by Naima Coster
Hank had on his swim trunks already; he had shaved, combed his hair back with water. It was no accident he had planned the trip for the precise day Robbie was set to be released. Lacey May glanced at the clock. Twenty-seven minutes.
She gave Hank a kiss to take the edge off, pressed his hand flush against her chest. It wasn’t long before he was massaging her breast. “Baby,” he said. “Sweetheart.”
It wasn’t bad, after all, this part of life with Hank. He was eager for instructions, zealous, and she could do so much for herself with a turn of her hips, the right picture in her head. What she had assumed was magic with Robbie had proven to be something cruder, more animal, a predictable spark that any two bodies could make together.
Lacey May kissed him, held his face in the crook of her neck. She kept her head up, one eye turned toward the clock.
She convinced Hank to make pancakes, and the girls sat at the kitchen table in their bathing suits. Margarita was the only one eating, licking syrup from her fingers, reciting all the things she’d do at the beach—bury herself in the sand, find a popsicle stand, join in a game of volleyball. She was telling them the story of the day, as if it had already happened, and she could assure them it would all be fine. Diane was somber, slipping her bacon to Jenkins under the table. Noelle’s eyes were fixed on the street, and she looked like a little lady, older than twelve, in her sundress. She had worn yellow, Robbie’s favorite color.
Hank paced the living room, on his third cup of coffee. He swept the curtains aside.
“We got some clouds moving in,” he said, as if the beach weren’t one hundred miles away.
By now, the girls knew their father had been in jail. Lacey gave up on the story about the fishery job when they moved in with Hank and rented out the house. They had never visited him, but Lacey May kept on depositing money in his commissary. Hank couldn’t begrudge her that. The money she earned at the store was hers to keep, and Robbie was still her husband, at least legally.
“I’m off for a smoke,” Lacey May said, and Hank didn’t stop her. He must have figured out they were all stalling, and there was nothing he could do.
It was as quiet as usual on the street. The bungalows down the lane were small and attractive, houses that had been built and sold after the war. Hank had inherited his from his father. It was simple, with brick columns, a shingle roof, a picture window that looked out on the hydrangeas on the lawn. Honeysuckle grew in the back, and there was an inflated pool covered in leaves, the yellow film of pollen. It was a fine place for her and her girls, although it wasn’t the kind of place she’d have ever chosen for herself, except, of course, she had.
She had lived on this side of town before, west of Main Street, when she was in high school. Robbie had lived on the east side, where the South and Central Americans tended to land. The town had been largely split this way—white and black, then white and not white, for as long as Lacey could remember. It had been true even before they were born, when the millworkers dispersed at the end of each day. It had remained true, even as the west side had emptied out, and most people who could afford to leave the city did. Lacey’s family had stayed. But she’d been grateful to move to the northern edge of the county when Robbie bought their house. Out there, they made more sense. Their neighbors were the river and fruit farms, a dairy plant, the old Civil War battleground.
Here, she’d caught some of the neighbors looking a little funny at her Diane. While nobody said anything, Lacey May couldn’t help but notice. Noelle was the fairest, limber, big eyed, long haired. Margarita looked like her father: dark eyes and full lips, something alien about the way her face was put together. And Diane looked like neither of them with her high cheekbones and coiling hair, how brown she became in the summer. But Lacey May didn’t see her daughters that way; as far as she was concerned, they were all the same to her, hers. Colombia was just a place their father was from, like Ireland, or France. Everybody was from somewhere else. Even the Native Americans. And what did it matter? The earth used to be all one continent; she had heard about it on a program.
Lacey was renting the house to two Brazilians. They were a pair of graduate students, hippies growing herbs in the yard, leaving their fat books out in piles on the porch. She often wondered what Robbie would think about some other couple living in their house, reading books and drinking wine or whatever it was they drank, talking about the future and where they’d live next. She and Robbie had never wanted to live anywhere else.
She heard him before she saw him. He was humming. She hadn’t even lit her cigarette.
