Night Town

by Cathi Bond

  Lily moaned. I kissed her head and lied, telling her that everything was going to be all right. But that would be up to Lily, just as my choices had been up to me. So there we sat, while Lily floated in a medicated wonderland, in the middle of the disaster that used to be her perfect home. The home that she’d just destroyed. Why did she do that? I didn’t care if it was rude. I was sick of these secrets and had to know why.

  “How did you and Gabe meet?”

  Lily lay down, burying her head in my lap. I couldn’t see her face –only feel the soft whiteness of that halo of hair.

  “He was a friend of my father’s.

  So Gabe wasn’t her dad.

  “What about your mom?”

  “I never knew her.” Lily took a shallow breath and nodded off, but when she woke up she started to cry again, and she told me a story that flowed out in jagged bits.

  When she was a little girl, maybe three or four, she lived in an apartment somewhere near the ocean. She said she knew this because she remembered the sound of the sea. Gabe lived in the same building and knew her father, and Gabe used to come and visit. Gabe and her father drank and drank and drank, and when that happened they roared and laughed, but then her father always got mad. He got mad if she spilled her milk. He got mad when she turned on the TV. And then he’d hit her. He hit her all the time.

  One night she accidentally knocked over the ashtray, and her father said he didn’t want her anymore. Then he opened the window and threw her out. She went high into the sky and flew like a bird until she landed on the pavement and broke her legs. Her father never came down to see what happened, but Gabe did.

  She looked up and told me that he picked her up in his arms and ran all the way to the hospital and told her the story of Humpty Dumpty while they braced her legs. Then Gabe took her away.

  Lily cried and cried until the room went still. I held her tight. What did they do in that bedroom? What had they done together for all those years? Were they lovers? Friends? I chose to believe Gabe needed a child to call his own and Lily needed a father, because sometimes there’s no explaining the unspeakable things we do for love.

  A woman’s voice answered the phone.

  “Dr. Barnes’s office.” The nurse’s voice reminded me of Ruth and I nearly hung up. “Is anybody there?” she asked.

  Helen gave me a sharp prod. She was right. No matter what, I had to get those transcripts.

  “Can I speak with Dr. Barnes, please?”

  “He’s with a patient.”

  Utter relief and total disappointment –double whammy. “I’ll call back.”

  “Can I tell him who called?”

  “It’s his daughter.”

  “Please hold.”

  The phone struck the desk followed by voices. A patient must have wandered in. There could be an emergency. You never knew what might happen in a doctor’s office. The line clattered.

  “Maddy?” Dad asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Are you all right?”

  His imagination probably went straight to jail. My voice tightened. “Do you have my high school transcripts?”

  “They’re likely down in the basement somewhere. I’ll have to ask your mother.”

  The curly black phone cord scrunched between my fingers. There was no point correcting him. “Could I come to the office and pick them up?”

  “You could come by the house.”

  Now I was good enough? He didn’t want me there before.

  “I’d rather come to the office.”

  “Why do you want them?”

  “I’m going to go back to school.”

  A long, slow intake of breath. “That’s good news.”

  I gave him our address and asked him to stick the transcripts in the mail.

  “I’ll post them tonight.”

  “Thanks, Dad.”

  I was about to hang up when he suddenly blurted out, “Why don’t you meet me for dinner?”

  No. No. No.

  “We could go to the Inn on the Park.”

  Not there.

  “I think the mail…”

  “For dear old Dad?”

  There it was –his sweet voice. And I just couldn’t say no.

  The bus roared through Leaside, past suburban backyards, snow-covered jungle gyms, shopping malls, kids dragging toboggans up distant hills and parents waiting in cars, while I tried to keep the memories of Mom, Dad, Sterling and the boys locked in the silo where I’d hidden them so long ago. I never planned to let them out, and now here I was with the key in my hand, hurtling back into the pain all over again.

