Embrace Me

Home > Other > Embrace Me > Page 13
Embrace Me Page 13

by Lisa Samson


  “Good for you, honey.”

  Over the stove an icon of Jesus and the twelve disciples blesses the food. “These people sure are strange,” I whisper to the disciples. They look at me like they agree.

  A calendar still on August hangs over the sink and time gels into something solid and unbending, something you live inside of, not run away from.

  A grating cough exudes from beneath a door off the main room. Sounds like rusty bed springs. Only one other time did I hear a cough like that—when my father was sick. And I swear, I thought he was going to die when he coughed.

  I open the cupboard door and pull out two big stockpots. All that’s there practically. Two big stockpots and two frying pans.

  After setting them on the stove, I turn on the gas burners to heat them up. Charmaine bustles in with three paper bags squeezed between her arms. She sets them on the table.

  “Thanks. I’ll get the oil heating in the pans.”

  “I hope I got the right bags first.”

  I peer inside. “Yep. There’s the oil. And the onions and garlic.”

  “Oh, that’s good.” She blows out some relief and heads back out to the car.

  No cutting board. I fold an empty grocery sack and lay it on the table. First the onions, then the garlic, and soon the two will sweat together in the olive oil. One pot is destined for a vegetarian white bean chili, the other beef stew.

  Charmaine returns with more bags, holding ten loaves of Italian bread, butter, tin foil, more cans, and six boxes of brownie mix which she says she can take care of. Charmaine knows how to do box mixes.

  “Charmaine, can you start opening up cans? And will you pour some flour into a bowl?”

  “Of course. I’m so glad you’re doing this for me.”

  “The aroma alone is worth it.”

  The bedspring cough returns.

  Charmaine freezes above the bag of canned goods. “Was that a cough?”

  “Horrible, isn’t it?”

  “Oh, my lands!” She runs toward the door. “Gus? You in there?”

  His reply is so muffled I can’t hear what he’s saying.

  “Is it just you in there?” She looks at me. “Are you decent?”

  Poor Augustine. Alone and sick. That doesn’t seem right.

  She opens the door and disappears inside. I search the bags for the chuck roasts.

  “Valentine! Come on in,” she hollers.

  I lay down my knife, turn down the burners, and walk into the back room.

  Plainly, it was once a storage room, shelves lining one wall. Four military cots bump up against the rest of the walls, each bed empty except for Augustine’s. “He’s burning up.” Charmaine kneels on the floor.

  I feel his forehead. “Wow. Let me get a cool rag.”

  “No, I’ll do that. You keep cooking.”

  Augustine tries to lift his head. Man, he looks old lying there like that. Kinda sun-dried and grizzled. “You cooking for The Psalters?” His already sotto voce tones are practically gone. I strain to hear him.

  “Yep.”

  He lays his head back. “Nice. Thanks, Val.”

  “Go on, Valentine. I’ll take care of Gus for now.”

  Back at the folding table, I cube five pounds of chuck roast, dredge the meat in flour, and brown it in the heated oil. Simply have to brown the beef if you want stew to turn out just right. Browning is the key. That slap into the hot oil, the sizzle, the pop. When I add the beef to the onions and garlic, the smell that rises up makes you know something very, very good is on its way.

  Forty-five minutes, a nicked forefinger, and four more cool washcloths later, the white chili and the stew are simmering on low heat.

  Augustine tries to smile when I check on him. “Smells great, even to this nauseous person.”

  “Quite the compliment.” I turn to Charmaine. “You okay?”

  “Sure am. Want me to take you home?”

  “Nah. Still needs to cook awhile. Then I’ll put it in the fridge. We’ve got at least another hour to an hour-and-a-half to go. Why don’t you go on home? I’ll watch over Augustine tonight and walk home really early in the morning.”

  Augustine tries to raise his head. “Oh, but Valen—”

  “Good idea.” Charmaine gets up and pats the seat of a chair she’d found earlier. “Gus, what can I bring you in the morning?”

  “Some kind of cold medicine?”