He was wearing the clothes he’d had on the day they took him in: jeans and a black button-up. He carried a plastic bag, and he wore all his usual jewelry: a stud in each ear, his gold watch. When he got close enough, she saw his wedding ring swimming on his finger. He was thinner, bronzed, as if he really had been working on the shore all this time.
He climbed the porch, still humming. It was one of his ballads. Lacey knew the tune. She could hear the horns, the congas, a piano in her head. She wondered whether she’d still look beautiful to him. She had painted her toenails pink. Her blouse was the color of sunflowers.
Robbie stood before her and smiled. He was missing a tooth on the right side, a molar. It tore her in two.
“Welcome back,” she said finally, and a sorrow washed over Lacey that she didn’t understand. She didn’t want him to stay in jail, but she didn’t want him here either. He reached for her, and she let him wind his arms around her shoulders. He held her too close, for too long.
The door swung open.
“Look who it is,” Lacey said, waving at Robbie as if he were a guest, a surprise, not the man who had given her a life and then taken it away. Hank stood in the doorway, clenching his coffee mug and squinting at them. He looked jittery, feeble. Before he could speak, the girls came storming out the door, the dog barking after them.
Margarita came first, her long legs launching her off the ground. Robbie caught her in his arms as Diane grabbed him by the knees, crushed her face into his legs. Noelle was last, and she pushed past her sisters, thrusting them aside. She was the only one crying, her face contorted as if she were hurting physically. Lacey May knew the feeling. Robbie smiled and tousled her hair. “My girls, my big girls,” he said, his voice as bright and easy as if he were telling a joke, as if his time away had all been a trick. Even now, he wanted to be the one who could make them laugh.
At the kitchen table, Robbie told a story about the man he sat next to on the bus ride home. He had more than a hundred multicolored tattoos, including a pouty pair of lips he could make blow kisses if he flexed his bicep. The girls laughed, ensnared by him. Even the dog sat at his feet, his ears flattened with pleasure whenever Robbie reached down to rake under his chin. Only Lacey May seemed to be ignoring him as she gathered up things for the beach—extra towels, baby powder to shake off the sand—but Hank could tell she was listening. Her eyes flitted to Robbie and then away, every time she came into the room.
When Lacey May brushed by with a gallon of lemonade, Hank grabbed her by the belt loop of her shorts. “Baby, are you going to take the whole house? Let’s get moving.”
“All right.” Lacey May smiled, and it seemed real enough. How could he ever expect to know what went on inside Lacey May?
She ordered the girls to use the bathroom and run out to the car. They would see their father when they got back; he was spending the night. She turned out of the house, too, without saying good-bye. Soon only Hank and Robbie were left at the table.
The men stared at one another, and Robbie winked. He was as smug as ever, even if he looked ragged, beat. He’d walked nearly two miles in the heat from the bus station to the house.
“Shame we couldn’t go pick you up this morning, but I thought we’d be gone by now,” Hank said. “You know how long you’ll be needing to stay?”
“I haven’t thought that far. I’m just trying to soak it all in. My girls look good. Thank you for takin
g care of them.”
Hank wasn’t sure whether Robbie was sincere or trying to say he’d take over from here. He’d always had a way of making Hank seem like a fool, especially in front of Lacey. Hank offered him a cigarette, and Robbie waved it away.
“I remember, you know, the way you used to talk about her.”
“I was young,” Hank said. “And we talked about her together, didn’t we?”
“That was before she was my wife.”
“And before you were a junkie.” Hank felt his face heat up at his own boldness.
“It’s just a little problem I have.”
Robbie stood from the table unceremoniously and started calling for the girls, their names different in his mouth. Hank followed him out. Lacey and the girls were all hanging out the car, the engine running. Had they been waiting on him or Robbie? The opportunity to invite Robbie along to the beach hung in the air.
“I was thinking I could make us some dinner,” Robbie said. “We can all eat together when you get back.”
“We’ll probably eat on the road,” Hank said. “Chicken sandwiches or something. Don’t trouble yourself.”
