by Naima Coster
“What are you doing?”
“Waiting for you,” she said, and Gee didn’t believe her.
“What about your boyfriend? You left with him.”
“He stopped by cause he was helping our mothers do something for the campaign. You know that bulletin board outside the main office where parents can post notices? Apparently, they took it over, papered it three inches thick. The secretary is the only one who stays in the main office this late, and she’s a sympathizer. She goes to Duke’s parents’ church.”
“What did they put up?”
“Flyers. Stupidity. I don’t know. I almost dumped him on the spot.”
“Why didn’t you?”
Noelle shrugged, and Gee understood. If he had somebody, he couldn’t imagine dumping them either.
“He talks about the transfers like they’re not kids we know. Like he’s not talking about you and Adira and my friends.”
“Maybe he does know who he’s talking about.”
Noelle paused for a moment, considering it.
“Will you go with me to see what they posted? It feels less scary if I go with you.”
“All right,” Gee said, not because he wanted to see, but because he wanted to be with Noelle.
At the front entrance, a few kids loitered on the steps, laughing and punching each other on the shoulders, running around the railing. The parents who had papered the bulletin board were gone now, and so was Duke.
The halls were empty. Besides the drama club, the only students who stayed at school this late were the jocks, and they were still off practicing at the fields. The school officer nodded at them as they reentered, genial and disinterested in whatever they were up to. Gee wondered if he’d done the same as the parents traipsed in with their stacks of paper and rolls of tape.
When they turned in to the hall toward the main office, they saw the walls of the corridor were covered in huge white sheets of paper, some as long as Gee’s torso. They spread from the baseboards of the floor up to the ceiling. They were taped up in crooked rows, haphazard and overlapping, so the pages seemed to have erupted from the walls.
Gee and Noelle crept deeper into the hallway, and Gee saw that they weren’t flyers; they were newspaper clippings the parents had printed and blown up. It took him a few moments to realize the pattern, but the headlines gave it away.
First Shooting Death of the Year read one. Former High School Teacher Charged with Assault. Eleven-Year-Old in Critical Condition. Late-Night Flat Tire Scam: What You Need to Know.
The articles spanned years. Burglaries, kidnappings, drug busts, all on the east side. Gee could see they had printed and posted many of the articles more than once; the duplicates were of the most gruesome stories.
Noelle gasped and covered her mouth with one hand, reached for Gee with the other, but he was already drifting ahead of her. He felt his blood rushing in his ears, his feet lifting off the ground, his vision razor sharp. He scanned the walls.
There was no order to the posters, neither chronology nor class of crime. They had included things as minor as car pileups on a busy boulevard, as dire as a child caught in the crossfire in a drive-by. The sheets were large and washed-out, the print fuzzy, the photographs distorted.
Gee must have found the article, but it seemed as if it had found him. The large print of the headline was a terrible beacon calling him forward. Local Man Murdered on Ewing Street. Gee hadn’t known the street name. He’d never seen an article about that day.
Raymond Gilbert, it said. Twenty-four, it said. There was no mention of Superfine, or the other article that was soon to run in the same paper, as if they were different men, the baker and the murder victim, Ray and Ray.
Wilson wasn’t named; neither was the assailant. There was no mention of the blood, or all the big pieces of furniture on the lawn. An image sailed into Gee’s mind: a boxy pink armchair, an oak dresser. He had run among them, as if in a maze. The article mentioned a disagreement, a debt. The assailant had done time before for assault and battery, illegal possession of a deadly weapon. He owed alimony. In the altercation, no one else had been harmed.
A photograph of Ray hovered between the two slender columns of the story. The picture was inky, too granular to really give an impression of his face, but he looked younger than Gee ever remembered him being. Had he been that young when he died, when he was his father? He looked as if someone had taken the picture before he was ready, his mouth only beginning to smile. It was stiff, posed, like a high school portrait.
