He’s backing me still, with one hand resting on the corner of his filing cabinet, the other shoved deep into his pants pocket. His head is down and his bony shoulders are pulled up to his ears. He looks so small, fragile. The Trini Lightburns are a spindly crew, and my father’s always been slim, but here he looks flimsy—almost transparent—standing in the sunlight and dust, like a fading outline. He has something to say. From his stiff stance, I can tell he’s not sure where to start.
“So, I’m going to . . . head over to Mum’s side, get something to eat or whatever. You okay? You need anything?” I’m already standing. He doesn’t know where to start and I have this distinct feeling that I don’t want him to start. It can wait.
“Bathsehba, before you head over. There’s something.” He’s still gripping the cabinet. “We’ve never asked you, but I want to, I need to ask. It’s ten years and I need to ask.” He’s turned around now, switching hands so that he’s still holding onto something sturdy. My father’s eyes, bloodshot forever, it seemed, are brimmed with tears and the tip of his pointy nose is red. His jaw is clenched and that vein down the middle of his forehead is bulged. There are blotches along one side of his neck—I’ve seen them before, in the mirror, back in those early days when I could barely look at myself without a fury rising to the surface. “I need you to tell me what happened that night,” he says. “I need to know how this happened. I want to hear your voice say how you’re here now. Please. I need to hear it all.”
My mouth is open. The tears rush in and I feel myself starting to buckle back into the wobbly chair. I let the tears fall, but stay standing. I’m shaking my head, willing the words to come. “I—I’m sorry. I can’t do this right now, Dad. The interview and the train schedule . . . I can’t do this right now. I’m sorry.” He’s calling for me, his voice cracked and strained, but I’m not listening. My bag was already packed and in the hallway. The back of the red door is in my sights. I’m out.
It’s not until I’ve rounded the corner and heading downhill that I feel the raw chill against my face. Even with the sun in the center of the sky, it’s miserable outside. I don’t bother buttoning my coat and my hat barely hangs off the back of my damp head. If I don’t see a taxi, I’ll just keep walking until I hit the Metro. With my luck, the closest station is not for another nine blocks.
The cold air stings everything—exposed or covered—and my coat flaps in the cutting wind, but my fingers are too frozen to do anything about it. My tears have hardened on my cheeks or maybe reversed their tracks back into my eyeballs. Either way I can see clearer: buildings, signs, people; they are no longer blurred clumps. Now it’s a fancy SoHo-style gourmet market, a bookstore, a boutique, a high-end yoga shop, a shoe store, all of them bustling. There are dazzling Christmas lights strung beautifully, connecting rows of twin pine trees, and people look delighted despite the snow and frost.
The salesgirl at the yoga store looks at me with her face slightly twisted when I ask to borrow the phone at the checkout counter. I start to tell her some concoction about a dead battery, but it’s clear she could not care less and hands me a black cordless.
“It’s local, right?” she says, her face still bent out of shape.
“Yeah, very. You can dial for me, if you want.”
“Uh, no. I have customers. If you could just stand over here, to the side of the cash wrap . . .” She shags a limp hand in the general direction and turns her attention to the next guest in line. At least her expression has warmed up for them.
“Hey, it’s Best. Lightburn.”
“Hey, wassup? This is weird. Did you just get my voice mail?” Miles says. He sounds surprised and hopeful and beaming all mixed together and it’s spilling through the phone. “I left another one for you, like, an hour ago . . . anyway, so did you want to just make it official and hop on lunch? The brunch window is kind of closing out. Wait, are you at Yoga Sense?”
“Yeah, I’m just using their phone. Long story. I’m actually out already. On Greene Avenue. I thought I’d just try you from the road.” The sales chick with the morphing face is shooting daggers at my left temple. “My phone died,” I say loudly and boomerang cut-eye right back at her. “I haven’t checked voice mail—”
“Oh. So you didn’t get my voice mail from last night either?”
“Miles.”
“Ask better questions, right?”
I can hear his goofy chuckle bubbling up. “No, just answer mine: Do you have time to meet me?”
“Yes. Most def. Where on Greene Avenue?”
“Maybe the bookstore. Or I could meet you . . . there?”
“At my place?”
“If you want.”
“Yeah. That’d be cool. Do that. Need the address?”
“No. I have a good memory.”
“Of course. You’re Best.”
