by Dan Lopez
And now he finds himself drunk on it still, stumbling around Stevie’s backyard, letting the decor wash over him and already missing the warmth of her skin, the scent of heat in her hair. Her smooth back has maintained its perfect line through the years—a sculpture that never tires of posing. She even kissed him before dropping her head dreamily onto a fresh white pillowcase that still retained a vague latticework of creases from the linen closet. “They’ll be home soon,” she said. “And I still need to get dressed.” She suggested he get some air, her voice tinged by that familiar indifference. But she must have noticed it sneaking back in, because she kissed him again and softly added that she was feeling tired and might take a nap.
“Whatever you want,” he’d said, afraid of ruining the moment, and he repeats it now to himself as he circles the pool, which is better than theirs in every way: the still surface reflects the window to the guest room where Cheryl keeps her own counsel, the adjoining hot tub mocks him with its effortless warmth. There’s a gas barbecue, too. He twists the knobs and tests the starter before shutting off the valve and opening the hood. Drops of charred fat speckle the burners, but the grill sparkles silver, clean—of course. “Whatever you want.”
The labored whine of the garage door opening calls him inside.
It can mean only one thing. In a moment, his idle curiosity about how his son’s family lives evaporates. There’s no need to wonder, he thinks as he scrambles across the deck and into the house, because he’s about to find out.
Inside, he pauses at the landing long enough to call up to Cheryl. “They’re home,” he shouts, but he doesn’t stop to wait for her. Rushing on he stumbles over a leather ottoman. Catching himself, he calls again: “Cheryl, Gertie and Stevie are here!” As he says it, he can’t believe it. His voice shakes with anticipation and maybe even fear. Stevie is about to walk through the door. After three years, he’s about to walk through that door, and all will be forgiven.
He zips past the dining room and through the laundry room. One and a half inches of beveled, stained oak is all that separates him from absolution. Tonight will go well. Tomorrow will be a breeze. Smiling, arms outstretched, he prepares to embrace his son, the past forgotten, and to greet his granddaughter. He’s seconds away now; he can hear a key scratching at the deadbolt from the other side, a muffled curse accompanying it. Impatiently, he turns the lock himself before throwing open the door.
But instead of Stevie with Gertie in his arms, he finds Peter weighed down with groceries. Disappointment at not finding his son momentarily blinds him to Gertie’s presence, but there she is, too. Little Gertie. Hurdy-Gertie. The girl he recognizes only from photographs. Her legs splay across Peter’s midsection. Her straight black hair hangs down like streamers from his arm. She bears little resemblance to the girl in the photos, however. She’s so much bigger for one thing, and asleep, it’s hard to find the same animated features. The fact of her race remains absolutely clear, though. There’s no mistaking that she’s adopted, yet the closer Thaddeus looks the more he senses something vaguely familiar in her face, maybe somewhere around the hairline, and for a moment he entertains the notion that Stevie, Peter, and Cheryl have colluded in a lie about her adoption in hopes of keeping him away for these past three years, but it seems too outlandish even for Stevie, so he dismisses the thought and just like that it’s gone entirely, as if he’d never even thought it.
They must’ve exchanged greetings because Thaddeus feels words form in his mouth. From the end of a long velvet tunnel all Thaddeus hears is a deafening din until Peter asks a question that pulls him back into synch with the world around him. “Can you hold her?” Bogged down with grocery sacks and with Gertie, he can hardly move. Thaddeus manages a nod and holds out his hands. To think that last night he was just some old man beside a pool, and now, less than twenty-four hours later, he’s not only meeting his granddaughter but being given the opportunity to hold her. His eyes mist.
Peter slips her into his outstretched arms. “Say hi to your grandpa, baby.” And that’s as much ceremony as he puts into the exchange. Gertie continues to sleep uninterrupted.
“It’s okay. Don’t wake her,” Thaddeus whispers. “She’s probably had a big day.”
“Careful. She’s heavier than she looks.”
“She ain’t heavy. She’s my brother.”
Peter shoots him an odd look, which Thaddeus hardly notices.
“Just an old Hollies tune.”
