I’m guessing part of it was that Lila and I spent a lot of time together doing stories. I’m guessing it was also that Mary Beth wanted a reason, any reason, to get out of her “big mistake.” These are all guesses. For my little bit of investigative reporting, I’m not much of a detective when it comes to my own life. That’s probably why I didn’t see it coming.
I drew the line in the sand when Mary Beth called Lila at her place in the middle of the night. “What are you doing with my husband?” she apparently asked, what Lila relayed to me later.
And other things, cuss words, probably some derogatory terms worthy of the Judge. Lila, to her credit, wouldn’t tell me everything. I admired her for that. Most kids wouldn’t have dealt with it as well as she did. She said she understood where Mary Beth was coming from, even felt some sympathy for her. “My best friend in college found out her boyfriend was cheating on her. I saw what she went through,” Lila told me. “I wouldn’t wish that on anyone.” I didn’t have the heart to tell Lila that some college relationship couldn’t possibly compare to an eighteen-year marriage—that seeing your teenage daughter look at you with hate in her eyes was nothing compared to some tears on a dorm room pillow. Then again, it’s all about perspective.
***
All the news folks hang out at the Chinese restaurant across the street. No one knows the name of the place. We call it Kung Pao Special because the only sign in the window announces the specials of the day in crooked handwriting sketched out on a dingy dry eraser board. It’s the quickest and cheapest place for booze.
The bartender on duty Tuesday night was a short, stout guy named Huan. He might have been the owner, but no one was clear on that. He nodded as Lila and I took our places on the squeaky, black velvet bar stools. They all liked us there. When we started popping over after work, they realized we were alcoholics and they could make lots of money if they kept the place open for us to drink. So even though they officially close at 10:00 p.m. most nights, if we’re in there before the door locks, they’ll let us stay and drink as late as we want. The waiters have been known to start their own mahjongg games or poker tournaments while waiting for us to call it a night. We thought the Daily Star probably kept the place afloat. Except for lunchtime, the restaurant had only a smattering of guests and the bar was always empty.
Huan dealt us two Corona coasters. “I’ll have a Bird of Paradise tonight,” Lila said. She always drank the weird frou-frou drinks on the menu—got a kick out of going down the list: Blue Hawaii, Zombie, Mai Tai, Around the World.
“Guinness,” I said.
Kung Pao Special was special in its thoughtful attention to details. Behind the bar was a crooked poster of Marilyn Monroe right next to a wooden statue of an old Chinese man. A massive fish tank separated the restaurant from the bar area. About a half dozen fat goldfish swirled around in there like shiny coins. When I got really drunk, I fantasized about catching them and swallowing them whole.
Lila folded one leg under herself on the barstool and swirled around to face me. “So do you have all your sources in line? Your facts straight?”
She was imitating Roberts from the staff meeting that morning. The thing about Roberts—he pretty much let us go where our instincts took us, but then when the shit hit the fan, he panicked, making sure we’d covered all our bases. As long as we gave him the proof he needed to prevent any law suits, we were his golden children. But if you didn’t dot all the “i”s, watch out.
“I passed on all my notes. Our boss is pacified and has once again retreated back to his cave.”
Lila nodded. “I keep dreaming about the Judge,” she said.
“What about him?”
“I don’t know. He pops up. Randomly. I dreamt I was at a pool party and he was there. The other night, I opened the refrigerator and he was squeezed up inside it, hiding behind the orange juice. Scares the shit out of me.”
“He’s a creep. Bothers me that Megan’s out in the world with these kind of guys.”
Lila shivered involuntarily, stared at me. I got the feeling I’d disappointed her somehow. But then she said, “Megan’s probably too smart for that crap.”
“I hope so.”
“What do you mean, you hope so?” She laughed. “You’re Harrison Teeth, remember? You know everything.”
I wasn’t sure if she was making fun of me or not, a usual thing around Lila. The problem with my theory of my secret life guy—the witty, invincible, attractive guy at the cocktail party—is that that guy always wakes up the next morning and winces at all the stuff he did say the night before.
