by Mark Dunn
“She’s gonna divorce me this time,” Lloyd said. “I could spend the next year of my life at that dry-out clinic and it won’t matter. She’s gonna divorce me and take you kids with her.”
Shawn shifted nervously in his seat. “We’ll come see you, Dad.”
Lloyd stared at the spot where the inky darkness of the lake met the near-darkness of the sky. It was quiet, but he could hear the sound of the water gently lapping the bottom reach of the boat launch.
Shawn fumbled for the dome light in the car and flicked it on. He looked hard at his father’s face—a face that he didn’t recognize. Lloyd had different faces that he showed his wife and children. This wasn’t like any of them: this was the face of a man who seemed to be giving up.
“I don’t know. I just don’t know anymore.” Lloyd turned the steering wheel to the right. He put the Accord at the top of the boat ramp. “Let’s see what the bottom of the lake looks like, shall we?”
Lloyd accelerated. The car sped down the ramp, hydroplaned across the water and then settled lambently upon the surface about thirty yards from the shore. “They say most cars can float for a while.” Lloyd turned around to address his daughter. “You want to see if Daddy’s car can double as a boat?”
Shawn struggled to open the door next to him. He heard the pop of the power locks and looked to his father.
Lloyd’s voice was paternal, calm. “If you open that door, son, all the water will rush in and we’ll sink like a stone. Why don’t we just sit here and float for a while? It’s nice, isn’t it? The way the car rocks on the water.”
Shawn looked at his sister. He couldn’t tell if she was enjoying the adventure or not. A moment later, the look of puzzlement on her face turned to fear. Water began to slosh at her feet. Kimberly began to scream.
“We have to get out, Dad,” said Shawn. “We have to get out before we sink.”
“We have plenty of time.”
It was as if Lloyd couldn’t hear his daughter wailing. He held his hands at ten o’clock and two o’clock and half smiled to no one in particular. He was in a different place now—Shawn could see that. Still, he tried to reason with his father. The car tipped forward from the weight of the engine. Shawn’s tennis shoes were completely under water now. “Roll down the windows, Dad, so we can all get out.”
“What if I don’t want us to get out, son? What if I happen to think this might be better than giving you over to your bitch of a mother for the rest of your lives?”
Shawn stared at his father.
Kimberly had unfastened her seatbelt. She was trying to climb into the front seat with her brother.
Shawn turned. “Stay back there, Kimmy. I’ll get us out. Dad, roll down the window so we can all get out.” Shawn looked down at his feet. The water was rushing in faster now. His calves were nearly submerged. The car was tipping even more dramatically forward.
“All right. Don’t panic, boy. I’ll get us out through the windows. I never liked this Jap car anyway. Arkabutla can have her.” Lloyd pushed the power windows button but nothing happened. “The water’s probably shorted out the window mechanism. Recline your seat, son. I’m gonna kick out your window.” Lloyd unfastened his seatbelt and then positioned himself to kick the glass out of the passenger side front window. After several concerted blows, the glass remained intact. It didn’t shatter. It didn’t even crack. “I know the windshields are made not to break,” he panted, “but I thought it was different with the side windows. Jesus Christ.”
“What are we going to do, Dad?”
“Jesus Christ,” Lloyd said again, and gave the window another profitless kick.
The water had reached the level of the seats now. Kimberly was hysterical. Shawn was frightened as well. But Shawn was also angry. If his dad wasn’t already about to die, Shawn thought that he might kill him. He would put a bullet right through his father’s head.
Shawn looked at his father. Then he looked at the window next to his father. Ignoring his father’s previous order, he opened the glove compartment and pulled out the gun. Without saying a word, he dug his hand into his father’s shirt pocket and pulled out a bullet. He loaded the gun, disengaged the safety, and fired at the driver’s side window. The gunshot was deafening. Kimberly screamed louder as the window shattered and water began to splash in.
“Kimmy, you first.” He pulled his sister with all of his might up into the front seat and passed her to Lloyd, who pushed her through the fully breached window. “Climb up on top of the car and hang on,” said Shawn.