“Please,” Robbie said, his tone forceful, as if he wasn’t pleading at all, and Hank buckled inelegantly. “Fine, but you might be waiting a long time. Who knows when we’ll be back.” It was like an instinct, to give in and follow his friend, more handsome, more charming than he’d ever be.
Lacey May lent him the keys to her car, although they all knew good and well the car had been Robbie’s, and it was still in his name.
On the coast, the land gave way to scorched yellow grass and salt marshes. The houses were slapdash and wooden, the air tinged with salt. Hank sped up to fifty-five, and the girls rolled the windows down and stuck out their heads. Lacey May was asleep, the skin on her thighs burned pink. A long-necked bird flew overhead, a heron maybe, its wings blue and gray.
Margarita unbuckled her seat belt to see, and, as if by instinct, Lacey’s eyes flew open. “Margarita Ventura, have you lost your mind! You sit your bottom down and put that seat belt on now.” She had to tell Margarita once more before she obliged. “You’re just like your father! You think everything is going to be fine when, sometimes, everything isn’t fine.”
Diane had the dog crowded onto her lap. At the mention of Robbie, she asked, “Uncle Hank, why couldn’t we bring Daddy to the beach?”
Hank tried not to cringe. The other girls called him by his first name, but it was as if Diane didn’t quite understand the arrangement. No one had told her to start calling him uncle; she’d come up with it on her own.
“You were right there, chickadee. He didn’t ask to come. He needs to rest. Besides, you’ll see him tonight.”
Noelle sucked her teeth. “Why are we even doing this dumb trip anyway? I hate the beach.”
“Quiet,” said Lacey May. “This is a nice thing. A day at the shore.”
Hank turned up the radio, cycled through the stations. A dirty rap song, humdrum gospel. A report about a teenage boy who’d lost his arm in a shark attack at Atlantic Beach. The malaise in the car was suffocating, which was the last thing he wanted. He was burning up a tank of gas to bring them to the ocean, and they were all thinking about how they’d rather be back home with Robbie.
“I’ve got a headache,” Lacey May said. “You got any aspirin?” She started unzipping the backpack Hank had set at her feet.
“Not in there,” he snapped, and Lacey May dropped the bag. In the top pocket, he’d packed sunscreen and cigarettes, a black velvet box with a ring inside. It was a big beautiful aquamarine, flanked by two little white stones, on a thin gold band.
Lacey May looked stunned, and he smiled to make up for his tone, but then he remembered his teeth and clamped his mouth shut. He had teeth so twisted they faced one another. He was planning to get them fixed—it might help them both if Lacey could love his smile. Robbie had been gifted a perfect set of teeth. It wasn’t fair, one of the many natural advantages he’d been given and squandered. He’d already lost one tooth, and, if he kept going the way he was going, he’d lose them all. Hank didn’t want to wish ill on his old friend, but he didn’t want to wish him well either.
Hank didn’t know whether Lacey had ever explained to Robbie about how they’d started. To Hank, those were technicalities, circumstances they had moved beyond to get where they were now. They were like roommates at first, except for when Hank reached for Lacey in the night, and she rolled toward him, willingly. He paid the bills; she cleaned up after him and the girls. Soon they were sharing rides to work, then sharing cigarettes, kissing on the mouth while he was inside her. Once, he overheard her tell another clerk at the store that her ex was in jail. Her ex. It gave Hank a wild hope that Robbie was out, and, maybe, he was in.
They reached the town and drove past dollar stores and hot dog stands, a string of new restaurants all with Spanish names. Hank wondered whether, at this rate, he’d even be able to read the signs around here in a few years. He parked on a side street in front of someone’s green-and-white summerhouse. They unloaded the car and headed for the boardwalk, the girls sullen and complaining about the heat, until they saw the beach.
“It’s paradise!” Margarita screamed in her ecstatic, showy way, and it made Diane laugh. They charged down the sand with Jenkins, his leash tangling at their ankles. Noelle lagged behind, headphones on.
“Why don’t you help your mama with all the things she’s carrying?” Hank said, and Noelle raised an eyebrow at him.