Huan brought us our drinks, my frosted mug of thick, dark beer and Lila’s tall, curvy glass filled with an unnaturally blue frozen mess and topped with a chunk of pineapple, a smushed cherry, and a paper umbrella all held together with a pale pink plastic sword.
“Tacky,” I said.
“I drink them because they remind me of you.”
“Nice.” I paused. “Didn’t your dad ever teach you how to drink drinks that put hair on your chest?”
She made a sound in her throat. “He never taught me shit. How long have you known me now?”
I shrugged. “A year and a half?”
“And you still don’t know that my dad is an off-limits subject?” She said it dramatically, in the kind of tone that people use when they want you to ask them about it, notice it, pay attention to it. I knew that. She’d never said anything specific, but she’d hinted before about it. Something had given her that personal stake in the Judge’s story. I didn’t like to think about it.
She stared at me, locked her gaze in, and I wondered if she wanted me to ask. But we didn’t have that kind of relationship. Behind her eyes was something dark and distant, and it scared me. I looked away.
Then she laughed. Her face brightened artificially and she pulled at the cherry on the sword. “Besides, I am tacky. It’s my mission in life.”
“Good to have a plan,” I said, feeling guilty for letting it go.
The door to the restaurant opened and Tim came in, dragging a draft of cold air with him.
“Early night tonight?” Tim said to Huan, who just nodded his head. Tim situated himself around the corner of the bar, on the other side of Lila. I felt her shut off, whatever it was. He winked at her, nodded at me, and ordered a bourbon from Huan.
“What a fucking night,” he said, his tic. Every time he sat down somewhere, he said that. I think even if it was his birthday and he won the lottery and got to swim naked with ten Playboy models, he’d still say it. What a fucking night.
“Do a few shots and you’ll get over it,” Lila said, tracing the edge of the curvy glass with her finger. Now she was leaning closer to Tim, flirting with him. If she had longer hair, she’d be twirling it around her finger. Poor guy didn’t even recognize her advances.
“I don’t know,” Tim said, rubbing his face vigorously with both hands like he was trying to rid himself of memories. “Fucking Hyder’s been on my back again about the design guide.”
“That’s random,” Lila said, even though it wasn’t. Hyder was the style guide Nazi.
“Yeah, whatever.” Tim looked at us both then, as if for the first time. Huan had gone in the back for something, and it was quiet in the place. “Did I interrupt a date or something?”
I snorted. “Now that’s random,” I said, annoyed.
“I don’t know. You two all alone…”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I asked him. This shit was irritating. I’m sure the rumors had been flying around the office for months—people couldn’t keep their mouths shut when it came to gossip—but at least he could have some respect in front of us.
Lila just laughed, leaning closer to him, and from what I could see under the bar her knee brushed up against Tim’s thigh. If his comments bothered her, she wasn’t showing it. “Don’t be ridiculous,” she said in
this strange, girly voice.
“Yeah, you’re more her type,” I said, hoping to give him a clue.
“What’s that mean?” Tim asked.
“Young,” I said.
“Word on the street is that Lila likes the older men,” Tim said. He winked at me and took a big swig of his bourbon and tapped on the bar—a tune running through his head maybe. I thought about hitting him. Thought about the sound my fist would make against his grizzly chin, about the way his head would snap back, maybe blood would spatter against the fish tank. I took a look at Lila but she was staring forward, far away.
Huan emerged from the back room, cleaning a shot glass with a white towel. “Hey, Huan, I’ve got a joke for you,” Tim said.
“Oh, goodie,” Lila snapped back to life, clapping her hands like a little kid. “Is it dirty?”
Tim feigned a frown. “No, it’s not dirty. Who do you think I am?”
An asshole, I thought. Huan smiled at all of us, waiting.
“Here goes. A single Chinese guy owns a restaurant, and one day this hot Asian chick walks in.”
Lila poked Tim in the side. “Tim, watch yourself.”
