“I don’t want you going.” He’s trying to keep the volume down.
“Dad, even if I chose this for pleasure, or out of curiosity . . .”
“I don’t want you going.” He’ll never budge.
“. . . It’s my life, my time to do such things.”
He stares at his daughter, at the band of freckles crossing her forehead, the clarity of her eyes, the strong jaw, the length of her fingers, and realizes he’s memorizing her.
• • •
In the silence of her room the computer stands as a gateway to the rest of his life. Her messages were coming two a day, one every two days, once a three-day interval, but it’s been six days. Jesus, God, Crap! How’s he supposed to survive that? Rereading previous e-mails, which he never deletes, the information is lodged in his brain. She arrived; she’s fine; it’s too hot. She needs another couple of pairs of shorts; don’t send them, no real address. She’s bunking in a camp-like situation, electricity on and off. The beauty can feel like an insult: clay-colored dunes, sky so blue it hurts her eyes, stars so bright they light up the night. The misery, the poverty . . . the kids are killing her; hopeless, depressed by age eight. Her last e-mail bragged she could say words in Arabic, some in Hebrew. Tan, Dad, she wrote, I’m so tan, it’s amazing.
He picks up the bottle, takes a long swig of bourbon. It’ll be a month tomorrow. Two more to go. He’s crashing in Glory’s bed now. Without the sleep pills, dreams and crawly, creepy stuff wake him every hour or two. Even now his feet feel itchy. He peels off his socks and checks for fungus. Clean.
Then he remembers . . . begins rummaging through the desk drawer, slides a piece of paper out from under others; three names: Josh Towns, Emanuel Walker, Robert Messenger. He takes another long drink from the diminishing contents, finds himself on the faded couch in the living room punching in the first number. It rings until voicemail picks up. He leaves a message. He dials Walker’s number.
“Hi.” Sounds like a child.
“Is your Mom or Dad there?”
“Who should I say is calling?” Her little voice is prissy.
Who indeed? “A friend of . . .” —and here he takes a chance— “your brother’s.”
“I don’t have a brother.”
“Your father’s Emanuel Walker?” The decibels rise.
“I can’t say.”
“Let me talk to your mom, now, please.” Jesus! Damn, the bourbon’s still in Glory’s room.
“Hello.” It’s a voice so dull he wants to hang up.
He introduces himself. “. . . and I haven’t had an e-mail in nearly a week, so I wondered . . .”
“My husband and I . . . we’re not communicating much. If I hear anything . . . leave me your number.”
He does, but she’ll never call.
Staring at the third name, he decides he needs hope; he’ll try it tomorrow.
• • •
Two groups of noisy young people take over several diner booths. It’s the middle of the night and they’re ready to eat everything including the inventory. He works the orders nonstop. A few strays come in as well, probably because there’s nowhere else to go. The kitchen is steamy; he’s sweating. He stares at a chit but the letters scramble, so he blinks a few times, tries again, but the words still blur. He cups some cold water in his hands and splashes his face, tamps it dry with a paper towel and tries deciphering it again. Better. Except there’s a pull in his stomach even though he visited the bathroom minutes ago. “Ava,” he stage-whispers over the divider.
She turns her perfectly shaped head to look at him and hurries into the kitchen.
“Have to go home . . . need to check the machine . . . I’ve been away for hours . . . haven’t had an e-mail in days . . .” his voice trails off.
“That doesn’t mean a thing, Nick. It’s not New York. It can’t be easy to find a computer.”
“All the orders are done. I’ll be back. Can you cover?” Before she can answer he heads out. Great, she thinks he’s crazy. Maybe he is. So what? Crazy or sane isn’t the issue. Something happens to Glory, he’s fucked. In the parking lot, he thumbs down hard on the car keypad; damn door won’t unlock. The car begins beeping loudly. Shit, shit. Take a breath. Try again. The noise is deranging. Someone help. Did he say that out loud, because Ava’s running out the back?
