A Penny on the Tracks

by Alicia Joseph

  “What does close have to do with it? You’re either perfect or you’re not. That’s what perfect means. It’s like in baseball, if just one batter reaches first base it’s no longer a perfect game cuz no batters can reach first. Perfect is perfect.”

  “I don’t even know what you’re talking about. I hate baseball,” Abbey said.

  “That’s enough, girls. He may be coming any second now.” My mother hurried to the window and peeked through the curtains. She pulled back suddenly. “He’s here.” She smoothed a hand over the bodice of her dark blue dress and looked quickly around the room. “Lyssa, fix the pillow to your left. Fluff it so it looks fresh and plump.”

  “You want me to do what to the pillow?” I turned to Abbey, and we exchanged strange looks.

  “Lift it up so it doesn’t look so saggy,” she said.

  I looked at the couch I was sitting in. “I don’t think it looks saggy.”

  My mother dropped her arms to her sides. “I swear, Lyssa.” She hurried to the side of the couch with the saggy pillow and did what she wanted me to do to it. I heard a car door slam, and apparently, so did my mother because she immediately placed the pillow back in its place. She picked up the towel that was hanging over her arm, and walked quickly to the doorway of the kitchen and tossed the towel into her sink.

  She came back into the room and picked at her hair. “How do I look?”

  “Beautiful,” Abbey answered.

  “Can I call him Frankie?” I asked.

  The doorbell rang, and I could tell my mom was really nervous. “Don’t start, Lyssa,” she warned as she headed toward the door.

  “Be nice, Lyssa,” Abbey whispered, while staring at the front door. She seemed more anxious to meet the man my mom was dating than I was.

  My mother opened the door, but I couldn’t yet see the man on the other side of it.

  “Wow. You look beautiful. You really do,” a man’s voice said.

  My mom nervously twirled the ends of her hair. “Thank you. Please come in.”

  Franklin walked into the room looking nothing as I, or Abbey, had imagined him to be. He wasn’t a nerd with glasses, nor did he wear his pants high above his waist like a geek. He wore normally-fitted black slacks, a white shirt, and a black suit coat. He was far from toothpick skinny, and there was no trace of a bald spot anywhere on his mound of thick hair that tailed longer in the back. His gut was broad, and I was sure if he wanted to he couldn’t button his suit over his thick stomach.

  He was big without being fat. I hadn’t seen many men of his stature before. Most male teachers at my school were either fat or skinny, but I didn’t know how to describe my mom’s date.

  “Hello.” Franklin looked back and forth between Abbey and me.

  “Lyssa, please come over here and say hello to Franklin,” my mother instructed.

  I got off the couch and walked toward the behemoth of a man. “Hi.”

  Franklin extended a beefy hand to me. I stared at it, but didn’t move or say a word. I’d never had a grown man want to shake my hand before. After a light nudge from my mother, I reached my hand out to meet his, and his fingers gently enclosed over mine. His hands were softer than I would have imagined them to be based on his substantial appearance, but then I reminded myself that he managed movie theaters for a living, he didn’t lay bricks.

  “Nice to meet you, Alyssa. Your mother has told me a lot about you.” His voice wasn’t as deep as I expected it to be based on his size.

  “Like what?” I asked.

  He smiled. “Well.” He glanced at my mother and then back at me. “That you like being outdoors. You don’t like doing girly stuff. You love rock music and when you watch MTV you turn the volume so loud your mother jumps when she turns on the TV. Your bedroom walls are covered with posters of guys with long hair.” He bent down closer to me and whispered, “Your mother hates that.”

  I pulled back slightly. I wasn’t sure how to feel about a strange man knowing so much about me. I glanced at my mom who was standing next to me. She wore a nervous smile, and I knew this moment meant more to her than it did any other time she introduced me to the few men she had brought home.

  I turned back to Franklin. He looked nervous, too. Their eyes darted from me, then to each other, and then to me again.

  The way my mother and Franklin intently watched me and then glanced at each other reminded me of the way the school principal and teachers questioned a student suspected of breaking school rules. They’d pay extra close attention to every expression, every word—any detail that would give the student away.

