After a half hour or so in the cafeteria, Tracy and Paul were summoned back to the room. It seemed miraculous that Greta, with a little makeup, and Peggy’s skill at fixing-up her hair, looked like she was good to go.
Paul drove Tracy home and Grandma drove back with Peggy. After dinner and cookies, the photo albums came out. Everyone marveled at how much Tracy looked like her mom at the same age. And what a beautiful couple Paul and Marcy made. The photos where Marcy and Paul were partying drunk with throngs of similarly blasted friends were ignored.
Paul slept on the couch, and Tracy and Grandma in their upstairs bedrooms. They knew tomorrow would be tough.
Unlike the funeral homes in New York City, this funeral home actually looked like a home. A house, that is, on a neighborhood street. It made sense to Paul, who was only used to funeral homes that were boxy buildings on busy city streets that could have just as easily been a garment factory or dental offices.
Greta stayed home. She didn’t think she was ready for a visit to the funeral home. Tracy and Peggy didn’t want a service, just the lowest priced cremation. It wasn’t totally because of the expense. It was also because of the circumstances. They didn’t want all the obvious, invasive, dumb, and more than likely offensive questions and comments that would arise from wake attendees because Marcy committed suicide by overdosing.
Tracy, Peggy, and Paul sat in a wood-paneled office with Christian and Jewish religious paintings and sayings on the walls. An elderly man in a dark pinstriped suit came through a door holding a plain cardboard box about the size of one that would contain a Christmas fruit cake.
“You are the family of Marcy Santo?”
“I’m her daughter, my name’s Tracy, this is my aunt Peggy, and this is my dad, Paul Santo,” Tracy said stepping up and acting totally pro.
“I’m so sorry for your loss. Here are the remains. You can stay in here for as long as you like, if need be. Thank you.”
He handed the box to Tracy, smiled, turned around and went back out the door.
“So that’s it. The end. Let’s just go,” Tracy said, carefully handing the box to Paul. “Please hold on to this.”
“Want to get a bite? How about Crazy Otto’s?” Paul suggested.
“It figures you’d find Crazy Otto’s,” Peggy said. “Let’s go discuss the future over pork chop sandwiches.”
Paul placed the box of remains in the back of the SUV and put it in a compartment underneath where the spare tire was stored. He’d figure out what to do with it at a later time.
Peggy and Paul ordered the pork chop sandwich and Tracy ordered a salad with no eggs, cheese, or meat.
“Oh, are you vegetarian?” Paul asked, proud that he picked up on it.
“Vegan.”
“What’s the difference?”
“I don’t eat any animal products.”
“No eggs, dairy, cheese?”
“Nope.”
“Where do you get your protein?”
“Legumes.”
“Legumes?” Paul asked mystified.
Peggy tapped his arm, “That’s hippie talk for beans.”
“Okay, whatever works,” Paul agreed. “Waitress!”
The waitress came back to the table. “Yes, hun?”
“Can I get a beer? Waddyuh got? Anything dark?”
“Sam Adams is the darkest.”
“I’ll take it.”
Peggy and Tracy became quiet and shot each other subtle looks that could mean something, but what?
“What? Just one beer? Is that an issue?” Paul asked.
Tracy bowed her head. “Grandma doesn’t allow alcohol or drugs in the house or in our lives. Due to something that runs in the family, I’ve been told,” she said pointedly looking at Paul.
“Whoah. Okay. I’ll keep that in mind. But if you don’t mind, I’d like to have a beer with my meal.”
Tracy bit her lip.
Peggy chimed in, “Paul, just do what you want. But keep it in mind, please. It’s been something that has caused a lot of pain….” her voice trailed off.
Tracy looked upset, angling her head in an uncomfortable position.
The waitress returned with the opened bottle and a glass.
“I’m sorry, dear. Put it on the bill, but I changed my mind,” he said softly to the waitress.
“No problem, no charge. I’ll drink it. But don’t tell!” She said chuckling as she walked away.