He hands her the device. She makes the beeping stop, bless her beautiful soul. She’s had her tragedy, losing a husband, but it was a long time ago. She can’t still be mourning. “How about going for a decent dinner tonight before our shift? On me.” See what happens when drink collides with crisis?
• • •
Sunlight brightens the adjacent wall, illuminating the nearly empty bottle. Across the road is a house like his, except it’s yellow with blue trim. Inside there is an intact family, a husband, wife, two children, very American. His house is white with green trim chosen by Glory before she was old enough to determine her life. Glory would not want him going to the State Department for help. Then again, the State Department wouldn’t be sympathetic. Is he going to sit in front of the screen all day? Ava walks into his head. She’s home getting some shut-eye. He wouldn’t mind having an afternoon drink with her. But what would that mean for dinner tonight?
A distant ambulance siren penetrates the silence. Someone’s life is about to change. It’s what he thought as he lay in a makeshift hospital tent listening to the docs talk about amputating his infected foot.
He drags himself to the living room and tries Messenger’s number.
“Hello,” a woman’s annoyed voice. Does she understand where her son has gone?
“I’m a friend of Robert’s—”
“I clean. He’s not back for months. You call later.”
But he won’t call later, and he can’t sit in front of the computer another minute without losing it.
• • •
In the car in front of Ava’s house, he tries to talk himself out of what he’s about to do. Fails. He rings the bell with short staccato stabs.
She opens the door, a queen in a purple robe.
“I’m freaking out.”
She leads him to the living room where the furniture looks almost as old as his, and he thinks to console her with this observation but finds himself unable to speak. She’s pushing something that smells like whiskey under his nose. Should he drink or sniff it? He drinks.
“What happened?” She stands arms crossed, wavy hair falling past her delicate shoulders; her light eyes weary but concerned.
“I could go to the State Department except they’d probably arrest me. It’s a lot of money to fly over, and I don’t even know where she is exactly. It’s stupid of me to barge in like this, but—”
“We’re friends, right?” She sits beside him, her clean soapy scent instantly calming. “If something bad happened, you’d be contacted. You’re next of kin.” She sounds certain. Except his stories don’t have happy endings.
“She was e-mailing, so what changed? The thing is, Glory’s never on the same computer. If I’m at the machine, I reply instantly. I told her I have to hear from her.”
“Children,” she sighs. “Have you slept?”
“Couple hours. I should go home, but I’m too wrecked to drive.” Is that true? Does she believe him? Her face reveals nothing.
“Do you want the couch for a while?” He wants to close his hand around her long, thin fingers.
“Sure,” but to his surprise he follows his body to her bedroom. He takes in the yellow daisy wallpaper, the yellow lampshades, sunshine in the dark. A portrait of her husband is on the wall, the face gigantic. He recognizes the R&R quality, charcoaled too quickly in some godforsaken place; and wants to ask if it’s how her husband really looked but decides not to.
The bed is queen-size, the pillows numerous, waiting. He slips out of his shoes, turns
down the yellow-and-green-flowered cover. He stretches out. He’s lost it.
When she slides in beside him, he remembers hearing about men so exhausted they begin dreaming before their eyes close. But once more he inhales the sweet scent of her.
“Who are you? Why do you care, or something along those lines?” he asks.
“Who says I care. You’re suffering.”
“It’s a motherish thing?”
“You’re older than me, I can’t be your mother.”
“So?”
“It’s probably a mistake, but I need . . . I want to be adventurous, a little.”
He palms the cool smoothness of her cheek. “You’re wonderful, hauntingly . . .” But a weariness he doesn’t want shoots lead through his body. “I can’t believe this,” he mumbles—not that she wouldn’t notice his limp prick. He strokes her hair, the silky strands tangle between his fingers, then subsides like a ship in harbor.
• • •
Opening his eyes at an unfamiliar ceiling, the shades drawn, he remembers. Is he mortified or contrite? She’s not beside him. Should he call her name? Her husband stares at him without affection.
