The Show House

by Dan Lopez

  “Not so good, is it? Maybe next time you’ll believe it when somebody warns you not to do something.” He waves her over. “Why don’t you come sit by Grandpa instead?”

  She shakes her head and squats by the pool. She slaps the water and laughs at the hollow, wet sound. “Poop!” she shouts, and startles herself with the slight echo. “Poop!” This time she listens for the rebound, her face splitting into a grin when she hears it.

  The stone deck is warm, and his legs begin to sweat inside his pants. He rubs his eyes. The skin below is dry and loose. He sighs. Time marches on, he thinks. No big deal.

  “Some pool, huh? But the water’s still too cold for little angels. We don’t want you to get hypothermia. Why don’t you come over here and keep me company for a bit?” He brushes a spot clean for her, going over it a second time to make sure all the dirt is gone. “Come on,” he says. “Sit over here and tell your old grandpa a story.”

  She studies him, considers the pool, then considers him again. Eventually she ambles away from the water, but instead of sitting beside him she ducks alongside a large clay pot and holds a finger up to her lips, signaling him to be quiet.

  “Hide-and-seek, huh? Okay. No problem. Whatever you want.” Straining, he rolls himself onto his side before using whatever momentum he can leverage to haul himself up onto hands and knees. A dull pain radiates along his shin from where she kicked it earlier.

  She covers her eyes, her dark hair mushrooming over her fingers. Slyly, she grins at him.

  He stifles a yawn. “Oh, no. Where’d Gertie go?”

  It’s not Disney World, he thinks, but at least it’s an adventure. Anyway, she seems happy enough even if, in the end, he’s brought her here to see an inferior pool to the one she has at home. It won’t be long now till the police arrive. Tomorrow will not go well.

  She squeals, and he refocuses his attention on the game. “I just don’t know where she could be,” he says. “I guess I’ll have to call the police.”

  “Ha!” she says, popping out from behind the planter. She waddles over and kisses him on the nose.

  “Oh, thank you. Grandpa really needed that.” When he reaches for her, though, she darts back to her hiding spot. These seem to be the rules of the game. She hides. He gives up. She laughs and then gives him a kiss before hiding again.

  “Are you going to remember this when you’re older, Hurdy-Gertie?” A sharp pain shoots up his leg. The stone is unforgiving. He winces attempting to rearrange himself, but every position hurts. “Are you gonna remember the time your old grandpa took you on a wild-goose chase?” He reaches back to rub his knee and nearly loses his balance. He opts to sit, but Gertie has other designs.

  “No!” She crawls, demonstrating what she wants from him. An armadillo makes a racket near the shed.

  “Okay,” he says. “You win, but you’ll have to give Grandpa a minute. Never get old, beautiful. Okay? Can you make me that promise?”

  She nods. Her pink shirt is smudged from where she’s been pressed against the planter. When she stands he notices that she’s bow-legged. They’ll make fun of her for it, he thinks. But he’s barely finished the thought before she’s running toward him in a whirl of exaggerated elbows and knees. She stops just short of his face.

  “Daddy,” she says, and points at him.

  He laughs so hard it turns into a cough, but he doesn’t want to frighten her, so he reaches up and gently clasps her arm. “Bless your heart,” he says. Vaguely, he registers a scurrying in the grass and curses the armadillo out of habit. “That’s a good one.”

  “Daddy,” she says again, still pointing.

  “I’m honored, beautiful, I am, but let’s not get into a habit, okay? If Stevie heard you, he’d flip his lid. And Grandpa doesn’t need to get into any more hot water.”

  She huffs and wiggles her arm as if it were made of spaghetti. “Daaah-aah-addy!”

  Behind him, the armadillo hisses, and the hissing is a kind of scream that sounds like flesh sliding along denim.

  “Come on now,” he says. “We were having such a good time. Look, Grandpa’s ready to play again.” He rolls himself onto his elbows and knees. “See?”