Gee had seen many articles like this, so many photographs of people he had no trouble believing were gone because to him they had never existed. But to see Ray’s face was different; it was as if a faraway fact, a thing he had known without knowing, had resurfaced, monstrous and real.
Raymond Gilbert had left behind a girlfriend and his girlfriend’s son. It didn’t say he’d been his father, and it didn’t mention his name, except for Gilbert, his surname, but that alone wouldn’t be enough for anyone to know.
That was what he wondered: whether anyone would know. Gee felt himself tremble. He slumped to the ground. He wished Ray had never died, and even more he wished he’d never had a father who had died. He was disloyal; he was selfish. He lowered his head to the ground, felt the cool tile of the floor. His teeth fastened together, his jaw sealed tight. He felt his ribs heave and contract as he tried to breathe.
He heard Noelle calling him, her voice far, getting farther, even though he knew she must be getting closer. She was watching him. She was reaching for him. Her hands on his shoulders. If he wasn’t careful, she would see. Gee found a way to steady himself. He pushed off his hands. He stood up.
13
October 2018
The Piedmont, North Carolina
The hospital chapel was one austere room. A golden crucifix was mounted on a pinewood altar, folding chairs arrayed before it in narrow rows. Robbie sat in the rear beneath a painting of a stained-glass window. The sanctuary was airless, musty.
He had decided to pray. In the derelict room, he said to God all of the things he’d lose the nerve to say to Lacey May when he saw her.
In the years since the divorce, he had never stopped believing they would find their way to one another. In his vision of death, when it came, they were together. One of them would go first, the other soon after. They would be old. It wasn’t such a crazy dream.
He didn’t doubt that she had learned to love Hank, in the way one loved a distant relative, or a dog, or an old lady from church—it was love that was mostly fondness, gratitude, the vague desire to see someone again. It was mild, and it was pleasant, but there was a limit. It wasn’t what he and Lacey May had, the feeling he was sure she still harbored for him, the feeling she would give herself over to if he were ever ready for her, suitable, but he never was.
Noelle had left, then Margarita, and Diane, and he had missed every window to win her back. It was his own fault. He would wish that he had never started, but it would be pointless. Prayers couldn’t undo time, undo who you were.
If he were ever good enough one day, what would it matter that he’d left her alone for so long? What would it matter that he’d stolen from her? She wouldn’t hold it against him if he were her man again, if she could trust him, if he weren’t so useless. She had been good to him, never kept the girls away, only herself, which he understood. If he could have kept away from himself, he would have, too.
There were times he had gotten close. He worked, saved money, blew it, started over again. He got fired, moved on, got fired again. In between, there were women; there were apartments; there were days that seemed like the bottom but weren’t. The highs weren’t what kept him alive; it was Lacey May. She was the reason he went on cycling through motel rooms and cities and years. The girls didn’t need him, not anymore, maybe not ever. But Lacey, the promise of Lacey, of getting clean and loving her again, was enough to go on painting cars, checking his brakes and changing his tires, brushing his teeth, stam
ping out his cigarettes at night so he wouldn’t set fire to the bed.
He had meant to pray about the cancer, but he had wound up talking about himself. What was there to say to God? Please don’t take her? Death would come for them all. Help me let her go? That was impossible, even for the Heavenly Father. Finally, he prayed, Not yet, and, Por favor, Señor, give her a little time for me. It was selfish, but there was no use in lying to God. The Lord already knew it all, knew Robbie didn’t deserve anything. But He also knew that Lacey May had been his wife all along; in his heart, he hadn’t betrayed her. That wasn’t nothing.
The chapel doors creaked open, and Robbie turned to see Margarita, his tall girl in knee-high boots. She wore a skirt that hardly covered her thighs, a flimsy shirt with big sleeves. He put on a big smile for her, although he ached everywhere: his knuckles, behind his eyes, his gums. It hurt to be this sober.
Margarita sat beside him, her skirt disappearing underneath her. He didn’t ask how she’d known where he’d be. The girl had a sixth sense. The rest of them, they were always underestimating her.
“Where’s your sisters?”