Tracy forced a smile and reached for a glass of water. When she did, Paul noticed a tattoo on the underside of her wrist. It looked like a small black triangle.
“Is that a tattoo?”
“Oh, that? Um, yeah.”
“Why a pyramid?”
“Oh, it’s just a symbol, of….” She struggled to find the words and nervously looked at Peggy “… of the ancient Indian spirits. That kind of thing,” Tracy said, not wanting to reveal the actual meaning of the black triangle’s significance in the LGBT community.
“I’m just glad there weren’t tattoo shops on every corner when I was a kid. I’d probably have a Mr. Met tattoo on my neck. Excuse me, I have to go the men’s room,” Paul said sliding out of the booth. He walked over to the hall on the other side of the long counter and got the attention of the waitress, well out of the sight of Peggy and Tracy.
“Excuse me, let me have that Sam Adams. I’ll just drink it here.”
“Here you go,” she said as she winked.
He downed it in three long gulps.
“Thanks. Just between us friends,” Paul said, returning the wink.
There wasn’t much talk during the meal. It was as if each knew that once the food was eaten, the plates removed, and the coffee was finally served there would be a “discussion.” There had to be. Paul couldn’t remember ever having a family discussion. Oh, there were screaming matches and curse words thrown around, both growing up and when he and Marcy were married, but not any “discussions.” There were threats and challenges and doors slammed. And things happened. But they usually weren’t good. He was hoping that having Peggy at the table would force father and daughter to be a little more civil.
“Do you have any plans, Tracy?” Paul asked tentatively, breaking the ice after his second cup of coffee.
“Yeah, I do, actually. I have some definite plans,” she said slowly and confidently.
“Great. Let’s hear it.”
“I want to move to the West Coast. California,” she said as she studied Peggy and Paul. Both of them had poker faces.
“Are you sure, honey? It’s a big move,” Aunt Peggy said reaching out and putting her hand on top of hers.
“I’ll need your help, Aunt Peg.”
“Anything for you sweetie.”
Tracy sat up straight, brushed back her hair, and readied herself for her “discussion.” “Well, it would all depend on grandma. She has to be one hundred percent.”
“You know something, Trace? Your grammie and I have been talking about me moving in to her place for a few months now. Sometimes these things have a way of just working out in God’s time, not our own. And now’s the time,” Peggy said tenderly.
“But why California?” Paul asked. “Do you even know anybody out there? I mean, come on, it’s the land of fruits and nuts, you know? La-la land?”
“I really need a change. A complete change. And my friend moved out there a while ago, and loves it.”
Paul perked up a little. “Well, a friend? Good! A guy friend?”
“No. A girl friend. A good friend. You know Heidi, right, Aunt Peggy?”
“Oh, that’s the girl with who worked for the ambulance company, right?”
“Yes. She’s out there and loves it.”
“Where in California? It’s a big place,” Paul said, starting to take on an air of a concerned father.
“It’s in southern California. Outside L.A. near Palm Springs.”
Paul’s cop intuitions began to kick in. He felt Tracy was being slightly cagey about something. But like an
experienced cop, he knew not to rush into something, especially just a hunch, too quickly. You could blow the whole thing. “Oh, Palm Springs. That’s nice. For nine months out of the year. The rest of the time you need a freaking space suit. It’s like Baghdad on the Fourth of July!”
“People have air conditioning. Like in Florida or Phoenix,” Tracy said, answers at the ready.
“What would you do out there? What does your friend Heidi do?” Paul said falling slightly into interrogation mode.
“She drives an ambulance. She said she thinks she could get me a job.”
“Sounds kind of tentative.”
“Dad, I’m ready for this. This kind of move. As long as I know grandma is well, and won’t be alone.”
“She’s doing great, and she won’t be alone, honey,” Peggy said reassuringly.
“Do you have any money, Tracy? This is serious stuff, moving thousands of miles away.” Paul said, getting more stern.
“You tell him about the insurance money, Aunt Peggy.”