Next was Shawn’s turn. He crawled jumbly-limbed over his father, making sure to knee him in the groin as he passed. Shawn hung onto his sister on the top of the slippery, bobbing car, not knowing if his father would follow the two of them out or not. And not really caring.
Just as the lake water began to flood through the paneless window, Lloyd emerged from the car. He treaded water next to the car, gasping and half-choking. A fisherman in a rowboat coming in late had watched the car go into the water but had been too far removed to attempt an early rescue on his own. Now he paddled up to the drowning Accord and helped Kimberly and her brother into his boat.
Kimberly cried softly. She didn’t look at Lloyd as he lifted himself, heavy with sodden clothing, into the boat from the black water.
Shawn didn’t look at him either.
As the fisherman rowed toward the shore Shawn watched the car, still dimly lit inside, sink slowly beneath the surface of the lake and disappear.
Lloyd spent the next several years trying his best to redeem himself in the eyes of his children. Shawn vowed not to have anything to do with him. Kimberly followed her big brother’s example. There was, however, one thing that Shawn did for Lloyd, and it was an important thing: he told the sheriff that going into Arkabutla Lake had been an accident. This lie spared his father from spending the rest of his life in prison.
Eventually Lloyd gave up trying to win his children’s forgiveness. He moved to another state and was not heard from again.
When, years later, Shawn Toland joined the Mississippi chapter of the NRA, he told a group of fellow gun owners that a gun had protected his sister and him when set upon by a madman. He didn’t mention any details, including the most important detail of all: that the madman was a man whom he had once loved with a full filial heart, as every good son is taught to do.
It wasn’t any of their business.
1992
GRIEVING IN MINNESOTA
“It just isn’t right,” said Bonnie. Vicki nodded. The sisters, both in their late thirties, were at their favorite coffeehouse in St. Paul. An acoustic guitar could be heard over the drone of caffeine-fueled customer chatter. The air was infused with the smell of roasting coffee. This was Dunn Brothers’ biggest boast: they roasted their own coffee every day right on the premises.
“In fact, it’s actually kind of creepy,” Bonnie went on. “Having to listen to Dad’s voice every time I call home and Mom’s not there.”
Vicki crunched a biscotto. “Another Vietnamese family moved onto my street. Now we have three.”
“I’m talking about Mom.”
“What do you want me to do about it?”
“Tell her to record a new greeting for her answering machine. Dad’s been dead for six months.”
Vicki wet her finger with her tongue and poked at the crumbs of biscotti on her plate. She licked them off her finger.
“Go ahead. Say it.”
“Say what?”
“Whatever it is you seem dying to say.”
“All right, then. I’ll say it. I happen to like hearing Dad’s voice on Mom’s answering machine.”
“Really?”
Vicki shrugged.
“Alice and I aren’t home right now. Well, I don’t know where she is, but I’m currently up in Heaven with Jesus. That’s the vibe it’s giving out—you know that, right?”
“Bonnie, do you want me to talk to her? Is that why you’re bringing this up?”
&n
bsp; “Yes, I want you to talk to her. She listens to you. And make her start giving away some of those clothes to the Goodwill or somebody. It’s like he’s off on a business trip and she’s just waiting for him to get back.”
“If that’s how she wants to handle this, I think it’s her right.”
Bonnie stared at her sister. “Pretending he’s still alive doesn’t help things. Do you remember how hard it was just getting Mom to talk to the man about the life insurance? It was $50,000 and she was dragging her feet.”
Vicki looked out the window. She watched the pedestrians walking up and down bustling Grand Avenue. “My whole neighborhood is starting to smell like fried egg rolls.”
“You don’t want to talk to her.”
“Not really.”
“All right, then.”
“I just think—”
“Let’s just drop it.”
Vicki turned to the barista wiping down the table next to her. “Can I have another half-cup of the Vienna roast?”
“Six months is a long time for a woman to keep her dead husband’s voice on her answering machine, Vicki.”
“I thought we weren’t discussing it anymore. Are you going to eat the rest of that muffin?”