How many nights beside the pool have been spent imagining this first meeting, rehearsing scores of scenarios? He had so many reservations, so many fears. What if he wasn’t cut out to be a grandpa? What if he dropped her? Would he even be able to love an adopted granddaughter? And now she slumbers in his arms, bigger than he could even imagine, a real person, but still tiny and vulnerable in every way. He could’ve saved himself the worry, he thinks. He’s a natural.
“It’s good to see you, Thaddeus.” Peter leads the way to the kitchen. “It’s been too long.”
“Three years.”
He stacks canned goods on the granite counter and slips a slab of something wrapped in pink butcher paper into the open refrigerator. For a while they don’t say anything else.
“Anyway, water under the bridge,” Thaddeus says at last. “You look different.”
Peter folds the empty grocery sacks and places them into a drawer. He looks down at himself and grins. “I can’t tell if that’s a compliment.”
In three years Peter’s look has changed completely. The wild dark dreads he wore in the past have been replaced by his natural shade of russet blond, trimmed close to the scalp and revealing a rather severe widow’s peak. In place of the grimy yellow glasses, which were always far too big for his small face, he’s substituted a stylish pair of wire frames. The clothes mark the biggest change. Peter used to wear lots of things with safety pins and ironed-on badges, a style far too youthful for him even five years ago when he and Stevie first started seeing each other. Now his patterned, understated button-up neatly tucks into a pair of pressed tan slacks. No more black boots either. Those he replaced with soft leather boat shoes.
“A compliment,” Thaddeus says. “You look good.”
Peter smiles. “I guess I grew up, huh? Who would’ve thought?”
Gertie squirms. Whimpering, she pushes against Thaddeus’s shoulder.
“Uh-oh, what’s the matter, beautiful, don’t you like your grandpa?”
“No, she loves her grandpa.” But Peter scoops her out of his arms all the same. Cooing, he kisses her on the head and she calms down. “She’s probably just having a bad dream. She gets them sometimes. Steven thinks she’s reliving something from the orphanage, but I think it’s just something she ate. It’s okay, Gertie, Daddy’s here. Shh.”
“Will you look at that...”
A new serenity washes over him seeing Peter with Gertie. He’s here now, in this house, with his family. A moment ago he held his granddaughter and later he’ll get to hold her again, and then maybe in a week Peter, Stevie, and Gertie will be at his house and they’ll all enjoy the pool together. Maybe they’ll even visit Disney World together, as a family. Cheryl will be kinder to him now. They can finally put the past behind them. For the first time in three years Thaddeus can envision a happy future.
Then Gertie screams so loudly she startles him.
She transforms into a dynamo of sleeping rage. Her fists pound into Peter’s shoulder and her feet slam into his hip. She wails. Thaddeus scrambles toward her. “What’s wrong?”
“It’s just a dream.” Calmly, Peter rocks her. “It’ll pass. We just have to stay calm.”
The staircase rattles in the adjacent room as Cheryl comes rushing down. “Wait!” she shouts. “It’s okay. I’m here. I’m coming!”
Her cries further agitate Gertie, who redoubles her tantrum, but Peter is able to wake her and as soon as he does she stops screaming. Her eyes immediately rest on Thaddeus, and at first she seems startled by this stranger and h
er mood threatens to spill over into anger again, but Peter kisses her cheek and tells her it’s okay. “Say hi to your grandpa, sweetie.”
Thaddeus playfully sticks out his tongue and makes a trumpet of his thumb pressed to the tip of his nose. Though she remains suspicious, she lets slip a hesitant grin that soon blossoms into a gregarious smile.
“Ha!” His granddaughter just smiled at him for the first time!
Cheryl charges into the kitchen, a stricken look on her face, but she stops short when she sees them all huddled by the breakfast bar. “Peter?” She grabs her chest and exhales. “What a relief. When I heard screaming I thought it was Steven—” She crosses Thaddeus with a withering gaze. “I thought something happened.”
“We’re fine,” Thaddeus says.
“Just a bad dream, is all,” Peter adds.
