Daphne_A Novel

by Will Boast

What time’s your flight arriving? Need to coordinate schedules with Alden.

  Don’t know yet

  Think Ollie wants to go caroling with us?

  I’d made the mistake, weeks ago, of saying he might come. I’d made the mistake of telling her about him at all. Mom please don’t freak out we broke up

  The cursor sat there, blinking. A moment later my phone rang. I silenced it.

  At work can’t talk besides old news really don’t worry

  How old?

  Couple weeks not really keeping track three weeks three days

  Daph, Jesus, you *tell* your mother these things.

  I know please it’s fine

  What about Brook? Maybe you can fly with her?

  I don’t know what she’s doing god don’t start asking a bout Brook

  Oh, Daph, if I could reach through this screen and give you a hug. You’re sure it’s over? Maybe Ollie could still come? If he can’t afford a ticket, just let me know.

  Fuck this is driving me insane just stay out of my shit for one fucking second how do you think I’m dealing with this without you treating me like some terminal patient don’t goddamn offer plane tickets or carol singing or any of this shit because I’m going to goddamn explode if I have to type another single fucking sentence My finger went for the DELETE key. Then I realized, through my narcotic fog, that I’d pushed RETURN.

  The cursor in the window sat blinking.

  Mom?

  Hey Mom?

  Mom seriously I’m sorry I didn’t mean to I just accidentally

  I sat listening to the far-off barking. Five, then ten minutes went by. The cursor kept blinking. Blinked off. Blinked on. Blinked off.

  THAT MONDAY, MY YEARLY REVIEW. All I could hope for: a pat on the back for handling the break-in, and that they wouldn’t bring up my somnambulistic last few weeks.

  When they came in, two VPs and our HR woman, they all had big grins on. They were thrilled. I’d kept the budget. Above all I’d kept the budget. They only wanted to talk about some staff reorganization. Well, sorry, Staci, I thought. I did my best for you.

  They needed to ensure standards were being upheld. They knew how widespread it was, especially in San Francisco. But certain lifestyles, they said, just didn’t mesh with company philosophy. It took me a moment to get it. Hidalgo and his pot smoking.

  “It’s exhausting work,” I said. “Long hours, high stress.” I was trying to sound indignant. The pills made it all come out monotone. “If it gets them through a shift, why should I stop them?” I wasn’t going to come right out and confirm that Hidalgo smoked. “Anyway, it’s not even against the law.”

  They appreciated my loyalty to my team. Truly, they did. I could see them practically winking at me. By my voice, they probably figured I didn’t give a shit.

  “I have to cut the techs some slack,” I went on. “The job is just too awful.”

  Of course, of course. They had sympathy for “everyone in the trenches.” But they had to draw the line when certain gang-related clothing was worn. Baggy T-shirts and paraphernalia associated with certain sports teams. Certain colors.

  Oh, Jesus, the Giants cap. “Hidalgo isn’t in a gang,” I said, still too dry and flat. “He’s a dad. He already works two jobs. He wouldn’t even have time for a gang.”

  Nevertheless, he was cautioned about the dress code.

  “That’s because I threw Byron’s write-up away. Hidalgo never even saw it.” Blunted as it was, I could feel my fury stirring. If not for the pills, I might have thrown up an almighty fuss. Instead, it all passed over me like a chill, damp breeze. “He’s my best tech.” Still too bland. “I need Hidalgo. I need five more like him.”

  They certainly did appreciate my loyalty to my team. But I needn’t worry. They’d be taking on additional hires in the new year. Especially with Ms. Finn cutting back.

  “Staci?” I said. “You’re letting Staci go as well?”

  No, no, Staci was going part-time while she started coursework at UC Davis. A rising star, very passionate. They were so happy to keep her in the MedEval family.

  Of course the young white woman wasn’t getting the ax. Or maybe Staci had been cleverer than I thought. She’d buttered me up first, then started on the higher-ups. As for the final decision on Hidalgo, they’d leave that up to whoever was running the lab. And choosing the additional hires, naturally. Whoever was running the lab, they said again, still grinning. They wanted to bring me back to hardware. Actually, they wanted me to run hardware.

  “Oh,” I said.