“Noelle isn’t coming. Diane and Alma are already in the room.”
“La novia?”
Margarita nodded.
Robbie sighed. He hadn’t been surprised by the news about Diane; his American daughters had their American lives. They were adults. And even he had to admit Alma, and that hair—she was really something.
“Noelle’s going to miss me if she doesn’t come.”
“You’re not leaving again, are you? Diane’s paid up the motel through the end of the week.”
“Why wouldn’t my own daughter want to see me?”
“She said it’s too much for her. She’s just being dramatic.”
Robbie smiled mischievously. “I wonder where she gets it from.”
“The both of you.” Margarita was sharp and didn’t return his smile, but Robbie didn’t mind. They had all found their ways to survive; Margarita had hers.
He had never asked her how she got in touch with Amado’s men, whether they had given her any trouble. He had never confessed that when she and Noelle arrived at his room, two hours southwest of town, he was expecting them to be a delivery, and he was nearly jumping out of his skin, eager, waiting.
Margarita crossed her arms, and Robbie saw that on her pinkie she was wearing the ring he had given her—the R etched into gold.
“My God,” he said, pointing. “You still have it.”
“I just got it from Mama’s house. She saved it for me.”
Robbie felt a little pained she’d left it behind, never took it with her to California.
“And yours?”
“Lost,” Robbie said, although he couldn’t explain how. He might have left it in a soap dish in a motel. Someone might have wrenched it from his finger, robbed him one night he was high. He might have pawned it. It might have been ten years since it went missing, or five, one. He wasn’t sure.
If Margarita was disappointed, she didn’t show it on her face. “Come on,” she said. “Mama is waiting.”
“Maybe I should leave.” He made up a lie about how Lacey May probably didn’t want to see him. He knew she’d been asking for him, but he was terrified to see her sick, to see her irritated with him, to see how far they were from his dreams of growing old together.
“Oh, shut up,” Margarita said, and Robbie was startled, chastened by her. “Stop pretending you don’t matter.”
“All right.”
Robbie stood and crossed himself. They left the chapel together.
Lacey May was out of the bed, sitting in a chair in the corner of the room. She wore a thin robe the color of wine, and she had crossed her bare legs. They were freshly shaven, lotioned, and Robbie couldn’t remember the last time he had seen so much of her body. Her legs were wider, the threads of her veins thick behind her knees, at her ankles. She was eating grapes from a carton and looked more or less like herself, perhaps a bit paler. Hank and Diane were sitting on the windowsill, and Alma was beside Lacey May, perched on the arm of the chair. Together, they pinched the red grapes from their stems.
It was uncannily placid, the television playing the weather report on mute. Clear skies. High winds.
“Robbie.” Lacey May smiled at him. She rose to meet him, and Alma offered her arm to help, but Lacey May was fine.
Robbie shuffled forward to meet her. They embraced, and she smelled of antiseptic, the grainy hospital sheets. When she returned to the chair, he kneeled beside her, and she offered him a fistful of grapes. They were sweet and hard; they burst against his teeth.
Robbie saw they had a spread laid out on the bench at the foot of the vacated bed. A platter of waxy orange cheese, a box of crackers, a fragmented chocolate bar, broccoli, a bottle of ranch dressing.
“It’s like a party,” Robbie said because he wasn’t sure what else to say. He flashed smiles at them all—Alma, Margarita, Diane, Lacey, even at Hank, who hadn’t turned to look at him, hadn’t even nodded his acknowledgment when Robbie entered the room. He was tapping on his phone.
Now that he was here, Robbie wanted to make them laugh, wanted to help them see how good it was to all be together. There was too much you couldn’t control in life, too many terrible things. They should be happy, even if only for a little while, even just for right now.
The doctors had said Lacey May could lose her vision, her ability to speak, if the tumor went on growing. But for now, the swelling was down, and she’d be going home soon. She’d come back in for radiation; they would zap the tumor, and she’d get better, go into remission. Or, she would need surgery, and they would cut open her skull and lift out the mass. Or chemo. Or nothing would work, and she’d die. Robbie didn’t like her odds. But Lacey May seemed animated, calm. Unguarded. She grinned at him, and he wondered what kind of drugs they were giving her.