  Even though I knew I wasn’t in trouble, the kind of attention my mother and Franklin were giving me at that moment made me feel like they were sizing me up.

  I forced as pleasant of a smile I could muster. “I like music a lot.”

  “Me too. Especially when I was your age.” Franklin turned to Abbey, who stood quietly next to me. “You must be Abbey.” He bent his thick body toward her and shook her hand as he did mine.

  Abbey seemed impressed with him from the way she looked at him with wide eyes. Her hand completely disappeared in his grip.

  “What kind of music did you used to like?” Abbey asked.

  He straightened to its normal height. “I was a big Zeppelin fan. Went to a lot of their concerts.”

  “Wow. Led Zeppelin was like the . . . the . . . Ratt of today,” Abbey said.

  I clasped my hand against my forehead and closed my eyes. No way was Ratt the Led Zeppelin of today.

  “I’m familiar with Ratt, and they’re pretty good,” he said.

  “But they’re not the Zeppelin of today,” I noted.

  “What are you talking about, Lyssa? You love Ratt. Every time we sing in the garage you want to be Stephen Pearcy.”

  “You sing in the garage?” my mother asked.

  I felt my face burn in embarrassment and immediately regretted my decision to have Abbey with me to meet Franklin for the first time.

  “No . . . we . . . we just goof around.” I dropped my gaze to the floor.

  “Just don’t make too much noise so the neighbors start complaining,” my mother said.

  “We won’t,” I assured.

  Franklin stepped closer to Abbey and me. “I manage the movie theater over at Clifford St and 3rd. Do you know it?”

  “Lyssa and I go there all the time,” Abbey said. “But only when it’s not so nice out cuz nobody wants to be holed up in a movie theater when the sun’s shining bright. At least that’s what Lyssa says.”

  Franklin eyed me. “I like that. Never waste a beautiful day. That’s good. But I can get you some free passes for those rainy days if you like.”

  “We don’t need ’em. We get in free already,” Abbey said.

  “And how do you manage that?” Franklin watched her curiously.

  “Easy, we just . . .”

  I stomped on Abbey’s foot and pulled her away. “We gotta go. Nice meeting you, Franklin.”

  “Hey. Don’t go too far. Dinner in half an hour,” my mother yelled after us.

  I dragged Abbey out the back door and into the garage. I closed the door behind us. “You were just gonna tell him that we sneak into the movie theater, weren’t you?”

  “No I wasn’t,” Abbey said adamantly.

  “Yes you were. And in front of my mom. What were you thinking?”

  “I wasn’t gonna tell.” Abbey’s voice grew louder.

  “Then what were you gonna tell him was the reason we get in for free?”

  Abbey scrunched her face as she struggled to come up with an answer.

  “Jesus, Abbey. Do you have to be so damn honest? It’s like it just comes natural for you. In front of my mother, you were going to tell him that we sneak into his movie theater without paying. If you want to be so damn honest, then be that way with the things you do, but don’t lump me in with all that honesty.”

  I pulled the bucket out from the side of the garage, turned it over, and sat down. There
was silence between us for a little while. I looked at her. She was still standing, looking down at her folded hands.

  She looked like a sulking puppy dog.

  I stood up, walked to the other bucket, and put it next to mine. “Sit down.”

  “Maybe I’ll just go home.” She moved to lift the garage door, but I jumped off my seat and stopped her.

  “Wait. Don’t leave.” I pulled her hand off the door handle. “I’m sorry I yelled at you like that. It’s not bad to be honest about some things, just not this, okay?”

  Abbey dropped her hands against her sides. “Okay.”

  “I just got . . . worried . . . cuz I don’t know what would happen if my mom found out. I know she wouldn’t like it.”

  “If what we’re doing is so bad then maybe we should stop doing it. I didn’t think it was that big of a deal, but if it is, we should stop.”

  “No. I want to keep doing it because we can,” I said.