“Paul, Greta took the insurance money and your secret payments and invested wisely. All in Tracy’s name. It’s a decent amount.”
Tracy looked like a little girl as she pursed her lip and looked to Paul. “Secret payments? I … I … you….”
“Don’t even mention it. I just thank God it worked out the way it was supposed to. Well, not exactly, I mean….”
“I know what you mean,” Tracy said, smiling through a few tears that were quickly wiped away.
“You know, I could drive you to California if you wanted. I’ve got nothing else to do.”
“Really?”
“Really. I’ll go pay the check,” Paul said, heading to the cashier.
Peggy and Tracy stirred their coffee.
“Do you really think grandma will be all right?”
“I really do, sweetie. I don’t know why, but I do. You should go to California. You need to start your life.”
A week went by, and Grandma Greta got stronger every day and was back to her frisky self. It was clear that Tracy’s plan to finally leave home and head west would happen, knowing that her grandma would be living with Aunt Peggy.
With things under control in Herkimer, Paul went back to his Bronx apartment to pack some things for the extended cross-country trip. It was becoming clearer with each passing day that he and Tracy would be heading for California.
He made arrangements for Brielle to stay at his apartment, which she was thrilled about, since she would have her own place for a while, at least. He figured a trip out west would do him good. He could bond with Tracy, and – who knows? – maybe he’d like it out there as well. He doubted it. There was nothing about the West Coast that appealed to him. He didn’t like the people, the terrain, or the sports teams … despite the fact he had never been there.
Steven Schindler
Chapter Four
Tracy didn’t want the trip to be a sightseeing extravaganza. As far as she was concerned, they were going from point A to point B. Eating, sleeping, and whatever other bodily and mental functions needed to be addressed would be done on an as-needed basis. Now that grandma was back home, feeling well and living with Aunt Peggy, she could finally live her own life. She didn’t want to think that it was through the death of her mom that she finally felt free. She wouldn’t let herself think that. But deep down in the place where thoughts and urges are buried – sometimes only with the help of addictions that provide the overwhelming distractions necessary for keeping those thoughts and desires under wraps – she knew she would never have been able to leave her mother while she was alive. Not in that state of desperate dependence on alcohol, drugs, and chaos. She knew she’d forever have the guilt of losing someone to suicide. But she was strong. She was taking action. She could start to live her life on her terms.
“Okay, here’s the deal,” Paul said, putting Tracy’s bags and boxes in the back of the Escape and on the roof rack as Tracy sat on the front steps of Greta’s house while she and Peggy sat on a porch swing chair. “This is my first time doing something like this. I’ve never been west of Chicago, so if something looks amazing, we might take a little detour to check it out. I know you have your license, but I like to drive. I could drive for hundreds of miles without stopping if need be. I enjoy driving. When I’ve had it, you can take over. Have you had any accidents? D.U.I.’s or anything?”
“I don’t drink. And no, I’ve haven’t had any accidents,” Tracy said, annoyed but keeping her emotions in check.
You couldn’t fit a box of Girl Scout cookies in the back of the Escape or on the roof rack. Paul admired his extreme packing skills as he stood hands-on-hips in the driveway. He looked over and saw that Tracy was now squeezed between Greta and Peggy on the little swinging porch chair built for two. She was bigger than both of the elderly ladies, who were shrinking and turning paler as the years pushed them towards their last days. There were hugs, tears, and whispers among the three that Paul knew he would never hear. That was okay. He was an outsider. Yeah, he was the father, he got Marcy to the hospital, and home, and changed a few diapers until he was kicked out. But these two ladies and Marcy gave life to Tracy. And now she was on her way. Seeing the love on that porch made Paul feel good. When he wasn’t distracted by chasing bad guys, or planning bus trips, or betting that month’s rent on a game, he worried deeply about Tracy. Greta assured him that she made sure she was taken care of, but he always had doubts. One always does. But now he knew.
“The train’s leaving the station,” Paul said, leaning down to give Peggy and Greta a peck on the cheek.
“I’ll call often,” Tracy said, waving and getting into the SUV.