Alice Schuford had a friend over. Her name was Bettie O’Shield, and she had known Alice since the two had met as twelve-year-olds at Chippewa Ranch Camp in Wisconsin’s North Woods. Bettie now lived in Minneapolis. Right after Alice’s husband Burl’s death, Bettie was with her friend nearly every day. Lately the visits had tapered off, by mutual agreement, to about twice a week.
“So what is the one thing you did this week?” asked Bettie. Bettie O’Shield was drinking “French Vanilla Café” in a teacup. Bettie sometimes pretended that she and Alice were the two young women in the General Foods International Coffees commercial, grabbing girl-time together in what looked like the middle of a flower shop. Alice and Bettie were sitting on the sofa in Alice’s den. The den had been her husband’s domain—everything was either paneled or shagged. There wasn’t a bright color, flower, or houseplant in sight.
Alice pointed at her husband’s worn Naugahyde recliner. “I almost called St. Vincent de Paul this morning to take this chair away.”
“Why didn’t you? I had them haul away my old couch last month. They use off-duty firemen. There were two gorgeous off-duty firemen in my house, Alice. I made them stay and have some bundt cake.”
“I just can’t bring myself to get rid of anything.”
“You need to re-record your O.G.M., honey.”
“What’s my ‘O.G.M.’?”
“Your outgoing message. On your answering machine. Don’t people call—people who don’t know you—don’t they call and hear Burl’s voice and leave messages for him?”
“Yes, but it doesn’t matter because I don’t call them back.”
“What if they call back? What do you say to them?”
“I say he isn’t home.”
“Then they’ll just call back again.”
“Sometimes I say he’s away on business.”
“That’s an awfully long business trip your husband’s taking.”
“Bettie, sometimes what you think is clever is really just rude.” Alice stood up. “Can I get you another cup?”
“Only if you want me to go into a diabetic coma. Alice, you need to get rid of all of this furniture. This was his room—you need to make it your room now. And you need to do something with his clothes. Listen to me, honey. I’ve been through this before.”
“You never lost a husband.”
“Not to death, but I have certainly lost a husband. Everything Dusty left behind, I burned in the backyard. There were toxic fumes and the fire department showed up. That’s the happy ending to that story. I gave the firemen apple fritters.”
Alice sat back down. “It’s hard, Bettie.”
“I know, honey. It’s one of the hardest things you’re ever going to do.”
Alice leaned forward. She took her head in her hands and massaged her temples. “I don’t even cry anymore,” she said, her voice slightly muted. “It’s like I don’t have any tears left.” Alice lifted her head to look directly at her friend. “Why do you and Bonnie and everybody else want me to erase him—to pretend like he was never even here?”
“Bonnie’s talked to you about this too?”
Alice nodded. “She came over yesterday.”
“None of us want you to erase Burl, honey. You have your memories and your pictures and all your letters. But you’re not allowed to pretend like he’s still here. Every time you look at that chair, I know a part of you is waiting for him to walk in and sit down. It isn’t good for you.”
“Why isn’t it good? Why can’t you hold onto somebody for as long as you want to? There isn’t a law.”
“What happens when you go to bed? Haven’t you got used to him not being in that bed with you?”
Alice shook her head. She took out a handkerchief and blew her nose. “Half the time he’d fall asleep in front of the TV and not come to bed at all.”
“Sweetie, I want you to go to that answering machine and erase that O.G.M. and record a new one. I’ll be here to help you.”
“What do I say?”
“Just say, ‘You have reached the Schuford residence. I’m sorry but I can’t take your call right now.’ They don’t have to know if you’re out of the house or in the bathtub or whatever. But make it ‘I’, honey. Not ‘we.’”
Alice half-smiled. “I almost thought of taking in several foster children—one of those crazy things that go through your head. I thought about filling my house full of voices because I don’t have Burl’s voice anymore. Do you know how quiet it is here without Burl going off on first one thing and then another? ‘Read my lips: no new taxes,’ my ass!”
“Burl would have been a Perot man, wouldn’t he?”
Alice nodded. After a brief silence, Bettie led her friend to the answering machine. Alice found the owner’s manual and together the two figured out what needed to be done to record a new O.G.M.