He walks into the living room. The TV is on, the volume low. She’s dressed in a long black skirt, silky, with a white blouse open deep at the neck.
“Drink before dinner?” she asks.
“Dinner?”
“It’s nearly six.”
“You’re kidding.”
“No,” she says so seriously he’s embarrassed.
“Where’s your son?”
“Helping Dina next door. I told him you collapsed, and why. He offered to look online and see what he could find out about Witnesses for Peace.”
“You’re extraordinary.” He drops on the couch beside her. Slides an arm around her slim shoulders, dips his chin in her soft hair, done up in some fancy knot. His fingers wander inside her blouse, find her velvety breast . . . With the heat of her throat against his lips, he cradles her head, maneuvers her legs onto the couch; she curls her body to make room for his. He thinks to say a few lovely words, but her eyes are closed, her limbs wrapping his. He enters a land where only distraction and satisfaction exist.
• • •
He watches her attempt to organize the mess he’s made of her outfit. “I could offer to have it cleaned, but it’ll only happen again.”
“Why was that so exciting?” She sounds genuinely surprised.
“Unexpected love. It’s the best kind.”
“How would you know?” She searches his face.
“I wouldn’t.”
“Is dinner still happening?” she asks, but he can sense her withdrawing.
“Tonight and tomorrow, if you want?” He means it.
“Bobby’s not always going to be conveniently busy.”
“Let’s take him with us tomorrow.”
“No.”
“He knows me from the diner, remember?”
“I’m going to change.”
• • •
His time with Ava yesterday gave him courage. His car glides into a space beneath a huge tree, which he wants to identify as oak, but he wouldn’t know. Hidden by afternoon shadows, they can’t see him. Then again these people don’t gaze out windows; they have security do that. He stares at the estate. If the house were any nearer the water it would float. The last time he saw this much property he was mustering out of the Marines. But the base was a flat, ugly, brown expanse, dotted with huts that passed for barracks. That anything this lush exists a mere twenty miles from the cheek-by-jowl places he sees daily is staggering.
He replays the voice message in his head. “Come by, we’re home all day on Thursdays.” What can he possibly say to the rich and famous? They probably own a piece of the Middle East. If someone opens the door, he’ll be chased away. A bearded man dressed like a panhandler? He’s not wearing his good shoes. Find a bar in town, two drinks to dissolve the edge, then return here.
Finding his cell phone, he calls Ava. Probably napping. Well he needs to talk to her. As the machine picks up he hears her real but tired voice.
“I’m parked outside a mansion. It’s me, Nick.”
“Yes?” Her plaintive voice, so girl-like, encourages him.
“Parents of one of Glory’s friends invited me for tea.”
“And?”
“I’m not dressed for it.”
“I see . . . You mean your clothes are dirty?”
“Not exactly.” He eyes the beige pants and blue shirt.
“Holes in your shoes?”
“Why does everyone focus on shoes?”
“You want to make a particular impression?” Is she being sarcastic?
“I’m Glory’s dad.”
“Could be they’re idiots.”
“Not with this estate.”
“Nick, who cares? They have information. You’d walk through fire for Glory, so?”
“I didn’t mean to wake you.”
“Yeah well, it’s becoming a habit.”
“I wish you were with me.”
“You’d better go in.”
He clicks off. He does wish she were with him, though it makes no sense. What makes even less sense is the way she’s invading his thoughts. These flings work a certain way. Sleep together a few times, then she discovers his faults. Many. She begins to make excuses. Too busy to meet . . . not good for employees to fraternize . . . If Murray catches us . . . Murray? Who cares about Murray? His mind is bending, that’s what. Glory’s killing him. In his state how can he think about Ava?
