There Will Come a Time

by Carrie Arcos

  The salesman, Jose, starts a conversation with Dad about teen drivers and Honda’s safety rating, and tells us we’re lucky to be here today because they just so happened to get this Honda this week. If I don’t like the black, they can also find us another in any color we’d like.

  Dad tells Jose that we will be paying in cash if we buy a car from him today and asks if we can go for a test drive. Jose quickly leaves to get the keys.

  “Well?” I ask Dad.

  “Price is too high, but we’ll see what you think after driving it. Do you want to try anything else?”

  “Yeah.” I tell him about the other three cars that I researched on the lot.

  “You’ve done your homework,” he says with approval.

  “Yep.”

  “Okay. Let’s see if we can get you a good deal.”

  • • • •

  After two hours, Dad talks the sticker price down six thousand dollars and extends the warranty for one hundred thousand miles, and I drive the CR-V off the lot. It has that new-car smell mixed with a perfumed forest from the green tree hanging from the rearview mirror. I follow Dad in his car over to a sandwich place for lunch.

  “How is it?” Dad asks while we are sitting down and waiting for our food.

  “Awesome.”

  “Good. I’m glad you didn’t want something flashy. Jenny will like it too. It’s a safe, reliable car.”

  I try something out. “Grace would have liked it,” I say.

  Dad smiles and tries not to make a big deal about what I’ve said. He rearranges his utensils on the napkin in front of him. “Yes. She would have.”

  He gets a phone call and excuses himself, while I sit and play an app on my phone. By the time he’s finished, the food has arrived. My roast beef sandwich looks amazing.

  “How’s practice? Any concerts coming up?” Dad asks, then takes a bite of his ham-and-cheese sandwich.

  “Okay. Not for a couple of months.” I wipe some mayo from the side of my mouth.

  Dad enjoys the concerts we put on at school because he’s also a musician. He plays the piano, but now that I think about it, I haven’t heard him in a while.

  “Dad, how come you don’t play the piano anymore?”

  “Don’t I?”

  “No.”

  “Haven’t had the time, I suppose.”

  Dad takes another bite of his sandwich. Sitting across from him, I notice he looks a lot older. His wide face is more sharp than round. He’s got circles under his eyes. There’s more gray scattered through his hair. Wrinkles cradle his eyes. People used to say how much Grace and I took after him, and even when I passed him in height, they’d still say it. Dad was never a big man, but I can’t remember him being this small and tired.

  “So, have you spoken with your mom lately?” he asks, making his voice sound casual.

  “We talked.” I don’t really want to talk about Mom.

  “And are you going to see her?” It’s a question, not a command.

  “Yeah.”

  “When?”

  “I don’t know.” I stare at my food. “Whenever.”

  “Look, I’ve never pushed you where your mom is concerned, but this is different. You need to hear what she has to say. It’s not right to keep someone captive.”

  I don’t know what Dad’s talking about. Mom is the adult, the responsible party here. “I’m not holding her captive.”

  “You’re not releasing her from her past mistakes. We’ve all made them. I am far from perfect, but your mom and I worked through our issues long ago. This is something you have to do on your own, and I don’t want to force you—”

  “Then don’t.” The words slip out harsher than I intend.

  Dad holds up his hands. “Fine.” He resumes eating. The silence cuts through any headway we were making by having an actual conversation. We’re back to distance and dead ends.

  Even though it’s not comfortable for me, I make a move. “I know what you’re saying, Dad, and I will talk with her. I’m just waiting for the right time.”

  “Don’t wait too long.” He puts down his sandwich and holds out his hand for me to shake on it. Dad’s had me shaking on deals since I was a kid. He says your word is stronger and more binding than any ink.

  I hesitate, but I shake, and he grips my hand tight and searches my eyes, letting go when he sees what he wants to see, I guess.

  “I’d like to take Jenny out for dinner and a movie tonight. Can you watch Fern?”

  “Yeah.” I shrug. “I don’t have anything. What movie?”

  “Some romantic drama she’s been wanting to see. You know, one of those British ones.”

  “Good luck,” I say.