  After kissing his forehead, she flies out of the room, clicking on her high-heeled boots. “I’ll get some right away.”

  “You gotta love that woman, don’t you?” I say.

  “Really do.”

  I leave to stir the stews, turn down the flames once more. The smell of garlic and onions alone should heal the crazy monk.

  That cough scours the air again.

  Lord, have mercy.

  Maybe the fridge on the porch holds something promising for Augustine. I step out into the cold and throw open the door. There’s almost nothing in there.

  Back in the bedroom. “How long has it been since you’ve eaten a decent meal?”

  “I’ve been sick for three days. Had the last can of soup.”

  He spasms in a fit of coughing, but it doesn’t stop, the cot springs bounce up and down again and again, until finally, he vomits. All over the side of the bed. All over my jeans.

  “Oh, no. Oh, man.” Sweat pours off of him. “I’m so sorry.”

  “It’s okay.”

  In the kitchen I dig up some rags.

  “Let me clean you up.”

  I’m so used to wiping Lella and cleaning her, the smell doesn’t bother me at all. It’s easy to see he hasn’t eaten for a while. It’s that kind of vomit.

  “Sorry.”

  “Stop apologizing, Augustine. It’s really okay.” I touch his forehead after throwing the nasty rag into the bathroom sink. “You’re absolutely burning up.”

  “Got some ibuprofen in the medicine cabinet. Forgot to mention it to Charmaine.”

  Talk about head in the clouds.

  In the bathroom, I shake a few tablets into the palm of my hand. A water glass rests on the edge of the sink. Lifting it, I hold it against the light. Probably all sorts of sick germs congregating there.

  In the kitchen I fill a clean cup with cold water.

  “Here.” I sit beside Augustine, lift his head like I’ve done a thousand times with Lella, and give him the medicine. “Drink the rest of the water. You’re probably so dehydrated it isn’t funny.”

  “I just feel so—”

  And he vomits again. This time I jump clear.

  I root through the kitchen cupboard for a bowl and return to his side. I clean him up again. “I won’t leave you tonight.”

  “Thanks, Valentine.”

  “Why are you alone?”

  “The others … in Thailand. Left on the second.”

  “I’m here.”

  Thirty minutes later, the pots simmering on low, a cup of tea and a piece of dry toast inside of him, Augustine sleeps. I lay down on one of the cots, looking around me in the darkness where only a candle burns on an old table in the corner.

  What a crappy old place.

  An hour goes by. The stew and chili cooked through, I heft the pots into the fridge on the porch. The disciples above the stove look down on me. “This guy’s pretty much a lunatic if he thinks this is bringing people to Jesus,” I tell them.

  They don’t say anything.

  At five a.m. I lead him into the shower. He’s only wearing a pair of athletic shorts and a T-shirt that says, “Obey Gravity: It’s the Law.”

  “Where are the towels?”

  “Mine’s hanging behind the door.”

  “One towel?”

  “Do you really need two?” He coughs again.

  I grab the thin towel. “If you’ve got hair like mine you do.”

  “Ah.”

  “Then again, those dreads must hold a lot of water.”

  Faucet now running into the tub, I wave my h
and beneath the stream of water. Perfect.

  “Okay, call me if you need me. You look awful. But you smell even worse.”

  “I still feel pretty bad. But the ibuprofen’s helped a little.”

  “I’m heading to the IGA for some chicken broth and noodles.”

  “But aren’t you worried about your face?”

  “I think your troubles trump mine.”

  The bathroom begins to steam up.

  I leave him to take his shower, hoping he won’t faint while I’m gone.

  I chicken out on the IGA, remembering what somebody did to our holy family. So I get some soup from Blaze’s larder. She’s already up.

  “Where were you?”

  “Augustine’s really sick. Can you heat up some of this soup and take it over to him?”

  “Sure thing.”

  “It’s chicken soup.” How fitting.

  “What were you doing at Shalom?”

  “Wouldn’t you like to know?” I hurry on up to bed.