Yet her non-dismissive voice helps him out of the car. He lopes up a driveway to what he hopes is the front door, feels the first drops of rain. He discovers a brass knocker. Is that an ornament or real? No bell. He uses the knocker. A maid with brown satin skin, dressed in old movie-style black and white, opens the door. She can’t like her costume. So soft-spoken he can barely catch the words. It’s his name she wants and he tells her. Then he waits in a vestibule larger than his living room.
The maid ushers him into a den or library or maybe it’s a living room. Mr. and Mrs. Towns stand together in front of a fireplace. She’s tall, thin, wearing black slacks, a gray blouse. In her early fifties, he’d say. Her husband, too, is tall, thin, in his fifties. He decides Mr. Towns in khakis and polo shirt just returned from playing golf. They look like brother and sister.
When the maid leaves the room he feels alone.
“Please have a seat.” Mr. Towns takes the wing chair facing the couch, his wife the chair next to his.
Nick sinks into a leather sofa so soft he may never be able to get up.
“We haven’t heard from our son recently. No doubt they’re all on some exciting outdoor mission, traveling who knows where.” Mrs. Towns seems charmed by the idea.
Maybe he should enlighten her about the outdoors there. Trying to sound matter-of-fact, he says, “When last did you have an e-mail?”
“Josh phoned us ten days ago, right dear?” the husband asks but doesn’t wait for an answer. “We spoke a very short time. We agreed, well, he’s so involved he can’t think about keeping us up to date. At any rate, his voice was gleeful.” He reaches over to touch his wife’s arm.
Gleeful? How does that word apply to the Middle East? Would Josh tell his father if one of his friends were kidnapped? Wounded? Killed?
The maid brings in a tray with tea and a square plate with flat white crackers that look as if they’d crumble at the touch. He wants bourbon.
“Mr. Towns is certain everything’s fine. Josh is our youngest, more of a challenge than Chad or Douglas. Eighteen and already curious about complicated places.”
Mr. Towns? Complicated places? What language is this? Mrs. Towns hands him an empty teacup. Christ, he doesn’t want to deal with tea stuff.
“If we don’t hear from our son in the next two weeks—” Mr. Towns pours himself tea.
Two weeks? He’ll be certifiable.
“—Martin will take a look?”
“Martin?” He says, relieved to speak.
“Mr. Town’s business associate is somewhere near Saudi Arabia, certainly closer than we are.” She gives him a crisp smile. “Martin will investigate, discreetly, make sure all is as it should be. You know how children are? They become so invested in the moment they can’t remember to contact us. We’ll let you know either way.”
Either way? They don’t sound a bit worried. Why should they? Their problems are delegated, resolved by others. The green slime of envy fills his veins. Not the mansion or the money, though a little of the latter would get him on a plane. It’s Mr. and Mrs. working in tandem, reassuring, affirming each other, refusing disaster.
Carefully, he replaces the unused cup on the tray. With muscles he didn’t know he had, he hoists himself off the sofa. “Thanks so much. If I receive a message from Glory, I’ll let you know.” Do they care? So he adds, “And yes, I’d appreciate hearing anything you learn.”
• • •
“I’ve never met people like them, cool, not as in hip, as in distant. Not snobby . . . almost innocent. Of course Josh’s okay. I could’ve pointed out the guns and tanks, but why do that?”
Ava looks at him tenderly the way she does when they’re alone together, except they’re seated at a deeply scarred wooden table in the rear of Sully’s bar. Far from fancy, the pub has the right amount of noise at this early evening hour to set problems aside, albeit with a little help from booze. The beer is cheap, the wine not cold enough, but they’ve decided on bourbon and Coke.
“Tell me everything.” Her long fingers splayed on the table, no wedding band, only a small reddish gem embedded in a silver ring. He wonders if it’s her birthstone. He folds her hand in his.
“His wife calls him ‘Mr. Towns.’ Jesus, what does she call him in bed? They were a pair of . . . I don’t know”—and he doesn’t although the experience is still fresh in his mind—“birds squawking a language I couldn’t grasp.”
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