  “I know.” He shakes his head and chuckles.

  I take a drink. Some of the Coke squirts up through the straw, hitting me in the face and even spraying at Dad. We both crack up.

  “Sorry. I don’t know how that happened.” I wipe the Coke that’s dribbling down my face.

  “You do have talent.” He dabs at his shirt with a napkin. “By the way, how’re classes going?”

  I know he’s asking because last year I bailed on school and barely passed. “Good, more Bs than As.”

  “That’s still strong. What’re you studying in English?” Dad loves to talk about books because he has read just about everything.

  “At the moment, Brave New World, which is way better than Frankenstein. Do you know that wasn’t even the name of the monster?”

  Dad nods. “Of course. It’s the doctor’s name.”

  “It wasn’t even scary.”

  “No, it’s about what makes us human. It’s also about a monster’s longing to be loved. Did you know it’s considered the first science fiction novel? Pretty ahead of its time.”

  It feels a little rusty at first, talking with Dad, but pretty soon we’re along familiar grooves. Talking books helps. We’ve always discussed what books I’m reading in English. Even when Dad hasn’t read a book, he’ll get it and read it just so we can talk.

  “Sebastian told me. And did you know it was written by a girl?” I say. “She made a bet with these guys one rainy night and wrote Frankenstein.”

  “I didn’t know that part. Wow. Two SF books this year. I bet Sebastian loves that.” Sebastian and Dad have had plenty of discussions about books too—well, mainly SF ones, because that’s all Sebastian will read.

  “Yeah. I’m only at the beginning of Brave New World. It’s creepy with all the conditioning and pill popping, but I like creepy.”

  “It gets even better.”

  “How’s work going?” I ask before he can ask another question.

  “Good. The holidays are coming up. I could use you again, if you’d like.”

  The past two years Grace and I’ve worked at one of Dad’s stores. She braved the shoe department, which was good money, but too cutthroat for me. Your earnings are based on commission, and Grace would tell these crazy stories about how people fought for customers. There was this one guy who actually told Grace she had an important call from Dad so he could help one of her customers. The two of them waged a war, where they were civil, but openly battling to see who could sell more shoes in one week. I stayed in the men’s section, where we still worked on commission but there was never any drama.

  “That sounds good.”

  “Done.”

  “Dad?”

  “Yes, Mark?

  “Thanks for coming with me to get the car.”

  “You bet.” His eyes hold mine, and this time I see not just relief, but something that looks a little like happiness.

  • • • •

  Babysitting Fern is basically me putting on one of her favorite shows. I let Fern stay up a half hour later than usual and then send her to bed.

  “Good night,” I tell her after she’s brushed her teeth, I’ve read her a story, and she is tucked into bed. I turn on her night-light and start to close her door.

  “Mark, can you stay with me?”

>   “It’s time for bed, Fern,” I say.

  “Just for a little bit. I’m scared I’m going to have nightmares.”

  “You won’t have nightmares,” I say, wanting to go practice. “Look, your light’s on and you’re sleeping with Mr. Fox.”

  “Please.”

  Fern isn’t going to budge. I walk over and sit next to her on the bed and pick up Mr. Fox. He’s wearing Grace’s scarf, so I can’t help but smell him. Grace’s scent is still there, but it’s mixed in with Fern’s. Soon it will be all Fern.

  “Can you lay with me?” She scoots over. I sigh, but I lie down next to her and Fern puts her head on my shoulder.

  “Just for a couple of minutes,” I say.

  “When Mom and Dad die, I’ll be very sad.”

  Fern brings up death a lot since Grace died. Dad and Jenny say it’s her way of working it out. We are supposed to answer her questions as if it’s perfectly normal for a six-year-old to be obsessed with death.

  “If I die, will you be sad?” she asks.

  “Yes,” I say. “We will all be sad.”

  “You’ll probably die before me.”

  Her comment is a little unnerving, but logical. I’m older. Not that age matters. Look at Grace. Seventeen. Way too young. She should have lived to eighty-nine. “Maybe.”