  The Inn appeared at the top of the hill in the distance, a large luxury hotel surrounded by acres of parkland. Mom said you could go for beautiful walks in the spring and summer, but I’d only been there once in the winter when the world was white. The bus driver called out Eglinton. I rang the bell, opened the door and stepped into the snow, heading up the long, winding drive to the Inn.

  Dad hadn’t arrived. There was a bitter chill. I buttoned up the top collar on my coat and sat on a bench beneath the snow-covered awning. The bellhop kept giving me odd looks and I was worried he might ask me to leave. A little girl, dressed for a fancy evening, walked past me with her parents. She wore a red coat, matching hat and gloves with black patent leather shoes and strutted proudly between them, holding onto their hands as if she were a princess.

  “Swing me!” she cried. Her mother leaned down, telling her to hush, while her father gave her a tickle. “Pick me up and swing me!” And so then they did, and she laughed as the bellhop bowed and opened the glass doors as the family disappeared inside.

  Mom and Dad had brought me there. It was New Year’s Eve and we were dressed in our best. I had a new maroon velvet dress, Mom wore a long black gown and a mink stole and Dad looked dashing in his tux. The maître d’ ushered us in, past all of the other patrons. Nobody looked as handsome as my family. Heads turned as everyone wondered who that perfect family was. I was so proud –these two grown-ups were my Mom and Dad. We took our seats and the waiter handed me my own menu, not a kids’ menu, but an adult menu.

  “Thank you,” I said, opening it. “What would you recommend?”

  Mom smiled at Dad.

  “I’d recommend the French onion soup,” he said.

  “Well then that’s what I’ll have,” I replied, closing my menu. I was only eight and thought I was all grown up. I was wrong.

  “Madeline.” Dad stood in front of me in his long overcoat with the fedora tilted back, hands thrust deeply into his pockets. We stared at each other for a second that felt like a million years. “I’ve booked us a reservation.”

  I rose. We didn’t hug or kiss. It wasn’t until we shook hands that I noticed he was trembling too.

  We followed the maître ď through the restaurant, past tables of well-dressed diners, to a cozy table for two by the window. At least I wasn’t wearing my Crime of the Century tee-shirt. My heart pounded while I wiped the palm sweat on my jeans. Dad left his coat and fedora at the coat check, but I hung mine on the back of my chair in case I had to run away. I looked out the window and noticed the frozen fountain standing in a wide shallow pool, covered in layers of ice, and remembered.

  “Teddy, we shouldn’t be drinking champagne,” Mom said, trying to snatch the flute from his hand.

  “Nonsense.” He moved it higher, out of her grasp. “A sip won’t hurt.”

  I beamed up at him as Dad handed me the flute, the champagne bubbles bursting as they struck the side of the glass. The three of us were standing outside by the frozen fountain listening as the band inside played “Auld Lang Syne”. Dad had insisted on the champagne and he’d also insisted that we go outside to ring in the New Year. I could see Mom’s breath. “Auld Lang Syne” suddenly came to a halt and the drum began to beat out the countdown as the bandleader called, “Ten…nine…eight…seven…” Mom slipped her arm into Dad’s, with me right in between them. I felt her shiver as she squeezed us tight.
The bandleader kept going. “Three,” he called. The flute felt cold in my hand. “Two…one…” Mom kissed Dad’s cheek and smiled at him. “HAPPY NEW YEAR!” And horns honked and streamers flew and voices rang out in the night. Dad turned and kissed Mom right on the lips, in a deep way I’d never seen before. Then they bent down and kissed me. Her cheeks were flushed and she looked radiant. Dad raised his glass to the stars that were more plentiful than all of the bubbles in my glass and declared that our family was going to have a stellar year –no, he wanted to go further than that. He wanted to toast our future, certain that it would be bright and that we’d have the happiest and the very best of lives.

  Dad set a manila envelope on the table beside him. They had to be my transcripts. The maître d’ handed us each a menu.

  “Can I have the waitress get you anything to start?”

  “A coffee please,” Dad replied. He didn’t need the caffeine.