Tim waved her away. “He immediately walks over and asks her out on a date. She agrees. They go out for a while, and soon, the man proposes to her. She says, ‘Yes, but before we do, there’s something you must know. I have never had the sex, but I’ve read about it.’ He says no problem, and they get married.”
“No problem,” echoed Huan, laughing.
Lila groaned, turning to me. “It was nice drinking here while it lasted.”
“On their honeymoon, the man tells his wife that since she’s a virgin, she can choose what they do first. She says, ‘Oh, most honorable husband. I am honored to be your wife, even though I have never had the sex, but I’ve read about it. So, I have chosen to have the 69.’” Tim was doing a bad accent, really getting into it. “The husband looks confused. He’s scratching his head. ‘What’s wrong?’ the wife says, getting nervous. And the guy, he turns and looks at her, all puzzled. ‘I don’t get it, he says. ‘You want…the beef and broccoli?’”
Huan chuckled, pointing his finger at Tim and shaking his head. But Lila, she laughed so hard at the punch line—one I didn’t find all that funny, for the record—that I thought for a second she might be choking. Her head rolled back, her arms flailed out in front of her, maybe to slap the edge of the bar, but instead she swiped her tall glass. What was left of the blue liquid sprayed, splashing a bit on Tim’s face, and leaving an interesting modern art project on Lila’s white skirt.
“Fuck!” Lila screamed, jumping up. “That’s cold.”
***
Lila asked if I could drive her to my apartment to remove the stain. It was a two hundred dollar skirt, she said. Leather. If she drove the half-hour to her house, it would be ruined.
“Come on,” I said. “I wouldn’t want it to stain. That skirt costs more than my rent.”
Lila followed closely up the stairs. She swayed into me as I fumbled with the keys at the door, and it occurred to me that Lila had maybe had one too many Birds of Paradise. Nevertheless, she righted herself and strolled into the apartment like she owned it, even though it was the first time she’d ever been there.
“Where’s Professor?” she asked, circling around with her arms out like she might accidentally step on him. “I’ve never seen an iguana in person.”
“He’s probably sleeping,” I said, distracted suddenly. Seeing Lila there in the dim light, my apartment seemed very small.
“Well, then I’ll take the bathroom first. And something to blot these stains out.”
I handed her some corn starch (courtesy of a Google search) and pointed to the bathroom door. While she was in there, I took the opportunity to rinse out the dirty dishes in the sink, straighten up the living room, scanning the place the way you do when an unexpected guest comes in and the piggish way you move through life is suddenly illuminated like The Professor under his heat lamp.
The doorbell rang while Lila was still in the bathroom. I considered not answering it, pretending I didn’t hear it, but then I heard Lila from behind the bathroom door say in her high-pitched voice, “Whoooo iz it?”
I opened the door to find Theresa rocking back on her heels, her hair poofed out around her shoulders like a cartoon figure who’d just stuck her finger in an electrical socket. “Hi?” she said, the voice! Everything a question. “I was wondering if I could come in for a few minutes to see The Professor?”
“Oh, not tonight, Theresa. I have a friend over.” I checked my watch. It felt a lot later than eight o’clock.
She pouted, rocking again, trying to peer over my shoulder in a way that made me uncomfortable. I closed the door tighter so she couldn’t squeeze through.
“I’ll just be a minute? Please?”
I shook my head, determined to be firm. About that time, James, the metrosexual from across the hall, whistled his way out of the stairwell. Theresa looked over at him and for a split second I had the urge to shove her toward him, make her his problem. Then she turned back, her voice very loud in the small hall.
“I really want to pet your lizard!” she cried, sounding hysterical in a way I’d never heard. James looked up at me. Our eyes met, and I realized what he was thinking, what he’d just heard. I suppressed a laugh—it caught in my throat and sat there like a baseball. The way James might see it all—the way it could go down—made me feel numb. The Judge, the girl.
