by Dan Lopez
“Thaddeus,” Cheryl says. “That’s private.”
“We do all right,” Steven says, his face breaking into a puerile grin. “In fact, Peter just opened a new gallery downtown. They’re selling out shows.”
“I’m just helping a friend,” Peter explains. “And there’s a tax abatement.”
“Oh,” Thaddeus says. “Nobody told me.”
Cheryl sighs. “Yes. I did.”
Steven looms over his spread knees, slowly stretching his fingers against his palm. “The gallery premiered a young video artist this summer—”
“She was a sculptor,” Peter corrects, “and a painter, not a video artist.”
“I’m sure you’ve never heard of her,” Steven continues. “Two days later she received an offer for a solo show in Brooklyn.” He flicks his tongue against his teeth and winks. The naked swagger of it dislodges something unpleasant inside Thaddeus.
“It wasn’t two days later.”
It’s as if a mask slipped to reveal something greedy and decayed. Just as quickly whatever Thaddeus glimpsed retreats, and Stevie appears perfectly amiable. But the uneasiness lingers. What if all of this is a waste, if it’s just a game Stevie is playing with him, and in the end there’ll be no reunion, no Gertie, and no family by the pool?
It happens again.
He hears Cheryl give her congratulations about the gallery and watches Peter demur, but its Steven’s unwavering gaze that holds his attention. He’s seen that same lupine eagerness before and it always precedes a fight. Only this time nothing in Steven’s expression betrays anger. The look merely suggests a cold statement of fact. You’re nothing, it seems to say. Thaddeus grows hot with the desire to shout down his son’s smugness. So what if he hasn’t been perfect? He’s sacrificed for this family, for Stevie. As he has countless times over the past three years, Thaddeus asks himself just how much longer must he suffer for something he hardly remembers.
He opens his mouth—prepared to shout—but he holds back at the last minute. Instead, he clears his throat and congratulates Peter on his success. Steven arches an eyebrow. He seems disappointed.
“I guess you boys have done pretty well for yourselves,” Thaddeus continues.
He just has to get past tonight. If he can do that then everything will be smooth sailing.
For a long time he and Steven stare at each other in silence while Cheryl and Peter carry on. Even as he leans back into the couch, Steven’s gaze doesn’t waver.
“Thanks, Pop,” he says at last. “It is wonderful.”
Cheryl returns to the family room and, leaning over, she kisses Steven on the head. “I’m so proud of you.”
Gertie wails and smacks Talkin’ Tina. Gritting her teeth and furrowing her brow, she marches toward Thaddeus, dragging the doll by its blond tresses, nearly losing her balance in the process.
“Poop,” she says, pointing at the doll.
“That’s her new favorite word,” Peter explains.
“Talk about a potty mouth,” Thaddeus says.
Stevie sighs. “That’s a very ugly word, Gertrude.”
“Poop!” This time she follows it with a smile.
“Do you want a time out?”
Knitting her brow again, she glances between the doll and her father, considering her options. Finally, she crosses her arms and plops down onto the floor in a resigned huff.
“She’s got a temper,” Thaddeus says. “Must take after our side of the family.”
Steven smirks. “You have to be firm, but reasonable.”
“Your mother was in charge of that.” He pauses and flits his eyes at Cheryl, giving her the mischievous eyebrow. “She was the disciplinarian. In fact, she still keeps me firm, if you know what I mean.”
Steven winces. “Gross.”
“Hey, man, that’s just nature.”
“Doesn’t mean I want to hear about it.”
Gertie screams and tugs on Thaddeus’s pant leg to get his attention.
“Gertie, please,” Peter says. “Daddy has a headache.”
“All right. No big deal.” Thaddeus turns to Gertie, cooing, “What’s the problem, sweetie?” He leans over to grab her, but she’s skittish and retreats behind the coffee table, clutching her doll. “You don’t quite trust your old grandpa yet, do you, beautiful?”
“She’s developed some stranger anxiety in day care,” Peter explains.
