by Dan Deweese
That stopped me. But then I thought, Every time I try to eat. So I took another bite and finished chewing before I said, “Where?”
“In a Dumpster behind the wine distributor,” she said. “An employee was taking out the trash, and when he lifted the lid, everything inside was purple.”
“It exploded in the Dumpster?”
“It sounds like it.”
“Any money in there? Did he ditch the whole bag?”
“Annie said it was only the dye pack.”
“Who is Annie?”
“The woman with security.”
“Jesus. I completely forgot about the woman,” I said.
I returned to my speculative version of the drama. Did he really have enough time to make it two blocks before the dye pack exploded? Did he sift through the money while he walked, moving fast, until he felt the one strap of bills that was different? But if that alley was where he stopped—whether surprised and angry, or pleased to find what he’d been looking for—it was true: he would have been only twenty yards from three or four Dumpsters, from piles of discarded boxes, and probably near one or two open truck beds, too. “He picked it out,” I said.
“I guess so.”
Regardless of whether it was luck or skill, I was astounded. It was a wonder. “He picked it out.”
Catherine did not seem as impressed. “Can I make a personal observation?” she said.
“Sure,” I said.
“You’re kind of a mess. Where are you going to clean up?”
“I was planning on home.”
“Do you know what time it is?”
“No. What time is it?”
“Too late for you to go home,” she said. “Where are your clothes?”
“My tuxedo? In the car.”
“Give me your keys,” she said, extending her palm.
“What are you even doing here?” I said. “Why do you follow me?”
“I’m not following you. I have a room here.”
“Why do you have a room? You live ten minutes from here.”
“I don’t want to worry about how much I should or shouldn’t drink at the reception, or how late I should stay. It’s easier to have a room.”
I extricated the keys and dropped them into her palm. “How responsible of you,” I said.
She handed me a plastic card—her room key. “It’s 514. And you really need to clean up. You’re pretty ripe. I’ll bring your tuxedo up in a bit.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I said.
She turned, walked to the front of the lobby, and stepped out through the sliding doors. I sat there, eating my sandwich in silence. I drank more water. Could I stand and walk? Could I even make it up to this room? I stood. The world did not tilt. It was just there, waiting for me to navigate it. And as I made my way across the lobby, I thought: It’s alive! I may even have smiled a bit at that, though I also realized I couldn’t remember what happens in the story once the monster stands up. The next images that came to mind were of villagers and torches, as if there were no middle to the story at all. And I couldn’t recall how the ending turned out, either. There was more than one version, I reminded myself. But no matter the version, he gets away, doesn’t he?
WHEN I STEPPED OUT of the shower, I discovered my tuxedo and its attendant paraphernalia—including a plastic-looking pair of shoes and some cheap cuff links I didn’t need—on the hanging bar next to the hotel room’s door. There was no evidence of Catherine, though—I saw no suitcase or bag belonging to her, no papers on the table, no sign even of a moved chair or wrinkled bedspread. It was just an empty room that held me and two suits.
When I had the tuxedo on and had adjusted the cummerbund, straightened the tie, and squared the shoulders, I looked at myself in the bathroom’s still-steamed mirror. I looked very much like myself again, I decided—the way people expected me to look. They would be pleased.
While hanging the jacket of my other suit, I removed two items from the pocket: the envelope Miranda had handed me on our way to Sandra’s room, and the transfer form Catherine wanted me to sign. The envelope from Miranda wasn’t sealed, and the note I removed from within was written on a couple sheets of yellow legal paper.
Dear Dad,
I don’t know why I feel like I need to write you something. And since this is the third time I’ve tried to write this, I’m not going to let myself start correcting this one or throw it away, so it’s probably going to be rough. On the other tries I started trying to explain things, or I was telling you what to do, and it just seemed ridiculous for me to be acting as if you didn’t already know all the stuff I was explaining or that you would need me to tell you what to do. It sounded dumb, and it wasn’t even what I wanted to say, so those didn’t work. I give up on explaining anything. You know who I am. I don’t have to explain myself. And like I told you a little while ago, the rest of it doesn’t matter.
God. But I’m not going to throw this one away. Sorry!
There was this time that I was coming over to your house once. You knew I was coming over, I don’t remember why. This was just a couple years ago. But when I walked up to the door, I could see you through the window next to the door. You were in the living room, but standing where I could see straight down the hall to you. I was just stepping up to the door, but you were standing down there, totally motionless, like you were looking at something on the wall, and I stopped before I came in, because I was trying to figure out what you were looking at. You had music on in the house. It must have been pretty loud, Dad, if I could hear it through the door! But then as I was watching, I saw you nod your head and dance for a few steps. You nodded like someone was talking to you, though I’m sure you were just responding to the words of the song, or maybe something in the music. But it was like someone was talking to you, and you were nodding, and then you did a little cha-cha. It was so cute, your little dance. And then you stopped and stood still, like you were listening again. And I knocked on the door as I put my key in, and then the weirdest thing happened, which was that by the time I turned the key and opened the door, you must have turned off the music. Because when I stepped inside the house, it was silent, and you were down there in the living room asking how I was doing, in your usual way. But whatever the music was, or even the fact that you had been listening to it, was just gone. I thought to ask what you’d been listening to, but I knew you would say it was nothing, or that you didn’t know, or any of the things you usually say. We were supposed to go out to dinner or something, and you were ready, so we stood there chatting for a few minutes, and the whole time I was actually just hoping you would leave the room so I could sneak over and open up your CD player to find out what it was you liked so much. But you didn’t leave the room, so I never got a chance to see what the music was. I never figured it out. You turned it off before I came in the door, as if you didn’t think it was appropriate to be listening to music you liked while someone else was around.