  “Coke,” I ordered, thinking we both needed hot milk.

  I scanned the entrées, unsure of what to order. If it was too expensive he might think I was greedy. Peeking up from the menu I noticed that a lot of Dad’s hair was gone and he’d put on a fair bit of weight. But even with the extra weight he looked good. Toronto agreed with him. Toronto and Isabel. As if reading my mind, he pulled a comb out of his pocket and absentmindedly brushed at the remaining black strands. The waitress arrived, set down our drinks and asked Dad if we were ready to order.

  “French onion soup,” Dad said, looking at me. “If that’s all right with you.”

  I nodded, my fingernails scratching, digging into the white linen. He’d remembered.

  “Same for me.”

  “How are you keeping?” he asked.

  “Fine.”

  I couldn’t breathe. Please give me the transcripts. A table of diners near the front started to laugh. I thought of the last time we were here and how happy we had been. The difference between then and now was so stark I felt unsteady, as if the world might tip and I’d fall off.

  “Aunt Anne was asking about you.”

  Maybe Aunt Anne had told him I’d been at the farm and had a kidney infection and had needle marks all over my arms. “How is she?”

  “Fine.”

  “That’s good.” I looked around the dining room. “Are those my transcripts?”

  Dad nodded. My hand reached out, but his fingers dented into the envelope. He wasn’t letting it go. Not yet. “Tell me about this school of yours.”

  I picked up my fork, flicking it up and down to feel its weight. “It’s adult education, to finish off my high school.

  “How are you affording it?” he asked.

  The napkin to the left of the silverware had INN embossed in raised black letters. Shaking it out, I watched the white linen drift down into my lap. Why did I owe him an explanation? Why should I feel so guilty when all I wanted was to go to school? Maybe I was a dirty little dyke speed freak and yeah, I’d done a lot of incredibly stupid and dangerous things, but I did them because I was trying to protect him. He was the adult and should have done a better job. They all should have.

  “I don’t think it’s really any of your concern,” I replied, trying to sound as respectful as I could.

  Dad looked at me over the cup of coffee. Waves of liquid rolled back and forth in the white china cup, tossing up splashes of black onto his tie.

  “Is it legal?”

  Of course he’d ask that.

  “Yes.”

  The waitress arrived and set down the soup. A hard crust of cheese floated on the top. I poked at it with my spoon, making the cheese rock back and forth like a raft. My spoon broke through the crust, steam billowed.

  “You look well,” he said.

  “You mean better than last time.”

  The waitress returned, asking if everything was to our liking. Dad smiled and said something funny. She laughed. He could still be so charming. After she left, Dad methodically unfolded his napkin and placed it on his lap. He looked up at me.

  “We had a conversation.”

  “Who?” I knew who.

  “Isabel and I.”

  “About what?” I knew that too, but I wanted him to say it. I dipped my spoon into the thick soup, quickly brought it up to my lips and swallowed. The liquid burned my tongue.

  “About why you left home.”

  So Isabel told Dad about the deal. Points for the wicked stepmother. I didn’t know what to say, so I didn’t say anything. Forgiveness was miles off. I couldn’t see it on the horizon. Dad took a delicate sip of soup. He ate with great care, the same way he practiced medicine. Why didn’t he treat me like that? I dipped my spoon into the soup again, more cautious this time.

  “I wish you’d told me,” he said.

  I wanted to ask him what he would have done, but there was no point. He was too weak. Granddad was right. I stirred my soup, watching bits of onion swirl with the cheese and thought what a coward he was, he’d left me all alone to fend for myself. I took another sip.

  No, that wasn’t the truth. This was the man who drove through blizzards to deliver babies, who dragged car accident victims out of flaming wrecks, who had run up onto a beam in the middle of the night to save me. My father wasn’t weak. He didn’t throw me away because of the drugs and the girls. It was something else.

  I set the spoon down. “Why did you bring me here?”

  He stared back at me. “I don’t know.”