Cheryl walks over to Gertie and picks her up without any problems. “You don’t need day care, do you, princess?” She tickles Gertie’s tummy and Gertie erupts in laughter. “You just tell your daddies to leave you with Grandma when they have to work. Would you like that?”
“She could go swimming,” Thaddeus adds. “It’s just a matter of turning on the heater, then she can swim even in the middle of winter. We have plenty of towels, too. No problem.”
Steven selects a cracker from the tray. “One of the kids at the shelter watched his mother drown when he was seven.” He snaps the cracker in half and eats it in two quick bites.
Peter groans. “Steven, please, not tonight. I can’t handle another one of those depressing stories.” He curls into himself on the couch and unbuttons his collar. “Let’s talk about something pleasant. Thaddeus, what do you think of the neighborhood?”
“Very impr—”
“And then last year,” Steven interrupts, “his father was run over by a car.” There’s a cruel sort of excitement nipping at the edges of his words. “You wonder how a thing like that manifests itself when they’re older.”
“Maybe he’ll end up like that serial killer,” Peter says, shooting Steven a look.
Cheryl snaps to attention. “What serial killer?”
“It’s nothing you have to worry about,” Steven says without taking his eyes off Peter.
“He targets the gay clubs,” Peter says. “It’s been in the paper.”
“Well, do the police have any leads? They must have something. Don’t these people always leave a calling card or something?”
Peter shrugs. “It’s complicated. Apparently.”
“It’s not even clear that the deaths are linked,” Steven says.
“I don’t want to hear this.” She hands Gertie to Thaddeus and returns to the kitchen. “I’ll never understand that kind of thing. My question is always: Where were the parents? You don’t just turn out that way.”
Thaddeus balances Gertie on his knees while playfully sticking his tongue out at her. He bends a thousand funny faces, and though initially reluctant to encourage his tomfoolery, she eventually claps. After that, each new face causes her to shake more and more with excitement.
“Ha!” Thaddeus says. “Will you look at that, Stevie? I think she’s warmed up to me.”
Steven glances at him and rolls his eyes. “I’m sure the killer has his reasons.”
“For God’s sake, Steven,” Peter says. “You don’t have to defend everyone.”
“But it’s true,” Steven says. “What, you think it’s accidental? You think a serial killer isn’t trying to make a statement of some kind? I mean, if it even is a serial killer.”
“Well, I don’t think about it,” Cheryl says, grabbing dinner plates from the cabinets.
“And you think that’s a healthy approach?”
“How many of those kids of yours go to the clubs anyway?”
Steven laughs. “You think it’s one of them? Maybe it should be.”
“This is so morbid,” Peter says, rubbing his eyes. “And not what I need with a pounding headache. Let’s talk about something else. Does anybody want a drink? I think we have some gin.”
“I think these kids get totally ignored,” Steven says. “Gay people in general.”
“Here we go,” Peter says, walking to the bar. “Saint Steven and his righteous indignation.”
“I always pay attention to lesbians,” Thaddeus says, but everyone ignores him.
“Oh, Steven,” Cheryl says. “You’re being extreme.”
“Maybe. Bu
t do you know all the hoops we had to jump through just to adopt Gertie? Maybe this killer has the right idea. Kill off enough gay people and society starts paying attention.” He pops a grape into his mouth. “After all, if it weren’t for the Holocaust there’d be no Israel, right? Or just look at Baltimore, or even here in Florida. People are starting to pay attention to the race problem we have in this country precisely because of public violence. It’s unfortunate but it’s true.”
“Anybody else for a g and t?” Peter asks.
“Right, that’s the solution. Just get drunk instead of engaging in a dialogue.”
“First of all, I’m not getting drunk. I’m having a drink. There’s a difference. But maybe you’re conflating the two things just like you’re conflating the actions of some psychopath with a legacy of institutionalized racism.”
“I’m not conflating anything. I’m merely offering an interpretation—”
“You’re ignoring everything we’ve accomplished! Your mother’s right. You’re just being difficult.”