Gertie sucks her thumb, her gaze shifting back and forth between Thaddeus and Cheryl, a stranger and a friend. She’s done crying, for the moment at least, and Thaddeus decides it’s a good sign.
“What a relief,” Cheryl says. Turning to Gertie, she pouts and slips into baby talk. “Your grandma just got worked up over nothing.”
Gertie squirms, wanting out of her father’s arms. He sets her on the floor, then takes a seat at the breakfast bar. “It’s okay. We’re used to drama around here.”
“Nothing to worry about,” Thaddeus reiterates. “We’re all fine.” Then to Cheryl, he says, “Stevie isn’t here yet.”
“Wait,” Peter says. “What do you mean Steven isn’t here?”
HOW MANY MEALS WILL A CAN OF BLACK BEANS YIELD, realistically? Can two people subsist on sardines, peanuts, and sofrito bouillon for a week without killing each other? What if those people are siblings—does that make it better or worse? Laila shakes her head at the impoverished state of her pantry. “And what if one of those siblings is a selfish food hog?” she says, sifting through empty cartons of food that Alex couldn’t be bothered to throw away.
It’s bare bones. The Pop-Tarts she bought on Monday are gone (“What? I like having a midnight snack, yo!”), so are the tortilla chips (“I get hungry watching TV!”). A lonely pack of instant miso soup and a half brick of rice round out the supplies. Anything that requires cooking is safe from Alex’s ravenous maw. And it’s a good thing, too. The chicken legs and thighs in the freezer will go into the pressure cooker tonight along with a few frozen veggies. That way, at least, they’ll have one good meal before the storm knocks out the power and they have to eat like refugees.
Hurricane Natalie picked up speed overnight and the television playing in the background updates the storm’s progress every fifteen minutes. The eye is now expected to pass over Orlando sometime around midnight. Residents are advised to stock up on provisions and remain indoors. “Duh,” she says. If Alex were here he’d have something snarky to add. Could it be possible that she misses his presence around the house? The news cuts to a shot of the shore at Cocoa Beach. Tourists in clamdiggers wander through the frame. A despondent would-be surfer paddles out into the placid water. A typical day in paradise. “It’s calm now,” the meteorologist on the scene reports, calibrating the cadence of his delivery to trace the fuzzy boundary between intimating a need for panic while dispelling the same. “But later this evening we expect seas of—”
Laila switches the television off and tosses the remote onto the couch. Another moment and they’d be cutting to stock footage of a swell cresting over the breakwater while some idiot fisherman in a slicker casts a line into the surf.
“I’ll deal with you in a minute,” she says, shutting the pantry.
She rinses the coffeepot and washes her mug, then dries her hands and heads upstairs.
Pulling back the blackout curtains in her room allows the late-morning sun to fill the space like a vessel, illuminating, in the process, her secret shame. Alex embraces his messiness, but with her it’s a furtive endeavor. Clothes drape over an antique armchair in the corner. Dirty coffee mugs colonize the nightstand. Grooves in the carpet delineate a collection of favorite paths around the room, an atlas of forgotten vacuuming and too few shampoos. Her simple dresser is a layered moraine of accumulated living. Purchased (for a lot more than she cares to admit) specifically because its clean lines evoked an aspiration toward orderliness; instead, the dresser’s plain surface has become an archaeological wealth of jewelry, bills, magazines, and makeup. This is the real reason Alex is banned from her bedroom. She doesn’t want to confront the hypocrisy.
She grabs a pair of clean panties from the pile on the chair, depositing in their place the yoga pants she slept in, and slips them on. Her jeans, freshly laundered and neatly folded two days earlier, peek out from beneath a sweater she optimistically considered wearing on a recent chilly morning. Her favorite tops lie somewhere in the pile, too, though no doubt impossibly wrinkled. Rather than sort it out she pulls a fresh blouse from the closet, not a favorite but serviceable in a pinch.
A quick pass with the hairbrush and a splash of facial toner, then she’s back in the kitchen to survey the pantry again—this time with a pencil in hand.
Determining what provisions to buy is surprisingly tricky.