This is not even what I wanted to write. And I didn’t even write about that the other times I tried to write this letter. I don’t know why I just wrote about that, or why I feel like I need to write a letter to you. But listen. Please know that you can come see me whenever you want. You don’t have to be so formal or respectful or whatever. Maybe that’s why I wrote about that. Sometimes you’re too polite, I think. So please don’t fade off into the distance from me because you think that’s the respectful or polite thing to do, because I’m married or a big adult or whatever now. I want you to know that you can come over and talk to me whenever you want. And you can listen to whatever music you want. So what if things are changing? They’re going to change even more, but that doesn’t mean you have to start being more and more polite with me, or whatever it is that makes you turn your music off and never talk about yourself and, as far as I know, never do anything that would inconvenience anyone or cause anyone to think about you for more than two seconds. Don’t do that with me. When you’re polite and formal, sometimes it feels like you’re acting like a stra
nger instead of my dad. I want you to be yourself. You don’t have to stand quietly at the back of things because you’re concerned you’ll annoy someone or be embarrassing. You’ll never annoy me or be embarrassing, or maybe I just want you to annoy me more often, and to be embarrassing more often. I want you to keep hanging around with me.
All right. This isn’t what I was going to write at all, but it’s just as good as anything else, probably. And I told myself I wouldn’t throw this one away. You know everything else, and I have other things to do today. Knowing you, you’re probably looking for me at this very moment. So I suppose I should let you find me.
Love,
Miranda
I put the letter back into the envelope, and returned it to the pocket of the jacket I’d placed on the hanger. She doesn’t know what she’s getting into, I thought. And how could she? She had never been married before, and neither had she been a mother. The nature of those experiences was just speculation for her. She couldn’t know what married life with Grant would be like any more than anybody else could, and she certainly didn’t know about raising a child. Becoming a mother would change her, just as the child’s presence would change her life with Grant. It wasn’t just her future that was uncertain, but who she would be in that future. I would love her no matter who she became, of course, but what was the source of this constant, unceasing desire women had to liberate me from something? Maybe that was the clearest sign Miranda was a woman now, equal to the others: she had joined them in telling me I needed to change. She should have consulted Sandra, Gina, and Catherine before telling me she wanted me to be annoying around her, or to embarrass myself. Was she aware what that meant? She had written this letter, for instance, and had walked with me through the festival, all while still not sharing with me the fact that she was pregnant. How was I to feel about that? My daughter was beautiful, but she was hiding something from me. I loved her more than anyone in the world—and she wasn’t telling me something. What option did I have, other than to be quietly patient? That would be far better, at least, than telling her I understood she hoped today didn’t mean good-bye, but that although I would of course continue to see and talk to her for the rest of my life, she was going to become a wife today, and a mother soon, and those offices would lay their not-insignificant claims on her. So today was, in many real and inescapable ways, indeed good-bye. Maybe she wished that wasn’t true. I certainly did. I had no reasons for wanting time to move forward—the future, for me, seemed nothing but a consolation prize. Why pretend that I looked forward to age? No one in the world was as real to me as Miranda—as far as I was concerned, life went where she went. But as she had said in her letter, she had other things she needed to do now.
There was a knock at the room’s door. When I opened it to find Catherine, I acted dismayed. “I was starting to think you weren’t coming back,” I said.
“Somebody seems much better,” she said, stepping past me. I followed her out of the claustrophobic little entryway and into the room, watching her cast a surveying glance around the place. “Do you really think I would have left you in the state you were in without coming back?” she said.
“It wouldn’t necessarily have surprised me.”
“There, there,” she said, giving me a little pat on the shoulder.
I unfolded the transfer request form I’d been holding and laid it on the little round table by the window. “Patronize me all you want,” I said. “But the bank will still be a mess when you’re gone. Where do I sign this?”
When she recognized what I was looking at, she seemed surprised. “I thought you said you wanted time to look it over.”
“It’s just a form,” I said. “It doesn’t merit reading. Where?”
She pointed to a line midway down the first page. I signed and flipped the form over, and she pointed to a line at the bottom of the second page. I signed, and handed her the form. “There you go,” I said. “I officially consent and recommend you for open positions. Unofficially, I think it’s a disaster.”