“Have you seen Diane’s house yet?” Lacey May asked. “It’s beautiful. It’s got land, just like our old one.”
Robbie felt the girls stiffen at the mention of the house. Even Hank looked up from his phone, which he had been toying with as if it were totally engrossing.
“It’s brick,” Lacey May said. “Not blue like ours was. But I think they should paint it. Gray. All the new houses are gray. The ones that are selling downtown? They’re all the same shade of gray, and they have pretty silver house numbers, lanterns on the lawn.”
Lacey May twisted her mouth to the side, as if she were about to whisper a secret. “I warned Alma already. I told her, be careful with my daughter. She’s a Ventura. Even if your name is on that deed, you better know a good lawyer.”
Lacey May threw her head back and laughed, and the girls looked on in horror. Hank turned back to his phone, and Robbie decided he might as well laugh along with Lacey May.
“She’s delirious,” Margarita said. “She doesn’t know who she’s talking to.”
“I can hear you, you know. And I know exactly what’s going on,” Lacey May said. “I’m just happy because I’m with my family. Everyone is here—or, almost, once Noelle arrives.”
Hank mumbled from the window that he was off in search of a coffee, and he left before anyone could stop him. Lacey May watched him go.
“You know how they say when you’re going to die, everything is suddenly clear?” Lacey May leaned into Robbie, as if he were the only one in the room.
“Nothing is clear,” she said. “None of it. Nothing makes sense. But when I woke up this morning, I was happy that I was going to see you. It’s been years, Robbie, hasn’t it? But it’s the most natural thing in the world to see you. After everything that’s happened, I want you close now. You’re my family. I’m so glad the girls could find you.”
Alma and Diane were the ones now exchanging looks. Diane invented an excuse about checking on the car. They left, and Margarita got the idea. She hesitated, unsure whether her parents ought to be left alone. They were acting more like dopey teenagers than fifty-
year-old exes who had been separated half their lives. Plus, her mother was probably high. Still, she gathered up her purse and left, said she was off for a walk and green tea. Lacey May and Robbie hardly looked after her as she went. Lacey May clasped both of Robbie’s hands in hers. They were cold, and he wanted to breathe onto them.
“Where have you been?”
“Oh, here and there.”
She stared at him, their hands locked.
“I would have come eventually,” he said. “I wouldn’t have made you wait too long.”
Lacey May nodded, although they both knew it wasn’t true. Robbie could easily have waited too long, waited until she had died, if that’s how things would go. She didn’t say this. She kissed his hands, firmly, across the knuckles, once, and Robbie found himself confused, heart hammering. He imagined Lacey May slipping off her robe, tucking herself naked into his arms, the hospital room door still open. She did none of these things, but she kept his hands cocooned in hers.
He decided he might as well tell her. “Lacey, I still think about you and me together.”
“Me too. I think about those good years we spent in the house. Sometimes, I wake up, and I’ve been dreaming we’re all back there.”
“I mean right now,” Robbie said. “Or in the future.”
“The future is for the girls, Robbie. I stopped worrying about myself, dreaming, a long time ago. The day I knew I couldn’t wait until you got out was the day I knew it was over for us. That’s why it’s good, in a way, that the girls haven’t settled down yet—well, Margarita and Diane. They’ll never go through what I did. When I lost you, I lost everything except what you’d left for me.”
“The girls?”
“The girls and the house.”
Robbie didn’t see the use in apologizing for the house now. Lacey May was looking at him too calmly, her smile too easy. Robbie felt that he wanted to kiss her, but she wasn’t signaling clear enough that that was what she wanted, too, and he didn’t want her to turn him away. Was this all she wanted—to hold his hands? Or was she ready to admit now what he had long known—that it had always been, would always be, the two of them?