Steven shrugs. “You can call it difficult if you want, but people respond to bold actions.”
Peter rolls his eyes. “So now he’s a hero.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“No, but that’s what you’re implying.”
Steven waves away the comment.
“Nobody’s a hero,” Cheryl says with finality. “Now, come on—everybody to the dining room. Dinner’s almost ready.”
LAILA PUSHES THROUGH THE FRONT DOOR WITH THREE gallons of water in each hand, the static weight paining her joints. “Alex, you home?” she calls. “Come help me get this stuff in the house. I got called into work. Alex?”
The same silence from this morning permeates the house. There’s no sign that Alex has been back. Son of a bitch, she thinks. She’s going to have to call Esther.
She sets the gallons down on the kitchen floor and pushes them into the pantry with her feet, then heads back to the truck for the rest of the supplies. Three trips later the Morales household is prepared for whatever Mother Nature has in store for them tonight. Laila, however, feels depleted. All she wants is to collapse on the couch and take a quick nap, but with traffic bad returning from the gallery, now she’s running late. Sanjay expects her soon and she still needs to change and drive to Apopka. Drawing on her reserves, she wills herself upstairs to hunt for her work clothes, sequestered somewhere in the escalating entropy that is her bedroom. As she changes, she calls Esther.
Her stepmother greets her with a yawn. “Oh, Laila, I’m surprised to hear from you.”
“Were you sleeping?”
“Jorge”—the gardener—“came by earlier. He says he needs to rip out the tree your father planted. Que tiene un bicho o algo, I don’t know. Now the county is saying they all have to go.”
Her lab coat cuts through the pile of laundry like a vein of marble in a mountain. She pulls it out, dumping half the clothes onto the carpet in the process. With no time to iron, she’ll have to rely on the heat and humidity to relax the worst of the wrinkles.
“I’m sorry. That must’ve been difficult to hear. Did you take anything?”
“Lo que me mandó Dinenberg.”
“The Klonopin? Are you taking anything else with it?”
She tears apart her bed hunting for her name badge before finding it clipped to the medicine cabinet mirror. The engraved lettering is chipped from years of banging around in purses and pockets, the color faded. She affixes it to her lab coat.
“Ay, Laila, stop worrying about me. I just needed something to help me relax; it’s been a stressful day. You should be worrying about your brother.”
“That’s actually why I’m calling. Have you heard from him?”
“¡¿Que paso?!”
“Nothing. I just haven’t seen him all day. He went out this morning, said he had to meet somebody.”
“Where did you say he is?”
“I don’t know,” Laila says, struggling to keep her response measured. “I told you he said he was meeting up with somebody. He didn’t call you or anything?”
“Why would he call me?” Esther coughs, then clears her throat.
“I don’t know. Stranger things have happened.”
“Do you think he could be in trouble?”
There’s an edge to Esther’s voice. Mostly she’s fretting over her wayward son’s whereabouts, but buried alongside that panic Laila detects a subtle judgment. He’s your responsibility now, she’s saying. That subtly puts her in the uncomfortable position of having to defend her brother, who, frankly, she’s more than a little annoyed with at present. How does Alex always manage to do this to her? To them?
“I’m sure he’s fine—”
“¡Ay, pero el huracán!”
“Yeah, I know. So does he. Calm down—” Take another Klonopin is what she wants to say, but she restrains herself. “He’s probably just dicking around somewhere. He’ll be back. I only called because I got to go to work and don’t have time to put up the shutters.”
“Work today? With the storm?”
“I got called in. I’m covering for somebody.”
“But you have your own things to take care of, too; when are you supposed to have a day off if they keep calling you in like that? I always told your father that I didn’t like these hours for you—”
“It’s fine. Really. Don’t worry about it.”
“I’m not worried about you.”
“Gee, thanks.” She kicks off her boots and jams her feet into a worn pair of sneakers.
Esther clicks her tongue. “You know what I mean. You take care of yourself. Your brother, on the other hand, would lose his head if it wasn’t screwed on—”
“He’s your baby,” Laila says, mimicking the whiny inflection with which her stepmother has justified every deferral to Alex’s selfishness for the better part of two decades.