  From this angle it’s clear that she’s not looking at him at all. She’s staring behind him. He reaches for her, but stretching in his position puts too much pressure on his injured knee, so he stops and slumps onto the ground. She looms over him, framed by glowing clouds slipping across the sky. “Daddy,” she says, pointing at something he can’t see. A new sound joins the hissing, the sound of feet scuffing against stone. The armadillo pauses right behind him. And it kicks his foot.

  He turns in time to see a bag of mulch swinging toward his head.

  “Stevie?”

  Then everything goes black.

  YOU DRAG HIM PAST THE DIRTY LOUNGE CHAIRS, THE rusted barbecue, the canisters of gas, and the withered ferns in their mildewed planters, refusing to allow his weight to slow you down. Despite your best intentions tonight has been a colossal failure.

  “Daddy?” Gertie cautiously peeks out from behind the planter where she hid when you hit Thaddeus with the mulch, likely scarring her for life.

  “Stay there,” you order.

  Once he’s inside you may still salvage the night, but her presence here is troubling. It indicates that something has gone very wrong at home and you curse yourself for not paying more attention to your phone throughout the day. It was stupid.

  Sweat beads on your brow in the warm night, but you’re almost to the tent. All you have to do is keep pulling and remember to hold your breath. The police will find Thaddeus inside the house and will assume he succumbed to the gas and fell (which explains the bruise on his temple from where you hit him with the bag of mulch). The only mystery will be what he was doing in the house in the first place. Maybe he wanted to show Gertie some bauble, and in his excitement he forgot about the gas. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s acted irrationally, ignoring the consequences of his actions. Many people can testify to that.

  He starts to slip so you pick up the pace.

  “What the fuck?!”

  You whip your head toward the commotion and spot Alex sprinting for the pool. Gertie teeters near the edge. He slides across the grass, scooping her up just as she’s about to topple headlong into the water. She shrieks. A light snaps on in the neighbors’ window. You dive for shelter under the patio overhang, dragging Thaddeus along. You huddle over his body, panting, counting the seconds until the light extinguishes. When it does you hustle.

  You know the old couple next door and you know that at their advanced age eyesight can’t always be trusted. It can play tricks. For instance, where there’s a large man you’ve known for decades lumbering around a pool, you may see the impossible sight of a lithe Latino teenager charging across a lawn. These things happen, but everyone makes mistakes, sees things that, perhaps, aren’t really there. The truth, no matter how improbable it may seem at first, can be ascertained. It’s a simple matter of substituting in what you know must be true and forgetting the rest. If you and Alex disappear swiftly enough, leave no evidence behind, how hard would it be for a mature, rational mind to let the substitution stand? But first you must get Thaddeus inside the house.

  Thaddeus rolls his head. His eyelids flutter open and he moans.

  “Hey, where you going?” Alex calls out.

  “Watch her,” you command, and he complies.

  In a second you’ve reached the tent. You tear open the Velcro, letting the flaps rest together gently while you shoulder his bulk into position. Then you take a deep breath and drive forward.

  It’s warm inside. A humid fog stings your eyes and burns your nostrils. Grommets in the tent fabric occasionally align with a window, admitting a weak beam of light into an otherwise perfectly dark space, but you know this house like a rat knows its maze. You easily drag him past the kitchen table to rest against the island. Your work done, all that remains is to unhitch yourself from his bulk and slip bac
k out into the fresh air.

  Before you can he comes to.

  “Stevie.” At first he whispers, but as he revives his voice regains its familiar timbre. “Give me a hand. I can’t see anything.”

  “Shut up!” you hiss, and immediately clap a hand over your own mouth. Just disappear. Leave him! But, of course, you’ve always known that you can’t do that. This house, his very existence, the sentiment of family and its insistence on deference: it’s all a quagmire imprisoning you. It demands a response. Your hand slowly drifts down to your chest, where you feel your heart racing.

  “Come on.” He coughs. “Do your old man a solid.”