  They went through the responsibilities and perks. They discussed the salary—that penetrated my haze—enough to pay down my mortgage a few years early. I’d start as soon as February, as soon as they’d secured my replacement. I’d done a fine job with the dogs, they said, but they were betting I’d be glad to get back to my roots. After all, they knew the lab could wear you down.

  “Jesus, yes,” I said. “But, look—”

  They wanted my recommendation: an internal hire or bring in candidates? They started drafting the job posting right there, asked me to list my duties and qualifications. I was still too fogged over to process any of it. Later, I understood. Byron. They were finally going to promote Byron. Byron was going to get the lab, and after that, forget overtime, Hidalgo would be gone.

  I SHUT MYSELF in my office. When I came out, the night shift was in. Most of the dogs were already asleep, just shapes in the half-light, though I recognized little Oscar by the yip he gave me as I came past. We had one of the new pacemakers in him. His energy hadn’t gone down one bit. I passed Biscuit. He was tucked back in his cage, but I knew he wasn’t asleep. I could feel his watchfulness.

  Talking with the night-shift guys, weariness draped itself over me. The lab was the thing we all hated to remind ourselves we did. My turn now to slip back into the general population, to see those dogs as only output data, points on a graph, numbers. “Looks like that hurt,” one of the guys said, gesturing at the welt on my forehead.

  “Merry Christmas,” I said, brushing my bangs back over it. “Have a good one.”

  I was anxious to get out of my clean suit and far, far from here. Then I paused, brought myself up short. I went back to Biscuit’s cage, touched the bars of his cage, felt a vibration. I undid his lock. “Come on, boy.” Staci had given him a bath that morning, but his fur was matted and lusterless. The outline of his ribs showed. The antibiotics hadn’t helped. If anything, opening him up again had made things worse.

  He followed me out onto the play area, into a clear evening with a soft breeze tickling down from the hills. He went over on his back, in slow motion, and rubbed against the grass. Somewhere up from the depths, pleasure. But after a minute, he just lay panting.

  I went back inside, into the surgery room, unlocked a small cabinet, took down a vial and a syringe. The cattails waving, white smoke. Back outside I called, “Here, boy,” and emptied a whole pouch of treats on the grass. He ate only one. I gave him a rawhide bone. He did his best with it. I let him inspect a gopher hole. Delaying, still delaying.

  Finally, I knelt next to him in the grass. I stroked his belly. His eyes went white. I felt the beat of his heart. “Biscuit,” I said softly. He rolled over, hearing a command, and offered his jugular, as he’d been trained to do almost since birth. I took out the syringe and, with the flat of my left hand, pressed gently on his side, held him still.

  When it was over, I stayed kneeling in the dirt, I don’t know how long.

  ON THE TRAIN, I checked my phone. An email from Interior Life: “Congratulations!” A mass mailing, more spam . . . No, it was from one of their editors. In overly familiar language, she praised the unity of my design, my careful juxtaposition of textures, the overall aesthetic of me and my “absolutely adorable partner.” She wanted a full apartment tour and was assigning a photographer. There were elaborate instructions on how to prepare. They were eager to get “Daphne and Ollie’s Cozy Mission Roost” up on the site.

&
nbsp; I deleted the email, closed my eyes, and waited for my stop.

  TWENTY-SIX

  LATE THAT FRIDAY, I TOOK A CAR FROM THE LAB straight to the airport, shuffled through the long lines, and boarded a red-eye that was already juddering and lurching before we hit the Sierras. I wanted to sleep, reached into my backpack—realized I’d forgotten my pills. By the time we crossed the fat ribbon of the Mississippi shining dully in the moonlight, I was only half-narcotized and tasting metal and dread. The wheels bounced down in Indy. I stayed in my seat while everyone filed off. Not switched off. I just couldn’t face her yet.

  In arrivals, she stood next to a broad, tall man in a pressed white shirt, khakis, and glasses with a brown tint. She spotted me, gave a flustered wave. When we got close, she suddenly closed the distance and wrapped me in a hard, tight hug. She wore a long white sweater and black leggings, and even her snow boots were surprisingly fashionable. Her hair looked freshly dyed, a not unflattering auburn. Alden looked on at us, grinning.