  Yes he did, and suddenly, so did I. He brought me because he missed Mom just as much as I did and he missed me as much as I missed him, but every time he saw me all that pain came back. For both of us. It wasn’t about lack of love. That was never the problem. There had always been love, maybe too much love because there was too much pain. Pain that drove me into the dispensary and out onto the streets. Pain that made Dad tie his belt to the light fixture and step off the side of the tub.

  He’d stopped talking. I wanted to ask about Frank and Tedder but I couldn’t. I’d finally crawled onto firmer ground and I couldn’t afford to fall. Watching Lily get lost in junkieland, I saw how close I’d come to the edge and how it didn’t take much to drop off. I finished my soup and set the sterling spoon into the white bowl.

  “Can I have my transcripts please?”

  Dad pushed the manila envelope across the white linen. I folded it and put it in my pocket. He wanted to stay for dessert, but I said it was time to leave.

  Dad insisted on driving me back to St. Jamestown. The car was a mess, like always. I sat in the passenger seat, hand on the envelope in my pocket. Tomorrow I’d take the transcripts to Mrs. Allen. The aging Oldsmobile pulled into the round drive, with Dad peering up at the towers. There were nineteen of them in total, standing like a forest of tall white dominoes.

  “This is quite the place.”

  “It’s okay.”

  Dad switched off the engine. “I’ve got something for you.” He dug his wallet out of his trousers and started rummaging around. It took a long time because the wallet, the old wallet Mom had bought him, was now held together by a series of brightly coloured rubber bands. Bits of raggedy paper poked randomly out of the billfold.

  One of our neighbours, a young Indian woman wearing a bright blue sari, sailed by, calling hello in a singsong voice. She had a red dot in the middle of her forehead. I waved in return.

  “You must meet a lot of interesting people,” Dad said, looking at the mark on the woman’s face. “What does that mean?”

  “It’s a bindi. The Indians believe it’s the home for wisdom.”

  “Maybe if I’d had one of those…”

  I shrugged, leaning closer to look at Dad’s collection of wallet treasures. There was a credit card for every gas chain in North America, loose drug samples, a bunch of coupons for Harvey’s hamburgers, plus a recent clipping announcing a car show in the spring. There was a photo of a Studebaker Golden Hawk with winglike fins on the back and a square chrome grille. She wasn’t a traditional car by any stretch, but
she was an unusual beauty. Dad handed me the ad.

  “Maybe you’d like to go to the show with me.”

  “Maybe,” I replied. We both loved automobiles.

  A photo of Isabel appeared. She was getting older. Random swipes of grey swept back from her brow. I didn’t want to look at her and was about to say goodbye when I caught a glimpse of an old dog-eared photo in Dad’s hand. It was me, grinning like the devil that I was, clambering up the side of the chain-link fence. Mom was behind, trying to pull me off, but I wouldn’t let go.

  “We couldn’t keep you in,” Dad said. He took my hand and held it tight. “I tried my best.”

  “I know.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said, his voice breaking. “I’m sorry I took you away from Sterling. If I’d known how much it would hurt you, I never would have done it.”

  Shifting even closer, I felt the lightest stubble of his beard brush against my forehead. “It’s okay, Dad.” He wrapped his arm around me, holding me tight. “We both did the best we could.”

  We stared at the photo for the longest time, watching Mom smile into the camera. A lock of auburn hair had tumbled free from her red bandana. We all looked so happy. I could smell her Joy in my memory. Dad still smelled of pharmaceuticals and aftershave.

  “I miss her so much,” he said.

  “Me too.”

  We both kept staring at the picture, trying to will her back to life. It didn’t work and it never would.

  “Do you remember how much Mom hated that fence?”

  He nodded. “But not as much as she loved you. She would have done anything to keep you safe.”

  I looked at her again, trying to remember every inch of who she’d been.

  Dad insisted on walking me into the lobby and right up to the elevator, talking about how different the city was from the country.