  I walked back to my bucket and sat down. I leaned my elbows against my knees and took in a breath. “You know, Ab. I can say my mom would punish me if she found out, and maybe she’d want to, but it’s nearly impossible for my mom to ground me. Not with the amount of time she isn’t home. I wasn’t mad about the punishment in getting caught. I don’t want her to find out because maybe she’d be a little disappointed in me.”

  “I didn’t think you cared much about that,” Abbey said.

  “I didn’t either,” I replied. And that was the truth. Though I didn’t think much about getting caught sneaking into the theater because it was so easy, I figured if we ever did get caught, I‘d just use it as another way to make my mother feel guilty for being away from home so much. And she’d take the blame for it. It wasn’t until that night, at the prospect of being found out, did I realize I didn’t want to disappoint my mom.

  “Come on. Let’s go eat.” I stood up. “My mom doesn’t cook dinner for just anyone. This guy better be worth it.”

  “He seems nice. I like him.” Abbey followed me out.

  “You’d like anyone who’d give you free movie passes.”

  She stopped walking and looked at me. “What do I need free movie passes for if we’re gonna keep sneaking in for free?”

  I shook my head and smiled. Sometimes Abbey made all the sense in the world.

  Chapter Seven

  THE SMALL LAMP on the nightstand shined the only light in my room as I lay in my bed, listening to my Walkman. I was reading an interview with Poison’s lead guitarist, C.C Deville, in Metal Edge magazine when my door opened, and my mom walked into my room.

  I pulled the headphones off my ears and set the magazine to the side.

  “Now I know why you didn’t hear me knocking.” She sat next to me on the edge of my bed.

  I scooted over to give her more room.

  “Did you have a good time tonight?” she asked.

  “It was okay.”

  “Do you like Franklin?”

  “He’s okay. Abbey liked him a lot.”

  “I got my daughter’s best friend’s approval to date a man. That’s great.” My mother smiled, and I never noticed before how pretty her smile was. “Would it be all right if he comes over again? He really enjoyed you. He thinks you and Abbey are great kids. I mentioned that you like to watch baseball, and he offered to take us to a game sometime.”

  I picked up my headphones and looked at her. “It’s a little soon for baseball. Don’t you think?” I put my headphones back on and opened my magazine.

  My mother pulled my headphones back down around my neck. “I wasn’t finished.” She looked in my eyes. “Lyssa . . . I know bringing a man into our home is a big change. It’s been a while and you’re used to it being just us, but you know you come first. Always. We’ll do this gradually.”

  “So no sleepovers anytime soon?” I asked.

  “Alyssa Marie. I don’t want to hear you talk like that.”

  I sighed and looked down at my headphones. I wanted to escape into my music, and not ever talk about my mother and her new boyfriend sharing a bed in the room across the hall from me.

  “I did what you asked and I met him. Isn’t that enough for now?”

  She watched me, uncertainty trapped in her eyes. “Of course it is,” she said softly and covered her hand over mine. “Thank you for doing that.”

  My mother’s eyes never strayed from me. Less than twenty seconds passed, yet it felt much longer. She stared at me, and I knew her mind was busy with serious thoughts, and I wondered what made this guy so special, so soon.

  This wasn’t how it had been with the others. Before, it had been as though my mother had, by design, made sure our lives were as separate as they could be from the men she dated. Even Gary, the man my mom had spent the most time with, didn’t spend a lot of time at home with us. They mostly saw each other outside of the house. The most I’d see Gary was when he’d come pick my mother up for dates.

  I’d be watched by a trusted neighbor and was usually asleep by the time they came back. I’d never know if he ever stayed over and left the next morning before I woke. I remembered being bitter that my mother was spending so much time with Gary, but now looking back, it really wasn’t that much—maybe four times a month. I knew now that that wasn’t a whole lot, but at seven years old, every night my mother was away from me had felt like a long time.

  I had a strong feeling that Franklin was going to spend more time at the house with us, and mine and my mother’s relationship, and Franklin and my mother’s relationship, were about to intertwine.