  “Daphne,” he said, engulfing my hand in his, “real privilege to meet you.” He smelled like Old Spice and the loam on pulled-up roots. “Welcome home, all the way from Frisco!”

  “Yeah, hi.” I blinked heavily. “Sorry, I’m . . .”

  “Alden’s truck is in the garage,” my mother said. “He knows I hate highway driving.”

  “It’s a four-door,” he said in a big, cheery wheeze. “In case you’re worried about having to roll around in back!” He offered to take my bag. We came out into the bland, bright Indianapolis morning. The snow was a foot thick and crusted over with ice. The glare made me wince. “Some day!” Alden said. “Bella giornata!”

  “As busy as Alden’s been,” my mother said, “he still finds time to practice his Italian.”

  “Big snows like we’re getting, trees can’t take the weight. You hate to see them come down. Profound creatures. Even with a stump, you feel a certain presence.”

  My mom beamed at him, the tree philosopher in chinos and pervert glasses.

  “Okay! Here were are,” Alden said, “VIP parking!”

  He swung my suitcase up into the bed of a huge red Chevy pickup. We wound out of the airport, my mother and her beau commenting on the traffic and the new Cracker Barrel that had opened in the year and a half I’d been away. When we got home, I abruptly excused myself, went to my old room, dropped onto my old twin bed. Three hours later I woke, leaden, achy, skin and mouth dry, the last of the pills crawling around my bloodstream. I would’ve fallen back to sleep, if not for a distant banging. I pulled on a faded T-shirt: “Arcadia Volleyball: Pain Is Just Weakness Leaving the Body.”

  I went into the kitchen, following the banging. Years ago, my mom had painted one wall with chalkboard paint. When I was a kid, it was fun making drawings on it, little illustrated versions of the grocery list. But, in high school, if I didn’t leave a message to say where I was any given evening, she started calling around looking for me. In all my trips home, the notes and doodles had been the same ones that had been there since I left for college. Now, a big swath had been wiped clear, everything but the cut-in-half words on the very edges, to make room for a large, intricate drawing: the floor plan of a house, this house. It was labeled, in a script not my mother’s, “The Villa.”

  I went into the living room. The old burgundy couch, with its butt-worn corduroy upholstery and duct-taped reclining lever, was gone. In its place sat a dark leather Chesterfield covered by a sheet. The wood paneling that had clad the entire room had been stripped to bare plaster, and in the far corner, all of our family photos were lined up against the baseboard. Baby photos, shots of me on the court making a bump, an old family portrait: My mother in a flowery dress with a lace collar. Me at two or three, a big, gap-toothed smile at the trick—a penny stuck to his shiny forehead—the photographer had used to crack me up. And my father in a flannel shirt, with his red-brown beard, his hair parted, and his eyes slightly averted.

  The banging started up again. Something cracked and splintered. I went back through the kitchen, opened the door to the garage.

  “Mom, what are you doing? What is all this?”

  She wore yellow work gloves and safety goggles, held a rubber mallet in one hand, a nail puller in the other. Before her were several old wooden boxes. “Wine crates, from Italy. Alden found them. Sorry the house is a mess, but, hey, no more cheesy paneling.” Her voice was tight, cautious. She was hurt, angry, but wouldn’t take me to task. Instead she went back to the crates and pried a nail from one with a quick, high creak. “Reclaimed wood. I thought you’d approve.”

  “Right. For ‘the Villa.’ ”

  She held the mallet out to me. “Here, get your blood moving.”

  “I’m going back to bed.”

  “You just got up.”

  “I’m not feeling well.”

  “Listen, if you want to talk about Ollie . . .” I heard both alarm and muted triumph in her voice. Those who worry secretly rejoice when given real occasion for it.

  “Sleep is better.”

  She sighed. “Fine, I need you bright-eyed and bushy-tailed for dinner tonight.”

  “Is he moving in here? Is that what’s going on?”

  “We’ll get to that later, Daph. One thing at a time.” She got the nail puller under another nail, more expertly than I expected, and squealed it up. “Maybe I’ll even get on that decorating website you like.”

  THAT EVENING, ALDEN CAME to collect us. He was driving a different truck, this one dark blue, “Stanowski A-1 Stump Grinding: No Job Too Big!” painted on the side.