  “How old is Isabel?” Isabel is Fern’s hamster, which she’s had for at least a year.

  “One.”

  Jenny looked up the life expectancy of hamsters and it’s around three years if you feed them and keep them well. Isabel has been treated like a queen, with water, food, and regular cage changes, and a large wheel she runs on all night.

  “When she dies, can we have a funeral for her?”

  “If you want.”

  “Do you ever miss Grace?” she asks.

  “All the time.”

  “Me too. I miss how she used to play with my hair.”

  “How’d she do it? Like this?” I take a couple of strands of her hair and run it though my fingers, but some catches and I accidentally pull at it.

  “Not as hard,” Fern says. “More like this.” Fern takes my hand and shows me.

  “Do you think Grace is in Heaven?”

  I don’t know. “Yes.”

  “You think she misses us?”

  Where are you, Grace? Do you think about us? “Yes.”

  “Good.”

  “Did you know that Grace always wanted a sister?” I ask her.

  “She did?”

  I nod. “The night you were born we were all at the hospital, waiting and waiting. You took forever to come.”

  “I did? Why?” I know Fern has heard this story before, but there’s something in the telling. Like when she wants you to read her a story she’s heard over and over again. She acts like she’s hearing it for the first time.

  “I guess you wanted to make sure we were all ready for you. After you were born, we went and saw you in the nursery with all the other newborn babies. Grace picked you out right away. She pointed at you and said, ‘There she is. There’s Fern.’ ”

  “How’d she know it was me?” she asks, a little breathless with wonder.

  “She said you were the most beautiful baby. She was so happy to get a little sister.”

  I was been indifferent when I heard Fern was going to be a girl. I wanted a little brother, but that’s not how it went. I didn’t like the idea of being outnumbered by females in the house. Grace used to dress up Fern like she was her own personal living doll. Jenny let her because she thought it was so cute.

  Fern snuggles close to me. It’s not so bad being an older brother. I play with Fern’s hair until she falls asleep.

  Twenty-One

  I’m parked across the street again, but the man doesn’t come outside. I know he’s home. His car—his new car—is in the driveway. It’s a good choice for a family, one of those Ford wagons. Another car pulls up, and the mom gets out. She pops the trunk and starts unloading groceries. I wait to see if he’ll come out and help her. He doesn’t. She loses her grip on one of the bags, and I reach for my door latch. I almost open it. To do what? Run out and help her? And then what? At least it would get me across the street and to their door.

  I’ve thought about how things could go down. It involves me knocking, and him answering. His eyes go wide in recognition. It’s important that he recognizes me, that he knows who I am. Then I start hitting him, just going to town. I rub my knuckles, imagining the feel of his face and teeth cutting into them. The wife is screaming. The kids—and this is where I always have trouble—as soon as the kids see me, I back away, ashamed. I wasn’t counting on the kids. I didn’t know how to get them out of the equation. So I come here and sit.

  I open Grace’s journal. I pretty much carry it with me now. I’ve been reading it slowly, trying to make her words last.

  I’ve been talking to Mom lately. It started with me calling her to ask if I was shy as a little girl, and then she called me back, and then I called her. We even text sometimes. I don’t know if we’ll ever be superclose, but I’m beginning to understand some things I didn’t before. Is this what it means to get older? Becoming mature? Trying to listen or to walk a little in another’s shoes?

  I didn’t know Grace was back in contact with Mom like that. I think of my conversation with Dad over lunch and how my running from Mom is making it everyone else’s problem. I text Mom to set up a dinner, and I’m surprised at the relief I feel when the date’s set. I start the car. I’d better get going if I want to make it to the poetry reading.

  • • • •

  The line to the club curves like a cat’s long tail. I hadn’t expected such a turnout. With the crowd and the excitement, you’d think we were going to a movie premiere or some hot concert, not an open mic poetry session. I get in line, keeping my head down. I don’t know if Sebastian and Hanna are inside yet or somewhere in line. I don’t want them to see me. I know we’re not speaking and I blew it with them, but I need to do this. I need to see the list through. The line moves slowly toward a huge black guy, who looks more like a bouncer for a club than a poet. I’m expecting him to check my ID, but he opens his hand for the cover charge. I give him a five-dollar bill.