“There are many capable service managers in the world,” she said, stepping past me on her way back to the door. “You’ll find someone.”
I didn’t follow her—I stayed where I was, looking out the room’s large window. “Maybe. I suppose I’ll miss you as a person, though, too. There’s always that.”
“As a person?” she said. “Does that mean personally?”
“It means not only as a coworker. I don’t understand why you—”
“Stop,” she said. “This isn’t right.”
She was behind me. I felt her fingers on the back of my neck, turning up my collar. “You can’t see everything in the mirror,” I said.
“Obviously not. And I’m not going anywhere, if that makes you feel better. If you miss me as a person, you can always call. My number is in your phone.” She tugged at the collar, making further adjustments. I felt she was being a little rough. “This seems tight,” she said. “Is it supposed to be this tight?”
“It’s fine,” I said. “But if today has taught me anything, it’s that just because I have someone’s number in my phone doesn’t mean they’ll actually answer when I call.”
She turned my collar down and ran her index finger along the inside, smoothing it. And then I felt her hands on my shoulder as, before I even understood what she was doing, she kissed me on the back of the neck. “I will answer,” she said.
I was stunned. Yes, I had been flirting with her all day—and maybe for years—but I had never let on that I was flirting with her. “That is entirely over the line,” I said. “Now you have to transfer.”
“Turn around.”
I complied, and she looked me up and down with a critical eye. She stepped forward, straightened my bow tie, and kissed me on the cheek.
“Stop it,” I said.
“There,” she said. “You’re fixed.”
I shook my head. I wasn’t done being outraged. I liked playing outraged.
“No. Don’t,” she said.
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t say anything. Don’t ruin it. You’re already late, so just go.”
She was trying to be bold, but behind those freckles, I could see that she was blushing. I was probably blushing, too. We talked to customers, and to each other, every day. But Catherine and I were both quite shy, really. “I was just going to say thank you, Catherine,” I said. “What did you think I was going to say? Something embarrassing?”
“Just go!” she said, opening the door and pushing me into the hall. It wasn’t a mild push, either, but a shove, surprising in its force—she could probably have sent me right over the wall, had she wanted to.
THE FLORA IN THE Quad were in full bloom, the air heavy with the scent of grass and blossoms. The food and drink had restored the color to my face, and the change of clothes, though it consisted only of replacing one suit with another, had rendered me at least presentable. And I had made it, somehow, to the head of the concrete walk that ran down the center of the Quad. A black limousine entered from the opposite end, turned onto the curved drive, and crept slowly in my direction. Seated before me in the clean white chairs—half of them on one side of the walk, half on the other—were the assorted guests. And thirty yards away, waiting patiently with the pastor at the front of the crowd and wearing a tuxedo exactly like mine, stood Grant. It seemed far away, that end of the walk.
The sky was bright, and the sun hung lazily in the western half, as if determined to extend the day. As the limousine continued its slow journey around the Quad, though, I noticed that the sky to the east was already a deeper blue. The shift occurred somewhere overhead, I assumed. I felt outside of myself, as if watching silently while neither of us—the self standing and the self watching—was able to move or speak. When the limousine stopped at the head of the walk, the driver who emerged wore a black cap and dark glasses. I never saw his eyes, or even a distinguishing feature, as he opened the back door and Miranda stepped out. She, too, had been tr
ansformed, and much more dramatically than I. So much so, in fact, that at first it was difficult for me to recognize her. It was her, and it was not. This was not the way she dressed. It was not her makeup, not the way she wore her hair. But I suppose that is how people marry.
There were no flower girls or ring-bearing boys—she hadn’t wanted them. It was just Miranda and I, standing there before the guests, all of whom had risen. She took hold of my arm, trembling. “I feel like I’m in a costume,” she whispered.
I smiled, though it wasn’t what I felt. What I felt was that it made no sense for me to walk down that aisle with her. The correct choreography would be for the bride to kiss her father, and then just walk away from him. She wasn’t mine to give away.
But the musicians were already playing the march. There’s still time, I thought. But I was wrong. Time was up. Miranda stepped forward.
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I GREW UP ON A DIRT ROAD in the foothills of the Rocky Mountains, just west of Loveland, Colorado, during the 1970s and 1980s. I lived on what one might call “the first foothill”: to the west were the undulating hills that form the doorsteps of the Rockies, and to the east were the unbroken plains that run from Northern Colorado through Nebraska, Iowa, and on into Illinois, where my maternal grandparents lived in Chicago.
The lack of intrusion from outside forces available to a child in those years, especially in a rural location before the introduction of the VHS tape, has been erased forever. Much of my childhood took place in that context, however, and I think fondly of it—my parents, sister, the 1970s in general—quite often. Even as a child, I had the freedom of being able to walk out the front door without anyone needing to ask where I was going, since there wasn’t anywhere I could be going, other than outside to play. I rode a Denver Broncos Huffy bicycle both on and off the road, and raged, usually with tears, whenever the Broncos lost.