  “Sorry, folks! Last-minute job. Should’ve run home and changed, but didn’t want to keep the ladies waiting!” Now he wore a denim shirt with his name embroidered on the pocket. Before we set off, my mother wanted to show him what she’d done with the crates. He entered the garage like a foreman, hitching up his khakis, getting the lay of everything. “Look at all that beautiful wood.” He picked up a slat. “ ‘Prodotto del Lazio,’ ” he read aloud in his twang. “You like what your mom and I are doing with the place?”

  “Love it,” I said with broad, flat enthusiasm.

  He smelled like sawdust, like Ollie coming home from a building site.

  “Okay!” Alden said. “Who’s hungry for some autentico Italian?”

  We drove down to Indy, to Carmel, the up-market part of a down-market city, to a restaurant named, with the exclamation point, Grazie! “Best meal in town,” Alden said, more than once. “The chef trained back in the old country.”

  The hostess recognized Alden and gave us a table in the back. Garlands and baubles hung all around the dining room. The bar had little snowmen and reindeer lined up next to ceramic figurines of gondoliers. A blond teenage girl presented us with oversized menus printed on pebbled faux-parchment, a holiday menu. “I was set on spaghetti carbonara,” Alden said, “but seeing how it’s a special occasion”—he chuckled—“and my ex is gonna scorch the bird tomorrow . . .” He read aloud the courses with the gravity of someone reciting an epic poem. “Moist, sumptuous, hand-basted turkey,” he intoned. “Creamy garlic mashed potatoes with the skins left on, generously buttered carrots.”

  A dry giggle squeaked out of me. My mother gave me a cautionary look.

  “How’s the food here normally?” I said to Alden. “How autentico is it?”

  “Si, bella, multi autentico.”

  “You must be Italian.”

  “Nah, mutt. Good old American mutt. But I do pursue la dolce vita.”

  My mother and Alden talked about a performance of La traviata they’d just seen. They were weirdly formal and polite, as if concerned about easing me into this new arrangement. My mother kept glancing at me, trying to read my expression, measuring my response to Alden. Whatever she wanted from me, I was too achy to ruminate on it. My mouth was so dry I’d had three glasses of wine before the first course arrived. Alden tried asking me about “Frisco,” my work, my apartment. I could barely summon the energy to answer. My mot
her kept quiet, her lips pursed in something like a smile.

  After the antipasti, Alden started telling me about a last-minute trip he’d taken to Rome, years ago. “I was feeling kinda impulsive,” he said. “Kinda crazy. But it was a great trip. A great, great trip . . .” He glanced down bashfully, seemed unsure about going on. But I didn’t contribute anything, and he pushed ahead.

  It was just after his divorce was finalized, he said. He’d put his number one chipper guy in charge and just bought a ticket and shown up without even any reservations. He’d wandered around in the rain for a few days, looking at the things he’d remembered from way back in middle school history: the Coliseum, the Pantheon, the Circus Maximus. He asked for filter coffee to go at bars and garlic bread at restaurants, not knowing any better, fumbling his way through. To me, it sounded dreary and lonely. But Alden’s eyes were sparkling. He got into a rhythm, saying “Roma” for “Rome,” pronouncing it with upswinging emphasis: “Roma!” Through the entrées, he went on with his story, a generously buttered carrot stuck on his fork. He kept lifting it off the plate, but it never quite made his mouth.

  At the Capuchin Crypt, he said, he’d gawked at all the bones and skulls and felt a little ill—life lasted about five seconds and then you were just a pile of dust somewhere. The next morning, at the Vatican, he hired a young German guy, a history student, to show him around. (They had a great time and still kept in touch to this day!) At the end of a long, overwhelming day, exhausted and exhilarated from staring up at the Sistine Chapel ceiling, Alden continued on his own to St. Peter’s Basilica. Seeing the gossamer light floating down into the nave, though he hadn’t had religion for years and had grown up Baptist, not Catholic, he was moved to pray.

  First, he asked God to guide him. He thanked Him for the success he’d had in life, asked that he might build the fleet back up again, keep growing the business and help out his guys and their families. He prayed for his two stepsons to do well in school and at hockey, get into good colleges. He prayed for peace, our troops overseas, for his dear departed mother. Finally, he found himself praying for his ex-wife.