  His arm windmills for leverage, crashing against the porcelain jars lining the edge of the counter. It would be the easiest thing in the world to take his hand and help him to his feet. No big deal. It’s what anybody else would do in this situation. You want to help him, actually, but you won’t. You can’t. You must harden yourself against him. This week was a mistake. You took a chance against your better judgment. Even though you’ve been on the cusp of something grand, even though you’ve been more productive and have felt more truly yourself these past three years than at any time before, you were convinced on the grounds of family to give reconciliation a shot, and because you did everything has been ruined. Somehow he got a hold of Gertie and brought her here, and by doing so he has not only placed her in danger, but he has also compromised every separation you’ve endeavored to maintain. You can’t forgive that kind of blind entitlement. You won’t.

  His fat hand slaps against the old countertop. He struggles to breath.

  “Stevie?” He breaks into a coughing fit. “Are you there?”

  You’re so close to him that you can feel his humid breath. It won’t be long, you think, till he suffocates. And you know, without a doubt, that this is the last time you will ever see him.

  “Stevie? Son, please.”

  His pathetic voice and labored breathing cements you to the spot. He’s so much weaker now than you ever imagined possible. You press your lips to the top of his head, fearing that he’s grown too fragile these past three years. “I’m sorry,” you whisper. Your eyes burn from the gas, they tear, so you close them. You have to leave. There’s nothing else to say. You cover your nose and mouth with a sleeve and make your way out following the same path you took to get in, the path you know by heart—never looking back.

  On the patio, a breeze builds and you forget yourself for a moment. You cough out all the gas and smile.

  Alex has calmed Gertie. They play together nearby.

  “You like playing horsey, huh?”

  Alex’s high, sweet voice drifts across the yard. She crawls around to his side and pushes. He allows himself to topple.

  “Oh, no! You’ve knocked me over.”

  She laughs, claps, and lunges for his stomach.

  You squat down because you’re afraid that if she sees you she’ll cry again, and right now all you want to do is watch them play.

  THE FADED TENT SLOUCHES AT THE HEAD OF THE driveway like a melted candle.

  “That’s Thaddeus’s car!” Cheryl points frantically.

  “Yeah,” Peter says, his eyes narrowed into slits. He pulls into the driveway going too fast, jams the transmission into park, and is out the door before she removes her seat belt.

  “Wait for me.” Taking a misstep exiting the car, she falls onto the concrete and howls in pain.

  He’s halfway to the side gate and hesitates for a moment before coming to her aid. “Are you okay?” he asks. The animosity is gone from his voice.

  “I think so.” Her knee stiffens, causing her to wince as he helps her sit up, but she’s put up with worse.

  He nervously glances at the house.

  “Go,” she says. “I’ll be fine. Go get Gertie.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Of course I’m sure. Go!”

  “SHE LIKES YOU.” YOU SPEAK AT JUST ABOVE A WHISPER to avoid waking Gertie.

  “Kids always like me.” He repositions her head on his lap as she snores.

  “It’s not just kids.” You come close but he pushes you away.

  “She’s yours, right?”

  You nod.

  “And that was your old man? This your house?”

  Again you nod.

  With his tongue he probes the corner of his lip and juts his chin toward the tent. “He gonna be all right in there? Or do I not want to know?”

  “You probably can’t stay here tonight.”

  He braids a lock of her hair through his fingers while she drools on his jeans. “Yeah, I kinda worked that out for myself.”

  “I have to stick around and deal with this, but afterward we’ll go somewhere safe.” He’s helped with your work and now he’s met your family. You scoot closer and again he gently nudges you away. “Lay low tonight and tomorrow, then we’ll be out of here. Just you and me. I promise.”

  He shakes his head slowly and frowns. His eyes remain locked on Gertie. “Nah, don’t worry about it. I can take care of myself, papi.”

