“Yeah, well, forgive me, but I’m a little too busy being blackmailed to focus on trust at the moment.”
“Ice water?” he asks pleasantly, and picks up the sweaty pitcher sitting between us. My buddy John is our waiter, so instead of plastic cups, we have nice glass steins with lemon slices perched on the rims. I hold mine toward Hayes.
As he pours, one of the ice cubes leaps onto the table. Scooping it up neatly, he pops it in his mouth. The bistro often has a line of people out the door, but it’s the middle of the week and most of the college students are tucked away in their assorted hometowns for the summer, so the place is semiquiet.
Hayes slides our waters to the side along with the pitcher, so there’s nothing between us. When he leans forward, I grab the handle of my glass and quickly toss back an icy-cold gulp.
He looks at me as he slides the lump of ice back and forth in his mouth. Finally, he crushes it between his molars with a loud crunch. When he’s finished chewing, he asks, “Do you believe in signs?”
My water glass clinks down in front of me. “Yeah, sure. The big red ones that say stop are my favorite.”
“Very funny.” His forehead pulls up as if drawn by elastic. “I’m talking about the divine, meaningful sort. The kind that give guidance.”
There it is. “No, I do not. Sorry, I should’ve mentioned I’m not a flake. And I’m not really interested in learning about Allah or Buddha or accepting Jesus-as-my-personal-lord-and-savior-thanks.” I reach over and pat his arm. “But you’ve come to the right place. New Paltz should offer its own welcome packet and walking tour for people on spiritual pilgrimages.”
Hayes laughs and we’re interrupted by John asking if we’re ready to order. We each get the Fifty-Nine Main Express and John gives me a knowing wink as if he can see what this is.
Except even I don’t know what the hell this is.
Hayes says, “Ever since I was a kid, I’ve always had this thing for lions.”
I pick up my fork and press the tines into my thumb. “Yeah, well, with the name Rory, I guess I could say the same thing.”
“Makes sense,” he says with a grin.
I cringe inwardly at my oversharing. Now he has my name too.
“Lions aren’t just my favorite animal. It’s like I’m drawn to them,” he says. “Every time I see one, it feels like a message for me to pay attention.”
“So lions are your spirit animal?” I mock.
“Funny.” He doesn’t laugh.
Hayes is a fast talker and launches into a story about how, a few years ago, he saw a whole pride of lions in the wild while on safari in Africa. Apparently, going on safari in Africa isn’t a big deal to his family because Hayes mentions it like it was a road trip to Pittsburgh or something.
But when he describes seeing those lions, he makes it sound like a holy experience.
“One of them looked directly at me, and even though I knew we were relatively safe in our tour jeep, I’ve never felt more scared in my life.” His eyes shine. “But it was an uplifting sort of terror. Like, the lion probably wanted to attack me, but being seen by him was worth the danger.”
Before deciding to, I tell him about the time my mother took me to the Bronx Zoo when I was seven years old and I got lost. I’d followed the signs leading to the Lion House, and when she found me an hour later, I was standing in front of the glass, having a staring contest with a young lion.
“She still repeats the story that the poor thing seemed to be losing his confidence under my glare,” I say, “like he couldn’t decide if I was the prey or if he was supposed to be the prey. I’m pretty sure he was thinking I’d make a nice snack, but I have to confess, I vaguely remember feeling thrilled as I looked into those big amber eyes.”
I realize Hayes has been listening to me with an unnerving amount of focus, and I look down at my still-stained hands, wondering what got me babbling on.
He holds up his water glass and declares a toast. “To the mighty lion, king of the beasts.”
His lopsided grin draws me in and the moment feels heavy. I lift my glass, and before I can stop myself, I countertoast, “To being seen.”
Hayes and I stare at each other. His voice is rough as he repeats my toast. “To being seen.” He clinks his glass to mine.
We watch each other drink and place our glasses back on the table between us without breaking eye contact.
Finally, I look down and mumble, “Or something corny like that.”
“Sorry to interrupt you two, but here you go.” It’s John bringing us our food.
We thank him, and after Hayes bows his head silently for a moment, he digs in. He displays an appropriate level of awe over the utter deliciousness of the Fifty-Nine X.
“Now, this is what I’m talking about,” he says between bites. “It might have taken me a month to try this if we never met. Or I could’ve missed out altogether.”
“Glad to be your resident burrito guru,” I say. “Now you can head back to Long Island utterly fulfilled.”
“Oh, no. You’re not getting rid of me that easy.”
“Um, I’m pretty sure I am. I mean, I’ll let you pay for my meal and all because you seem sort of rich.” I lower my voice to a whisper. “But I don’t actually believe you would turn me in for vandalism.” I dig a forkful of potatoes from my burrito.
“Not reporting you makes me an obstructer of the law. And I’ve recently become more conscious of respecting each and every facet of our fine legal system.”
“Yeah, well, being on probation can do that to a person.”
“Tell me about it.” He starts to give me the story of how he ended up getting busted for drunk driving back in Queens. Twice.
