, cough].”

  I can make out birds chirping in the background. And if I had to say, there’s sunshine too. And warmth. And something about Dad’s voice tells me he’s grown back his beard. He’s happy, and that pisses me off more than the nib of my broken tooth or Officer Jackass hitting on Mom.

  “I don’t know what else to say, Alex. We need to talk. I’m serious.”

  The next ten messages are variations on this theme of needing to talk, and I erase him mid-sentence in the name of principle. He can’t leave us in the dust and expect open communication. I hear people chatting in the background. And car engines and horns. I hear a woman’s voice up close. I hear life, and he doesn’t deserve that.

  “Alex, I should’ve been more up front with you and your mom, I know. But you’re mine, Alex, and nothing changes that. Please—”

  I erase the message to prove he’s wrong, that I’m not his. Even though I once had been, and even though it hurts. One more message to go.

  “No matter what you think of me, Alex, I love you.” He pauses and coughs. “Call me. Please.”

  This last message is dated thirteen days ago. I close my voicemail, take a deep breath, pull up Dad’s cell number, and call. It rings just once before he answers. His voice is raspier than usual and the sunshine and beard I thought I could hear are no longer there.

  “Mom made me call you back,” I say, but I don’t sound like myself.

  “Are you okay?” The bad connection
coupled with Mom’s “He’s been sick” lead me to believe he’s in the hospital. Connections are terrible at hospitals; I remember that from my afternoons with Ina.

  “I’m fine,” I say, all nonchalant. It’s the indifference that sticks bitterly on my tongue.

  “We need to talk, Alex.”

  “I know about your cancer, Dad.”

  “So Mom told you.” He lets out a deep sigh and the ground beneath me drops. I’d guessed right.

  In the silence, a tar-like blackness covers me until I can barely catch my breath. To hell with him and his West Coast lifestyle and his cancer. The blackness creeps into my throat. When I was a kid, Dad and I used to play hide-and-seek every day after school. My favorite place to hide was under my bed, the same one I have now. As soon as I heard the floorboards creak and saw the shadow of Dad’s feet pad into my room, I’d hold my breath and listen to Dad huff and puff in frustration until I would eventually peek out from under the dust ruffle with a dramatic “I’m here!” and put him out of his misery. He’d whisk me into the air looking relieved, as if he’d been afraid I was gone forever.

  “I’ll never leave you, Daddy,” I always promised.

  “I’d never let you leave,” he always promised back.

  As I listen to him breathe over the static, a part of me mourns those promises and the love. The goddamned love. I can’t ever love him like before, and that cuts deeper than his leaving. That’s what breaks me in two every single day.

  “Cancer doesn’t change anything,” I say over the choppy connection.

  But it changes everything. When everyone’s healthy, a lifetime of seething ill will doesn’t seem unreasonable. But when someone’s ill, people go out of their way to make amends. Putting up a civil, even loving front becomes doable when the one they can’t stand only has six months to live.

  “I’m here, Alex,” he says. “Alex, I’m—”

  Maybe it’s because my soul has been a little broken today or because I’m sitting on my childhood bed or maybe it’s just hearing his voice. Whatever it is, I feel like sharing.