Paul loved it when there was no traffic. He felt he could drive forever, and he almost did. One hundred, two hundred, three hundred miles went by like stops on the IRT subway express line. At first he thought for sure it would be like in Kerouac’s On the Road, with Dean Moriarty and Sal Paradise cruising across America, going where the wind blows them, with stops to check out whatever curiosities beckoned just beyond the interstate chain-link fence. Instead it was more like the Kerouac passages where they made a mad dash across America just to get “there.” To the other side. As quickly and madly as possible.
There was some small talk, but once it was dark, Tracy put her seat back all the way and slept. Or maybe just pretended to sleep. Paul pushed on and on until he couldn’t any longer. He had clocked 575 miles, got off the interstate, and got two rooms at a Motel 6. And that was the routine for the next four days interrupted only by truck stops for bad food, worse rest rooms, and overnights in cheap motels. They made a couple of touristy stops for snowballs in the Rockies and vista lookouts in Utah and Arizona, but they were both anxious to keep moving forward, leaving their past in the rear-view mirror as quickly as possible.
They were at the crossroads. After taking I-40 through Flagstaff, Arizona, into Needles, California and onto the I-15 south towards southern California, they had to make a decision in a Barstow truck stop.
It was lunchtime and the place was jammed with truckers, tourists, bikers, and commuters. There were some cowboy hats, but not as many as the stretch through New Mexico and Arizona. There was a smattering of hipsters, probably on the way back to L.A. from Vegas, who somehow have taken on the garb and look of backwoodsmen, with their bushy beards and knitted skullcaps, despite the upper 90’s temperature outside. There were also some toothless walking and talking zombie meth-heads looking to buy or sell their poison. It reminded Paul of what he was leaving behind in home sweet home.
“Hopefully, once we get closer to Los Angeles it will be easier for you to get some of your hippie food. I don’t know how you’ve survived on rabbit food and garbanzo beans. I can’t stand those things! They taste like … dirt.”
Tracy chuckled and she struggled to get four garbanzo beans onto the tines of her fork. “Should we go to Los Angeles? Or just head out to Palm Springs?”
“I don’t know, what do you want to do
?” Paul asked, between bites of his rubbery, dry burger.
“I mean we’ve come this far, it might be a good idea to at least check it out.”
Paul knew he would hate L.A. Every television show from TMZ to The Real House Wives of anywhere added to his disdain of plastic land. Watching Dodger Stadium draw four million fans every single year even pissed him off. Doesn’t anybody have to work out there? Plus the fact that they just got two NFL teams after something like a quarter of a century of not having even one, was just further proof that the city was insignificant. Even Green Bay, Wisconsin, a town in the middle of the tundra with less than a hundred thousand people, has enough gravitas for a football team. L.A. has a hundred thousand people stuck in cars at one Starbucks drive-up window. “Well, if you really want to …,” Paul said, reluctantly.
“Yeah. Let’s go to Los Angeles first,” Tracy said, showing the first glimpse of a smile in several hundred miles.
Paul thought the Grand Central Parkway was bad trying to make a Mets game on a Friday night. But it was nothing compared to the ten lanes of highway hell that lay out before them as they approached Los Angeles. “How can there be ten lanes and nobody moving? It’s unreal.”
They were on the I-10 about 20 miles east of the city and heading west towards downtown L.A. With each exit they passed, traffic was slower and slower. It even came to a dead stop at times. But something struck Paul. No one was blowing their horns, and for the most part, people were pretty much staying in their lanes, windows up, A/C cranked, and just dealing with it.
“I don’t know,” Paul said gripping the wheel tightly, “I think if this was New York, there’d be road rage and horns honking all over the place. I guess after a while you just get used to it out here.”
“Look, I can see the skyline!” Tracy said excitedly.
“Yeah, what do you know? They have a skyline. Not too bad, but looks like about 12 blocks of a skyline compared to Manhattan’s 12 miles’ worth.”
“You’re not in New York anymore.”
High Desert High Page 6