  NINE

  DREW: 2003

  No matter how bad you think your childhood is, there’s always somebody who had it way worse. Hermy reminds me of this. It’s pretty hard to wallow in your frustration at having the ice king as your father, when the guy sitting next to you landed in the hospital seven times because of his abusive mom. She sounds like a horror, but Hermy’s matter-of-fact about it.

  “I dunno, Drew. I mean, at least my mom pretty much let me do what I wanted when I wasn’t around the house. She couldn’t have cared less what my grades were as long as I didn’t get in her hair or mess up the house. After a while, I just learned to stay gone.”

  It’s the next evening, nine o’clock, and we’re headed to my father’s house. I wanted to make sure he’d be home.

  “Shoot, Drew, it sounds like you couldn’t do anything right. And you didn’t even have your mother around to take some of the steam. We need those kinds of people. I had an aunt like that.”

  We pull up in front of the house and walk up the sidewalk, our boots compressing the deicing salt with small pops and crackles.

  I knock on the door and Dad’s housekeeper, Malena, answers. Her eyes widen. “Hola, Señor Drew.”

  “Hi, Malena.”

  She swings the door and sweeps us in.

  Malena, a very proper woman in sensible pumps, a tweed skirt, and a pale yellow blouse, shuts the door. “Please sit in the living room while I call your father.”

  Despite the verbal formality, her eyes drip with friendliness. While I wouldn’t say Malena loves me like her own, she’s a kind woman who keeps her private life private, values her position as head of my father’s household, and holds his privacy in high regard.

  When I was younger, sometimes her maternal instincts got the better of her. She’d stow away chocolate in my lunch sack, or hide my college grades until Dad reached the right frame of mind to view them without shaming me for my 3.75 average. Nothing ever went wrong on her watch.

  The formal living room walls are shaded a blood red. Yellow silk upholstery in striped and floral patterns cover chairs arranged in conversation groups. Fine artwork glows under the perfect lighting, and beautiful bowls and vases from China rest on mahogany (I think) surfaces. Not one speck of dust sullies the wood floors, and even the fringes on the oriental rugs are combed perfectly.

  With my toe, I mess up an edge.

  “I hate this house.”

  “You grow up here?”

  “No. We moved here when I was sixteen. We always lived down south before Mom died, or disappeared, or what have you. My father was a lobbyist for the tobacco industry in those days, so he planted his family in North Carolina. He was gone a lot. His longer and longer stays in DC troubled her, but she never said why.”

  “He was cheating on her, I bet.”

  “I don’t know. That would presuppose he could feel something for somebody.”

  “Not necessarily, man.”

  “True. I never thought he was about an affair, though. I still don’t. She just wasn’t the right wife for a man like him. Then again, I don’t know who would be.”

  Malena reappears. “He’s on the phone. Just give him five minutes. Would you like a drink?”

  “No, thanks. Why don’t you visit with me?”

  She shakes her head and walks out of the room. She hesitates at the door but continues on.

  “In some ways I couldn’t blame my dad. Imagine being married to a woman who called sin sin and knew when somebody was in a major state of it. I don’t know if she was a prophet or just crazy.”

  “Was she ever right about any of the other things she said?”

  “Spot on. I just figured, ‘That’s Mom for you’ like kids seem to do without realizing how odd their childhood actually is. Hopefully she’s calmed down a little.”

  “I wouldn’t bet on that.”

  I approach the small writing desk, spring the latch in the middle cubby, and open the false front of the hidden compartment. A fat four-by-six manila envelope is wedged between the sidewalls. I could slip it into my jacket pocket.

  But that would give me one more thing to confess to Father Brian.

  I shut the compartment.

  Hermy whistles. “Man, this reminds me too much of my house. Bad stuff. Bad stuff.”

  Finally, my father walks into the living room. Charles Parrish exudes power not only from his personality but from his physical dimensions. He’s forced to dip his head slightly when he walks through a conventional doorway. Tailors fashion his clothing. Shoemakers construct shoes for his feet alone.

  He’s a beast. Perfectly made for what he does.