  I follow the people down the steps, inching my way to the source of the loud hip-hop music emanating from inside. We enter a small theatre with a stage and probably one hundred stadium seats. Most of the seats are already taken. I spot one in the back corner and make my way toward it. I’m not about to join the people sitting on the stage on beanbags, chairs, or the floor. I spot Hanna and Sebastian in the front row. I pull up the collar of my jacket, as if that’ll help disguise me, not that they’ll be looking for me. They probably don’t care if I show up or not. The crowd is urban, definitely more of a hip-hop/rap scene, not your white, beret-wearing, finger-snapping poetry crowd. Most everyone is black, so I kind of stand out being the only Filipino that I can see, but I’m also at home because of the beats.

  The DJ spins real vinyl from a far corner of the stage. The mix is early ’90s rap, which gives the space a gritty feel. As if he’s heard my thoughts, the DJ throws some Public Enemy into the mix.

  A black guy with a shaved head, vest, and skinny tie jumps onstage and introduces himself as the host for the night. Everyone applauds. He starts to go through the rules about breaks and conduct. He also reminds people that tonight is open mic, not slam night. Be respectful. Be loving. Be cool. The first round of poets is already full, but they have a couple of open spots for the next, so if anyone wants a turn they can see him at the break.

  From where I’m sitting, Hanna and Sebastian look like they’re together. She smiles up into his face at something he’s said. I’m already mad at Sebastian, but I may have to kick his ass for real this time.

  The host calls the name of the first poet from a slip of paper. Freddy. Some twentysomething guy jumps up on the stage. He adjusts the mic stand, raising it up to his height.

  “Hello. How you all doing?
”

  “Hello,” people yell back.

  “This is called ‘Love Is the Shit,’ ” he says, which makes the crowd laugh. He launches into a story about how he fell for a girl, how she cheated and left him. Most of the poem makes fun of her and couples in love, but it ends with how he looks everywhere for that feeling. It evades him, and all he picks up is its scent, like the one hanging around after someone’s used the bathroom. I thought the piece was pretty depressing and gimmicky, but the guy gets a standing ovation.

  The next poet is a Latin guy who launches into a speech about the government, and the establishment, and how we need to start a revolution or something like that. He speaks so quickly that I can’t catch everything he says. It’s not a good poem or performance, but everyone claps for him, too.

  Next up is a girl who speaks about relationships. Her performance is so sensual. Her voice sounds like a low oboe moaning across the stage. It makes me wonder if they ever have any musical accompaniment for their poets. Another idea comes to me for Pete’s show, but then I remember I’m not doing the show anymore.

  As each poet performs, I become more tense because I’m wondering when it will be Hanna’s turn. I don’t know if she’s going in the first group or if she’s in the second. I’m hoping it’s the first so she can get it over with. I’m nervous for her.

  After the sixth poet, the MC calls Hanna’s name. She climbs the stairs to the stage and stands in front of the mic. She’s wearing her good jeans, the ones she wears when she wants to look cute. Her brown hair is down and straightened. Alone on the stage, she looks small, more like a scared girl than a spoken-word artist. She pushes back some of her chunky bracelets and lowers the mic.

  “Hi.”

  “Hi,” the crowd says back.

  “I didn’t write this poem. My friend Grace did. She made this list.” Hanna turns away from the mic and clears her throat. “She made this list of things she wanted to do. One of them was to perform a poem. But then she died, so she never got to. I know she loved this place, so I’m kind of doing this for her.”

  I hadn’t known about Grace’s connection to the club. I feel a twinge in my gut, and suddenly I’m pissed. I check myself. It’s not like I told Grace everything I ever did or wanted to do. But Hanna knowing this piece of Grace makes me feel like Grace had to hide part of herself from me. Why else wouldn’t she have told me about the lounge? Did she think I would have made fun of her? And then there were those entries in her journal. She kept it a secret from me that she was talking to Mom. She kept her fears secret. She kept lots of things from me.