  A cold sweat breaks out on your neck. Nausea washes over you. Your head hurts and your bones ache, possibly from the gas, and all you want is to lie very still for a long time somewhere cool and quiet.

  He plucks a blade of grass, then scratches his ashy elbow. He rises to his feet, cradling her. “I’m tired of running. I’m gonna go home.”

  “Take the car,” you say, your stomach clenching. “Go to Cocoa. Get out of here for a while. I can meet you out there in a few days. This is just a setback.”

  He slips her small body into your arms and you worry about her breathing in the poison on your clothes. Then he presses his lips to yours, letting them linger. He sniffles. “Take care of this little girl, okay? She needs a dad.”

  Please, you want to say, it’s just that things got muddled and I temporarily lost focus; everything will be better. I can be better. But you don’t get the chance because he’s gone, leaving only a faint trail through the wet grass, and for the first time in a long time you feel like crying.

  An entire lifetime passes like this. You with the child, here by the pool: that is all that exists. A small universe. Your hands throb as you brush them through her hair, but that is to be expected. And, if you’re being honest, you welcome it. The throbbing is your most authentic self. It creates order and is rational; it marks the passage of time.

  A familiar gait brings you back to the larger world.

  Bags anchor his eyes and his clothes are rumpled. Combined, the effect is one of run-down sexiness that you recognize but haven’t seen for a while. Something cracked in him today, regressed. You smile.

  “Oh, thank God! You’re safe.” He sprints across the lawn and you release Gertie, who has stirred and wrestles against your grip, wanting to go to him. He swoops her into his arms and showers her with kisses.

  You roll a blade of grass between your fingers, watching the reunion. “That’s new.” You indicate his rolled-up sleeves. You can’t remember the last time he willingly showed his scars.

  “She smells like... what is that—smoke?” He takes a deeper whiff. “Jesus, Steven! You’ve been smoking pot around her?”

  Your real name on his lips is like the peal of a faraway bell calling something long dormant to attention. You perk up and become defensive. “I didn’t smoke around her. That wasn’t me.”

  “Where’s your father?”

  You shake your head. “I couldn’t tell you. She was in the yard when I got here.”

  “Alone? Never mind. We’ll deal with that later. At least one of us got here in time.” He fixes his weary gaze on you. “Do you want to tell me where you’ve been?”

  “What do you mean—”

  “Because today can’t be the first time you’ve lied to me about being at the shelter.”

  You examine your nails. Your cuticles are inflamed. You really must stop biting them.

  He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Tell me something, Ste
ven. Please.”

  A warm breeze ruffles the loose fabric covering the house. Any minute now the police will arrive and find Thaddeus inside, and then your separate lives will crash into each other, reconciling—for better or worse—into something unified. You meet his gaze, a confession perched on your lips. There was a time when he was all you needed; maybe he’s still the only thing you want. Have you ever looked as content as he does right now with Gertie in his arms? For a fleeting moment with Alex, you did—with all of your boys in their own small way. Maybe what you’ve been doing at night hasn’t been about redemption at all, or, rather, it’s been entirely about redemption and not at all about retribution.

  “I can’t,” you say at last. “It’s better this way.”

  “Well, um, I don’t know how you expect me to respond to that.”

  “I don’t.”

  “Fine.” He shrugs. “Your mother’s out front. Go wait with her. I’ll bring Gertie up. I just need a minute.”

  You nod and struggle to your feet. Slowly you make your way to the side yard.

  “Steven,” he says. You stop and turn to look back at him. Gertie gently bounces in his arms, sucking her thumb. “I love you.”

  “She shouldn’t—” you start to say. He intuits the rest and pulls her hand away from her mouth. “I love you, too.”

  When they find the body inside the tent you’ll act shocked. A tragedy. And just as things were improving... Who could’ve predicted this turn of events? But, of course, in retrospect, there were signs. He hasn’t been well; he’s been acting erratic. Last night he nearly choked her. Thank God it wasn’t worse—that we got here when we did...

  You can work with that.