Vicki was the first to hear it. She called while Alice was out buying groceries at Rainbow Foods. Vicki immediately phoned her sister Bonnie.
Bonnie picked up after three rings. Bonnie was playing her stereo. Vicki could hear someone singing in the background, but she couldn’t quite tell who it was.
“Hi, Bonnie. You’ll be happy to know that Mom has changed the announcement on her answering machine.”
“That’s good.” Bonnie sniffed.
“Have you been crying?”
“I was thinking about Dad.”
“What are you listening to?”
“Natalie Cole. She’s singing ‘Unforgettable’ with her father.”
“How can she do that? He’s dead.”
“It’s magic.” Vicki could hear Bonnie blowing her nose.
“Is it on the radio or did you put on a record?”
“I put it on. I listen to it every day.”
“Do you cry like this every time you hear it?”
“No. Just sometimes.” Bonnie cleared her throat. “I’m proud of Mom.”
“I am too.”
“It hurts so bad sometimes, Vicki.”
“I know, baby. I know.”
1993
SHELVED IN NEW MEXICO
“Don’t Stop (Thinking About Tomorrow).”
It used to be Jocelyn’s favorite song. It wasn’t anymore. It was one thing for Ernesto to whisper-sing it into Jocelyn’s ear. It told her that Ernesto was willing to wait, that he understood her situation, that he understood this culture that valued family above everything else—even personal happiness.
But it was something very different to hear it now. Now that Ernesto had removed himself from Jocelyn’s life. The song mocked her. The Clinton campaign had appropriated it for its campaign theme song. The new president had even convinced Fleetwood Mac to reunite—temporarily—so they could perform it at his inaugural ball. This happened only a f
ew weeks after Ernesto and Jocelyn’s break-up. It made Jocelyn want to become a Republican.
The break-up took place in two stages; the first came on Christmas Eve in Albuquerque’s Old Town, when Jocelyn had gone to help her father close up his jewelry shop. She helped her father in the store whenever she could get away. But there were fewer and fewer chances for her to do this. Her mother required around-the-clock care now. This was also Jocelyn’s job—a job for which she didn’t get paid.
Christmas Eve was the exception. Jocelyn’s brothers and older sister came to the house so that they could shower love and attention on the mother they didn’t have to take care of all of the other days and nights of the year. They brought their kids. Luis had even driven up from Las Cruces. Mama could no longer make the Christmas Eve tamales. Luis’s wife Marilyn found an old woman in nearby Mesilla who made them. They tasted almost as good as Mama’s. Almost.
Because of all the people who came to Old Town to see the festive luminarias, Papa kept the shop open late. It was nine o’clock and the streets were crowded with locals and tourists. A mariachi band was playing seasonal music on the plaza just across from San Felipe de Neri Church. The church, constructed of five-foot-thick adobe brick, was being spruced up. It was about to celebrate its bicentennial. San Felipe de Neri reminded Jocelyn of her mother: battered and buffeted by the years, but still standing.
For all of Jocelyn’s mother’s health problems, she seemed destined to live on and on. Thanks, of course, to Jocelyn’s constant care and attention.
Jocelyn and her father, Ruben, had just stepped out of the shop when they saw them coming down the sidewalk: Ernesto and one of the waitresses who worked in the restaurant in Old Town that Ernesto’s father owned and Ernesto managed. She was hanging on Ernesto’s—on Jocelyn’s boyfriend’s arm, drunkenly nibbling his ear. Ernesto appeared drunk too. He seemed, at first, to be looking right through Jocelyn, but when her presence finally registered, he quickly detached himself from the draping, clinging, nibbling woman who was all flouncy Mexican skirt and ruffled blouse, all lipstick and eyeshadow and everything feminine and desirable that Jocelyn had never allowed herself to be. Jocelyn hadn’t time for herself. She was the self-sacrificing caregiver. She was the handsome woman in muted colors who helped the old man in his shop. Jocelyn had to tamp down her vibrant female spirit as she waited for the circumstances of her life to change.