“Exactly.”
“He’s a seventeen-year-old pain in the ass is what he is.”
“He’s still my baby. And don’t talk about your brother that way.”
“Uh-huh. Well, your baby is over here eating all my food and not paying rent. The least he could do is help with the shutters. He knows I don’t like to climb ladders.”
“Ay, mi’ja, por favor. I’ll send you money for his food.”
“That’s not the—” Laila cuts herself off. Now is not the time. Not when she’s already running late. “Look, if he calls you or anything just let him know that I’m working up in Apopka and that I need him to take care of the shutters. Okay? I texted him, but I don’t know, maybe his phone died or something. And tell him to call me back! Bye!”
“Wait!”
“What? I have to go.”
“Be safe. And call me when you’re home. I don’t like you going to work on a day like this.”
“Okay, I will. Go back to sleep, and try not to take anything else today.”
Traffic is surprisingly light on I-4, but she hits a snarl less than a mile away from the shopping plaza in Apopka. The store taunts her from just beyond a red stoplight. There’s nothing to do but wait it out, slowly creeping forward with each cycle of the traffic signal. She glances at her phone. Still no word from Alex. Coño, Alex, she thinks, you better not fuck this up. Though she’s not one to normally honk, she does so now. “Come on! Move it.”
Her phone chimes.
On your way? Sanjay is waiting.
In traffic a block away, she fires back, then tosses the phone onto the passenger seat.
An accident that isn’t even on her side of the street backs traffic up in either direction. As if people don’t have enough problems in their lives that they need to rubberneck on somebody else’s tragedy. When her turn at the light finally arrives, she guns it through the intersection, doing her part to break the cycle.
The store has been picked over. Bottled water and canned goods are conspicuously absent from shelves. (She was right to do her shopping when she did.) The seasonal aisle look
s ragged with nobody having had time to tidy up in the onslaught of last-minute shoppers. Her domain—the pharmacy—fares only slightly better. Sanjay is short-staffed and prescriptions are piling up.
“One of the techs called in,” he says, dashing between shelves. The remaining tech, Cecily, does her best to ring up a long line of customers at the register. “It’s been like this all day,” he continues. “I haven’t even had time to fill prescriptions. Cecily hasn’t even taken her break. And then Rajani has to be on call and there’s nobody at home to watch the kids.”
She places her purse under the counter, cracks her neck, takes a deep breath, and smiles. “Okay, what do you need?”
She finds her rhythm in short order once Sanjay departs. The flow of new prescriptions abates long enough for her to knock out some of the most urgent scripts waiting in the queue. Ordinarily, she wouldn’t be the one counting out the pills. A tech would do that, leaving the pharmacist to verify the fill, but with one tech down and the other chained to the register, the duty devolves to her. She’s quick, but she’s also scrupulous, since the potential for mistakes is high when taking over in the middle of somebody else’s day. She refuses to rush even as returning patients stream in, anxious to pick up their pills before the storm arrives. Landfall is now expected for ten P.M.
“They’ll have to close the store early,” Cecily says.
Laila glances at the time on her phone. It’s going to be a tight turnaround and still no word from Alex. “I hope so. I still have to put up my shutters.”
They work steadily for the next couple of hours. The crush of patients wanes. A stack of unfilled scripts still needs filling, but the immediacy has passed. In all likelihood these patients won’t be back until after the storm. Laila gives Bill a call, and he confirms that corporate plans to close stores in the area early but has yet to decide on exactly when.
After hanging up she sends Cecily home.
“Really?”
“Yeah. You’re welcome to stay if you want to, but I think the crisis has passed. Bill says they’ll be closing soon. I can handle things in the meantime. If you have stuff to take care of still at home you should do that.”
“Yeah, all right.” Cecily rings up the lone patient in the waiting area, then shuts down her till and gathers her belongings. “You sure you gonna be all right, Laila?”