Ideally, hurricane supplies consist of food one typically eats, staples that won’t collect dust on the shelf between now and the next storm. But how much tuna will they realistically consume? How many lentils before she’s sick to death of soup? And who’s to say how long she needs to plan for? The power could be out for a few hours or several weeks, or not at all.
She drops the pad in her purse, then heads for the truck.
Lines at the store are long and the shelves picked over, but an encyclopedic knowledge of the aisles and aggressive shopping cart skills give her an edge. She scrounges together just about everything on her list and is back in the parking lot in record time. She rewards herself with a tall Americano and a trip downtown. After fighting the masses for canned foods, bottled water, batteries, and butane, she’s in need of some frivolous sophistication in the form of a visit to an art gallery. It’s the kind of thing a cosmopolitan single gal might do with a girlfriend if she didn’t have to work twelve-hour shifts six days a week, all while babysitting a teenager. She should text the girls, her locas. When was the last time they all met up for lunch or a drink? Ha pasado—way too much time.
She parks the truck in a garage and filters into the pedestrian wave fattening the sidewalks. Office workers return from late lunches and delivery vans idle on curbs. Birdsong competes with the Doppler howl of a passing motorcycle. Somewhere cars honk and fungal fingernails panhandle. Grease and discarded vegetables ripen to a cloying bouquet in alleyways behind restaurants. A tension lifts from her shoulders and a slink slips into her step. She opens the door to the gallery and is greeted by a chime.
A small sculpture, no larger than a paperback, sits on a simple podium in the center of the space.
It intrigues her.
From a distance the sculpture’s convex surface appears smooth, but closer inspection reveals a landscape of intricately carved glyphs. Written and rewritten in an unfamiliar language, the carvings are a kind of palimpsest, impossible to decipher. What’s more, the distinction between sculpture and podium is illusory. Both are part of the same stone.
She catches the attention of a gallerist poised behind a desk. “Are these real words?”
The gallerist walks over and assesses the sculpture with her for a moment before responding. “Some are, like this bit in Sanskrit. Some are gibberish”—he indicates a series of symbols on the far slope of a bulge—“others are borrowed from invented languages found in literature—Elvish and Klingon. That kind of thing.” He slips her a smile. “Let me get you a catalog.”
While he’s away, she circles the sculpture, examining it from various angles. “It’s beautiful. I’ve never seen anything like it. Are those paintings by the same artist?”
“Mm-hmm. The whole gallery. Everything you see. She’s local, but I’m sure we’ll lose her to New York
soon.”
He presses something the size of a European fashion magazine into her hand. Presumably, this is the catalog. She gives it a cursory glance, then tucks it under her arm and takes a phantom sip from her long gone Americano.
“It’s really stunning.”
“Take a look around.” He holds out a hand for the empty cup. “I’ll bring you a fresh one. Regular or decaf?”
She smiles. “Regular. Cream. No sugar. Thank you.”
He disappears into a back room, returning a moment later with a mug of steaming coffee. It smells delicious and she hazards a sip, burning her tongue.
“Careful, it’s still hot. I’m Peter, by the way, the owner.”
They shake hands. “Laila.”
“Nice to meet you, Laila. Do you live in the area?” As they chitchat, they drift toward a triptych on the far wall.
“I do, yeah. I’m never home, though. I work too much.”
“What line of work?”
The triptych hangs together haphazardly, but each individual canvas is subdivided into orderly diamond grids. The same glyphs that skin the sculpture appear here scaled down. The work is exquisitely detailed. “I’m a pharmacist. Is this painted?”
“Partially. A randomizing algorithm generated it. All the symbols are fed into a database, then the algorithm flows everything into a template. The results are then printed onto canvases prepared with different washes.” He indicates the variations in each of the paintings. “These three are my favorite in the whole show.”
“They’re the same markings from the sculpture.”
“That’s right.”
“They’re beautiful.”
“I think so, too. There’s something so current about it, but also classic.”
She compares the texture of the canvas to the flatness of the ink, trying to recall some trivia from her art history class in college, but nothing comes to mind. She shakes her head. “I could never be an artist. I’m not that creative.”