I eat slowly as he talks quickly, describing the first time he snuck a drink from his parent’s liquor cabinet. He liked the dizzy feeling it gave him. He was twelve. “It wasn’t long before I was sneaking whatever alcohol I could find. My parents keep a fully stocked bar for social occasions. Well, I mean, they used to.”
He tells me how his drinking escalated until one year when he showed up drunk to his mother’s formal spring tea. He tried to hide how blitzed he was, but his loud talking gave him away and his mother was mortified.
“I felt terrible and tried to stop drinking after that.” He looks down at his hands. “But quitting was harder than I thought it would be.”
“And you were how old?”
“I was fourteen by then, but it was like I’d been missing this puzzle piece all my life and the alcohol fit perfectly in that empty hole. Or at least, it nearly fit. And gradually, it started taking more and more liquor to get the same feeling of wholeness.”
“You must’ve been dealing with some pretty heavy stuff to need to escape that bad.” I chew a bite of my burrito slowly.
He puts down his fork and knife. “Actually, I grew up in a loving family in a stable home in a really good neighborhood. My turmoil was all internal.”
I’m ashamed to realize Hayes has been growing more appealing to me as he’s shared the shitstorm he made of his once-perfect life. My dad would hate the idea of me being with this guy. Maybe I wrote him off too quickly.
“Staying here with my aunt for the summer is my final big shot for a do-over,” Hayes says. “I’m lucky to get a third chance, and now I’m paying closer attention to everything.”
“So you need me to show you where all the hot parties are?”
“Very funny. I’ve been sober three months now.”
“You mean, like, with AA?”
He blushes. “That second A is supposed to stand for anonymous. But it’s been good. The meetings here seem…deeper than the ones I was going to back home.”
“New Paltz certainly has her charms—the views, the trails, our recovering alcoholics.”
“So, what about you?”
“Do I party?
”
“No, I mean…what about you? What’s with all the angry lions? When did you start painting them?”
I hold up my steak knife as if I can physically slice the memory that tries to rush toward me. “You could say it all started with something I like to call none of your damn business.”
Hayes laughs and swallows the bite he’s chewing. “This is going to sound a bit out there, but it can’t be a coincidence that I caught you painting. I feel like your lions led me right to you.” I look around with alarm and he lowers his voice. “How many other people know you’re the artist?”
I squeeze the handle of my knife as I saw a large hunk off my burrito. “Nobody,” I admit and continue cutting the bite into smaller and smaller bits.
“I was hoping you’d at least give me a tour of the town. Sort of an insider’s view. Those places only the locals know about. My aunt is cool, but she works a lot, and she’s not real big on hiking or exploring.”
“I’m sorry, but my obligation begins and ends with these fabulous burritos.” I stab what’s left of mine and leave the knife sticking straight up. “You seem nice enough. And I’m glad you appreciate my lions, but I’m not the sort of tour guide you’re looking for.”
“But I believe fate brought us together.”
“And now, my undying free will shall be splitting us apart.”
Hayes laughs as if I’m joking. “Are you honestly going to try to tell me you’re not dealing with something pretty intense right now? That you have no idea what I’m talking about when I tell you that I see rage in your work?”
I just stare at him for a moment before mumbling something about needing to use the ladies’ room. As I stand up from the table, I add, “And then I really need to get going.”
Who the hell talks like this with someone they’ve just met?
Once the bathroom door is locked, I run the water until it’s liquid ice that I splash on the blotches rising up my neck.
When I close my eyes, the memories try to muscle their way into my head. Pure-white tiles. The bathwater. All that blood.
Stop it, Rory!
Yanking a strip of paper towel from the roll, I dry my neck and face, avoiding eye contact with the mirror.
When I get back to the table, Hayes has already paid the bill, plus he’s apparently made friends with my buddy John. The two of them are talking by the register counter where shelves of baked goods peer out from behind the glass.
When I walk up, Hayes pulls a giant peanut butter cookie wrapped in plastic out of the paper bag he’s holding. I don’t want to ask if he just magically guessed my favorite or if John told him.
I take the cookie. “Well, thank you. This has been…different.” I want to turn and walk away, but something keeps me standing there.
John tells Hayes, “Good luck,” and says to me, “See you, Rory,” as he turns back to the coffee machines.
Hayes crosses his arms and bumps me with one elbow. “So listen. I’ve been wrestling with this whole one day at a time sobriety challenge and can really use some sort of release.”
“I’m not getting drunk with you,” I say. “And from your story, it sounds to me like you really shouldn’t be going out drinking.”
He laughs. “That’s not what I’m saying. I was just asking John about things the locals like to do around here and he mentioned a place called Stony Kill Falls?”
I throw a glare at John, but it is deflected off his back. I say, “Yeah, it’s a secluded waterfall that we try to keep private. We don’t need a bunch of out-of-towners knowing about it.”
“So, I was thinking, maybe if you weren’t doing anything special tomorrow, we could head up there. You could show me around.”
I shake my head. “I’m working my other job tomorrow.”
“What time do you start? I can do early morning.”
I look out the window as my mind cranks its gears. If I get out of the house first thing, I’ll avoid seeing my dad. But is it really a good idea to connect with Hayes again? I don’t like how exposed this guy makes me feel.