“She’s a big girl. She can live with her decisions.”
She loped ahead of them, kicking up the sand.
Robbie didn’t waste any time getting ready. He took a long, hot shower and anointed his body with all the little potions he found in the bathroom that belonged to Lacey May and the girls. Then he drove east toward the Súper Súper on Valentine Road. It was deliciously familiar, the put-put of the engine, the smell of the vinyl seats. There was dog fur, bundles of the girls’ hair on the car floor, and the scent of Lacey—her smoke and perfume. It was as if he’d only just left, as if jail had been one interminable day.
This side of town had the carnicerías and pool halls, the barbershops and one-room churches, the paper ads in Spanish stapled to trees. The highway became a five-lane road, dividing rows of low brick ranches and pine trees, purple coneflowers sprouting from the median. He’d left New York because an uncle had promised life was better, cheaper in the South. His mother brought him to the east side when he was a teenager, and a few years later, she left. She had done what she set out to do—see her only child through high school—and then returned to Bogotá.
Robbie entered the Súper Súper and prayed he wouldn’t run into anyone he knew. He wasn’t ashamed to say where he’d been, but he couldn’t bear to admit he had nowhere to call his own anymore, and his wife was living with another man.
The store was bright and big, and Robbie wheeled around his cart, feeling the strangeness of being out. He picked things up and put them down. Nobody watched him. It was awkward and familiar, like resuming an old part he had once known by heart.
At the back of the Súper Súper, there was a butcher, a Western Union, a cell phone vendor, a shaved ice stand, and a small carousel you could operate for a quarter. The Súper Súper was like an open-air market enclosed in concrete, a one-stop shop for the Mexicans and Salvadoreños who came in. There were Caribbean customers, too, but Robbie hadn’t found other Colombians. There were Colombians, he knew, in Raleigh and Charlotte, but they weren’t like him. They arrived already speaking English, enrolled in programs at NC State and Duke. He had learned to see other Latinos as his countrymen. He sang rancheras in bars, bought pupusas for his daughters from the carts in front of the Catholic church downtown. It was better this way, helped him feel less alone.
The cashier was a pretty girl with a big bump in front of her, a sparkly stud pushed into her chin. She made small talk in Spanish while she rang him up. How has it gone for you?
He felt a rush of blood to his groin. It had been so long since he’d been with a woman. She was pregnant, but Robbie was only looking. And what was wrong with that? Did he even have a wife anymore? A wife was a woman you kept your promises to, who kept her promises to you. Robbie had kept the most important ones. Even high, he’d been a saint—he’d never fucked another woman, not once that he could remember.
Robbie asked the cashier for her phone number. She told him no, and he left quickly, carrying his bags across the shopping center to the bar.
He sat alone in a booth, ordered tamales, a shot of tequila, beer. The paintings on the wall were new. A red chili pepper in a sombrero rode on horseback, gunning down a gang of green chili peppers, and rescuing the yellow pepper in a white dress they’d been holding captive. Robbie stared at the mural and drank. Maybe everyone was high, more people than ever let on.
Amado must have spotted him first because when Robbie looked up, he was already crossing the bar, headed toward him. Robbie cursed. He’d been out only a few hours, and here was Amado, sliding into his booth.
“Roberto,” he said. “You got lost. We heard what happened to you.”
Robbie shrugged. “I needed wheels. I wasn’t thinking straight. You know how it is.”
Amado wore his shirt unbuttoned, his gold chain on display. A diamond ring glinted on his pinkie. He was older than Robbie, muscular, and slim waisted. Beside him, Robbie looked scrappy, too skinny.
“They put you to work?”
“All the way east. They had us building roads. I learned a lot. If the garage doesn’t need me anymore, I think I could get a job in construction.”
“I’m happy for you, hermano. You got off light.”
“I’m a lucky man,” Robbie said. He gulped his beer.
“It’s not easy out here, you know—at least in jail you know what to expect. But out here, things are always changing. Police are always getting smarter. They know everybody’s face.”