  I turned away from her and picked up my headphones. As if taking my cue, she stood up from the bed, leaned over me, and pulled my covers up to my shoulders. “Good night, Lyssa.” She kissed my forehead and turned away.

  “This means for sure my father’s never coming back,” I blurted.

  She spun back to me. “Your father?” She slowly returned to the edge of my bed, her forehead pinched in a tight expression of shock and confusion. “Lyssa, did I ever give you the impression he was coming back?”

  “No,” I answered softly. “But I thought he would.”

  My mother began to cry softly. “How come you never told me that?”

  The only response I could muster was a shrug. She inched closer to me and rested her hand on my leg. “I know I haven’t told you much about your father. He was gone before you were even born. Around the time you started going to school, I prepared myself for the questions I was sure you’d have when you saw the other kids with fathers. But it didn’t seem to faze you much, until one day you came home from school and told me about a man who came to pick up a girl from your Kindergarten class and yelled at her for not waiting for him in the spot he had instructed her. You said to me in your sweet five-year-old voice, ‘I think it was her daddy. He was really mean, and he made her cry.’ And then you took my hand and looked up at me, and said, ‘Mommy, I’m glad I don’t have a daddy to make me cry.’” My mother paused for a breath and swiped away a tear rolling down her cheek. “I didn’t have the heart to tell you that not all daddy’s make their little girls cry. My biggest fear was that you’d come home from school wanting a daddy, and it would kill me because I couldn’t give that to you. So in a twisted way I was relieved.”

  “I asked Grandma once about my father before she died, and she told me not to think about him anymore and that I had you, and a mommy was all I needed.”

  “How come you never told me that?” my mother asked.

  I gave her another shrug. “Maybe I didn’t think about it much after that because Grandma told me not to.”

  “I’m your mother. You should have talked to me about it.”

  I was one of only a few kids in the neighborhood who didn’t have a mother and a father. A girl in my grade, Suzy, didn’t have a father either, but he had died during a bank robbery. As the robbers were leaving with their bags of cash, a woman who witnessed the incident said that one of the robbers accused Suzy’s father of looking at him too i
ntently, and therefore could identify him, even though the robber’s face was mostly covered.

  The robber shot him in the head.

  The woman said it had all happened at the very end, just as she and others around her were beginning to relax that the whole ordeal was about to be over, and then a man was suddenly shot, and Suzy’s father was dead.

  The whole neighborhood felt sorry the little girl whose father was tragically murdered, but not many people shared the same empathy for the little girl whose father abandoned her before she was born.

  The story of the young widow and the newly fatherless child was spread across national newspapers and national TV. I was about seven at the time and more than slightly jealous of the attention adorned onto my classmate, of people caring. I desperately wished my father was dead too, not just gone.

  I’d never told my mom about the time Melinda, a girl from the neighborhood, was teasing me about not having a father. “At least my birth wasn’t a mistake, and my daddy didn’t run away.”

  Abbey and I were at a park. We were about nine years old. The more I told the girl to shut up, the louder she yelled. She skipped, in her clean white shoes, around the park. She wore a bright yellow flowered dress, and chanted, “Lyssa’s daddy didn’t want to stay. So Lyssa’s daddy ran away.”

  Soon, Melinda had enticed the other kids in the playground to join her in reciting the rhyme she had made up about me.

  Kids riding down slides, hanging from monkey bars, and swaying high on swings all broke into song—“Lyssa’s daddy didn’t want to stay. So Lyssa’s daddy ran away!”—with big smiles across their faces.

  I remembered watching the mothers engaged in chatter on benches off to the side, seemingly oblivious to the words their kids were chanting, though I was sure they wouldn’t have done much even if they had been privy to what was happening on the playground right in front of them. They knew who my mother was, and she wasn’t considered to be “one of them.”

  My mother was the sole provider for our household, and that meant she didn’t have time for play dates in the park or evening bridge games. When my mother and I went grocery shopping, she didn’t have time to stop off and gossip with every familiar face she passed in the aisles, the way I’d watched other mothers do. I was glad for that.