Unwrapping a corner of my cookie, I take a bite and chew slowly as I turn toward the door.
Hayes lunges to hold it open for me.
“Thanks,” I say. Once we’re out on the sidewalk together, I hold my cookie toward him. He breaks off a piece and pops it into his mouth. After a beat, he pretends he’s about to pass out from ecstasy.
“Mmm,” he says. “Come on. This is delicious! The Fifty-Nine Express was delicious. You have to help me find more local hidden gems. One lion lover to another?”
His face is so open and innocent, I can almost picture him as that twelve-year-old boy taking his first drink and liking the fuzzy feeling it gave him.
Finally, I say, “Meet me in front of the Mud Puddle on Water Street at 7:00 a.m. tomorrow.”
He snags another piece of my cookie and gives me a lopsided grin.
“Don’t give me that cocky grin. I’m showing you the falls and then we’re done.” I turn and walk away, resisting the urge to check if he’s watching me go.
Chapter Four
“Your father was like a knight in shining armor who came barreling into my life in his big, black Camaro to rescue me from my parents’ home.”
I’m sitting in the kitchen listening to Mom and can’t even bear to think about that accidental phone call that I got from Dad earlier.
“My mother and father weren’t terrible, mind you,” Mom says. “They just maybe would’ve been happier if they’d lived in separate houses. Or separate states.” She laughs.
I’ve heard all this before, but I smile anyway. It’s hard to imagine my sweet Memee and Poppy ever screaming at each other the way my mother describes. They belonged together like an antique set of ceramic salt and pepper shakers.
“Your dad’s parents were really bad. His father would physically abuse him growing up. I think that’s why he’s a little…distant sometimes.”
Her eyes unfocus for a moment, and I feel a painful squeeze in my chest.
Mom shakes her head and gives me a faint smile. “You met his mother, your grandma, when you were a baby, but your dad cut them out of our lives after a big argument when you were around two. He can be…overly hard on people.”
She tells me that giving Dad time and space to allow him to slowly grow vulnerable is very similar to the way adding water to a watercolor painting makes it “open back up.”
“You and he can be so much alike at times,” she says. “Quick to make decisions and then stubborn about changing your mind.” Mom can’t keep the sadness from her voice, and I look away until she laughs. “But of course, Rory, everyone knows you’re more like me.”
Yes. I’m just like her.
When I was younger, I loved hearing how much I was like my dad, as if being headstrong and inflexible were good things. Then, Mom helped me embrace art, and it made me softer and more open-minded.
I don’t have her level of talent, but her influence can be seen in my work. Like the way two people who are related can have similar handwriting or mannerisms.
As if reading my thoughts, Mom makes a gesture, pointing her first two fingers at me like a sideways finger pistol. It’s a common way we both emphasize our words, and I point the same way back at her and laugh.
The warmth I feel toward our connection lingers a moment before I allow my hand to drop.
Mom goes on to talk about my dad and his conversion from hoodlum-who-just-never-got-caught to police academy graduate while I methodically shred a napkin into ghostly strips.
I knew Dad had broken the law on a few occasions by swimming in a neighbor’s pool while they were away and stealing a few street signs, but he never got busted, and right now, Mom’s description of him as a “rascally little bugger” is maddening.
Obviously, I didn’t get all my artistic ability from
my mom because my dad is a major con artist.
I want to shove a whole hand towel into my mouth when she starts telling the story about Dad asking her to marry him.
It was the happiest day of her life—next to the day she found out she was going to have an exhibit at the Sean Kelly Gallery in New York City. Oh, and of course there was the day I was born. “I guess I’ve had a few happiest days,” she says, laughing, and I feel that warm connection again.
My mother describes herself sitting beside Dad in their favorite restaurant while she unwrapped smaller and smaller packages-within-packages, and I curse the fact that tonight of all nights, my conversation with Mom has veered into her history with Dad. What was I thinking?
“My hands were shaking by the time I got to the smallest package,” she says with joy. “A small, red leather ring box with a little gold snap on top.”
I picture the small red box, lying quietly in the back of my top drawer.
“I undid the snap and the box fell open. When I looked back up, that rascally father of yours was down on one knee, looking up at me with so much love I could’ve wept.” She has tears in her eyes and I wonder if she ever imagined things could get so fucked up between them.
Also, he’s not a rascal; he’s a heap of human feces.
Before I get so upset my head explodes, I say good night and make my way up to bed. I’m still wide-awake when I hear Dad’s car pull into the driveway an hour later.
The timing is right for him to have just finished his shift, but I wonder what else he’s been up to.
Mom has always been way too trusting of him. And so have I.
When I hear him come up the stairs, I turn to face the wall. His footsteps stop outside my door a moment, but he doesn’t come inside.
He has no idea that I know now. All this time I’ve been trying to keep him from my secrets, not realizing he has even bigger bombshells than I do.
I listen as he moves down the hallway to his bedroom. Maybe I’m more like him than anyone can see.
• • •
“Well, aren’t you just a regular ray of sunshine in the morning?”
Love and Vandalism Page 4