  But even this beast can’t hide his shock at my appearance. Who was this young man with the bald, nicked pate? This skinny urchin-like youth who once plied the airwaves?

  “Drew. A surprise. You’ve lost weight.”

  “Yes, Dad. I’m taking a road trip. This is Hermy.”

  “I see.” Dad shakes Hermy’s hand, sizing him up. Hermy’s found wanting, for Dad turns right to me without saying anything.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “I came to get Mom’s address.”

  “This is nonsensical. Your mother’s dead.” He crosses his arms across his chest. “Don’t keep at this ridiculousness.”

  “She called me. I know it was her.”

  “I told you this is crazy.”

  “She’s alive.”

  He spreads his feet.

  His already dark eyes deepen to the blackness of ink. “You’d do well to stop all this, Son.”

  But I’ve got nothing left to lose.

  “So you say. But despite your veiled threat, I’ll push this to the end, whatever or wherever that is. I did learn a thing or two from you.”

  Man, I hope that feeds his ego. Please, God.

  He relaxes. “Are you going a little crazy, Son? You know, your mother was a bit touched. We think that’s why she crashed the car.”

  And this is the moment I’ve been waiting for. The man has blood on his hands and crap on his shoes. What he’s done is a mystery, why isn’t so hard to guess. But I venture forward, surfacing a resentment that undergirds me.

  I square my chest. “All I’m asking is to see my mother. You give me that address and I am out of your life forever. I won’t drag you through the mud; I won’t even breathe your air. You’ll never have to call me on Sundays or put a little extra into my bank account. I will disappear from you like—” And here I take an enormous chance, shrugging with a knowing look on my face. At least I hope it’s knowing. I mean, people disappear from Washington every so often.

  “Like who?”

  Who, not what.

  “Like mail workers at the five o’clock whistle.”

  “Wait just a minute.” He walks toward the doorway, then turns. “She needed to be put away, Son. I only did it to protect you. You and a lot of other people. It was better if you thought she was dead.” He leaves the room.

  It’s funny how ea
sily you can spot an act when you’re so good at giving one yourself.

  Hermy looks up. “He’s one cold man.”

  Malena clicks back into the room and hands me a sheet of paper. “Your father had another call come in. Here’s the address you requested, ‘as per your agreement,’ he said. I’ll see you to the door now.” She ushers us into the foyer and pulls an envelope from the waistband of her sweater.

  Grabbing my hand and placing the parcel into my palm, she whispers, “God protect you, Drew. If you know what is best, you’ll never come back here.” She crosses herself.

  “Is this address a mental institution?”

  “I’m not saying anything.”

  “Malena, why did she disappear?”

  “It wasn’t her choice. Your mother, she loved you.”

  “Was she really crazy?”

  Malena crosses her arms and rubs them with her hands. “Go on now. Go!”

  In the chill of a DC night, Hermy and I drive away.

  As per your agreement, Malena said.

  We ride by the memorials, Lincoln and Jefferson. The illumined Washington Monument points into the darkened sky from which a light, icy rain begins to descend and the dome of the capital seems to light up the city blocks around it.

  I will never come back here again.

  Out of the city, off of Route 66, I pull into a Shell station. “I gotta make a call.”

  Hermy decides to get some beef jerky. “Want a soda, man?”

  “Sure.”

  I dial St. Mary’s rectory and Father Brian answers.

  “I did it. I confronted my father.”

  “What happened?”

  “He gave me the address for my mother.”

  “How was he?”

  “The same. I told him I’d never see him again if he’d give me the address.”

  “And he took you up on that?”

  “In so many words.”

  “Looks like you’ve only got one place left to go.”

  “A year ago I thought I had a full life and a really bright future. And now all I’ve got is my friend Hermy and an address.”

  “Well, at least you can only go up from here.”

  For some reason this strikes me as humorous. “Oh, I don’t know. I imagine there’s always a bigger bag of tricks.”

  I watch Hermy climb back into the car. I’d better end this call.

 

‹ Prev