“Theresa, another time. The iguana is sleeping,” I said, emphasis on “the iguana” for James’ sake, but the worry had already leaked in. The thought that James might think that something sordid was going on made me act guilty, and suddenly all those times I’d let Theresa into my apartment alone made my skin crawl. What if? Just this one time. And Mary Beth, with all her suspicions. I’d never see Megan again.
Of course, all these thoughts went flashing through my brain in a matter of seconds—the time it took for the Judge to weigh his options and make his decision, nonetheless—and so by the time James unlocked his door and went inside to call Child Services and have me locked up I had already given Theresa five other reasons why she couldn’t come in. She was staring at me, hurt in her eyes. I hated to disappoint her—she did in some ways remind me of Megan, always searching for approval, waiting to be wounded by everything and anything—and yet she was nothing like my daughter at all, and there was a certain guilt in that as well—in the relief that Megan was normal, socially accepted, all that jazz. Theresa was giving me a headache as she stood there, making that strange sound in her throat, the faint aroma of ammonia wafting off her.
“I’m sorry,” I said again, softly, and closed the door in her face. I heard her shuffle back down the hall and congratulated myself on making the right choice, on being firm.
I turned around. Lila had come out of the bathroom. She was standing stark naked in the middle of the living room, hands down at her side. She stared at me, not saying a word, her eyes that same expression I’d seen at the bar.
And that’s when I realized it was too late. I’d already let the girl in.
Support
Nati received the first letter from her dead husband just a few days before her daughter and the new baby were coming to stay. It had been eight years since the fishing accident had taken Harold from her, and when she opened the letter it was like reading something dirty, forbidden, and then like she was reading something on fire.
She had heard about these kinds of scams, people preying on widows, making promises, but this? This seemed especially cruel.
She folded the letter and tucked it behind a cookbook in the kitchen. But each time she went into the kitchen to get a glass of water or something to eat, the cookbook stood out like a blinking hazard light. It had been a long time since she’d seen her husband’s handwriting, but it did seem familiar to her, a left
-leaning chicken scratch scribble with long thin loops that reminded her of orzo. She was worried about her heart, the way this whole thing had worked her up. The cookbook was talking to her, reciting its favorite lines from the letter it his. It was nothing that you did, Nati. I need you to believe that. I hope you are happy.
And the timing was just awful now, with Evelyn and the baby coming to visit. The night before they were to arrive, Nati pushed a chair over to the refrigerator and fished out the dusty bottle of Southern Comfort from the cabinet above. She poured some into a milk glass, held her nose, and drank it. After the second glass, she almost had the courage to rip the letter into shreds. But something wouldn’t let her.
***
Evelyn arrived on a rainy day. A tropical storm was working its way up the coast, and the steady downpour left pockets of flooded holes in the front yard and forced the cancellation of the church picnic. It was a mess getting the baby and the luggage and all the gear in the house with no men to help, and because of the downpour, Nati didn’t even properly greet her daughter until they were inside, soaking wet, the baby in her car seat on the floor between them. “Give me a hug,” she said to her daughter, “and let me get my hands on this bundle of precious.”
Evelyn seemed in good spirits; much better than she had been when she’d called all those weeks ago in a panic, exhausted and lonely. Her husband had just been deployed to Iraq, missed the birth of Megan Marie, and probably wouldn’t be back until at least Thanksgiving. The sides and bottoms of Evelyn’s eyes looked dark and thin, but her smile seemed genuine and relieved. She had cut her hair shorter and gotten bangs that made her face look more round and full, even if she kept pushing them off to the side like they annoyed her.
Nati picked up Megan Marie. She had forgotten how tiny they were in the beginning, how quickly their heads could roll back, the delicate, wrinkled, birdlike skin on their necks. The baby didn’t even stir; she was fast asleep. “The car ride always does it,” Evelyn said. She pushed back on the couch, closed her eyes, and put her feet up on the coffee table, like she’d just stepped from an airplane to a beach resort and was looking for the waiter to bring her a piña colada. “Sometimes I wish I could just hire someone to drive her around for a few hours. Wouldn’t that be nice?”
Bystanders Page 14