Miles does this dramatic, sweeping door-opening thing that’s common among little kids playing house. He looks like he’s running late for a men’s fashion-mag shoot—the lounging issue. It’s all sleek everything: a gray-black, thin cashmere-y sweater and slim black sweatpants stuffed sloppy-style into these black leather, extra-high-cut sneakers with gold eyelets and gum soles. No earbuds or cords or devices are dangling anywhere. Maybe it’s the rad pad spread out just past his shoulder or the considerate dim lighting in the foyer, but Miles just turned completely cute and charming. I want to fall into his cozy sweater and never leave.
“Aunt-tray-voo,” he says. His French accent is adorably abysmal. “It’s cold as balls out there.” He opens his arms, waiting for me to step into them. And I do. It’s easier.
“Do you want some coffee, tea, to warm up?” he says, resting his chin in the top of my head. I’m wearing a hat—well, partially—so I allow it. All of Miles’s moves feel likes he’s been watching a lot of teen dramas on television and taking notes. I’m halfway waiting for this one next: He’ll clutch my face in his palms and swear to me, in a weighty whisper, that he’ll never let anything or anyone hurt me ever again. I promise. And then turn into a werewolf or some other supernatural.
“Thanks. Tea would be nice.”
“I can do a latte too, or macchiato with caramel or espresso, hot cocoa. It’s the machine. It does everything.”
“Tea’s fine.”
“Right,” he says, smiling. I’m sure he was told at some point postpuberty that his smile is winning and wonderful. If we’re being honest, it’s none of those things, but the consistent effort he puts into it is definitely special. “Tea it is. Milk, honey, sugar?”
“Straight, no chaser. Thanks.”
He laughs. “Make yourself comfortable. The remotes for everything are there on the bench. I’ll be right back with your tea, in a shot glass.”
There’s that fly leather bag, sitting plump and ready by the coatrack. His slim, silver laptop rests on the sloping side of the bag’s bulge. “Where you heading out?” I say, throwing my voice toward the kitchen. “Feels like I caught you heading out.”
“I can never hear anything back here. Gimme a sec.”
I’ve seen enough. I’m going in. “Hey, listen.” I’m trying to adopt that TV heartthrob whisper he used on me earlier. Miles’s head is buried in a wide cabinet by his shimmering stove. “You know, I’m good. I don’t really need tea. I’ve already warmed up, pretty much.”
“No, no. I have it. Just gotta find the pods,” he says. “They’re in here. I swear.”
“It’s okay. Really.” I ease up behind him. And, sidebar: That cabinet is fucking ridiculous. Every box lined up, stacked and exact. Labels face out and possibly alphabetized. “Forget the tea.” I touch the small of his back. “I want to try something.”
“Oh, word? What’s that?” He turns around, grinning like a goof.
“I want to ask you something.”
“Wait: Do you want try something or ask something?”
“Both.”
“Okay. Let’s do both, then.”
I see the giddy in his eyes.
He thinks we’re going there, thinks we’re going to connect or at least rub up on each other. But that’s not in the cards. I don’t feel it. I don’t feel that thing, the undeniable pull that makes you want to completely ingest the person, gobble them up or wrap yourself around them as tight as ever possible and press their entire being into yours. I like Miles; there’s an openness, a willing that feels good to be around, but the mere idea of actually kissing him isn’t sitting well with me right now. It’s actually kind of making me uncomfortable.
I try to look past his thirst and stay on my course. “Do you have family?”
“Hol’up”—his face stiffens—“is this more verbal tricks?”
“No, no tricks.”
“So what are you trying, then?”
“Telling the truth.”
“All right. I’m down with that. My family. They’re mostly in Atlanta. I’m not real close to them. Kind of what brought me out this way. Just a lot of fucked-up old history that nobody’s willing to let go. I don’t even go home for Christmas anymore. I usually meet with some old friends, other holiday orphans, and we snowboard for a week. I’m going up to Mont-Tremblant tonight to check out this chalet with my boy Justin.” He cocks his head. “My turn.”
“Your turn?”
“My turn to get some truth from you. Why are you here—as in, here at my place? After the cold-ass one-eighty in the cab . . . and then I called you a few times and nothing. I kind of figured it was a wrap; I wouldn’t see you again. But here you are, at my crib with a bag and red eyes and even more mystery. So, what’s up?”
“I’m a journalist, a reporter, and I have this interview in Ajax, so that’s why the bag. As for the one-eighty in the cab, I just got the sense that you were dealing with some stuff on your own and you didn’t need more complications. And, if you’re looking for truth, you’ve got to know that I’m one big walking complication. Not an exaggeration. And about going home for the holidays . . . we haven’t had a regular Christmas in ten years.”
“Fucked-up family too?”
“Yeah. What’s left of it.” As I turn my head, I spot the pesky box of pods. It’s mint tea; my favorite. I slide it out of formation and hand it to Miles.
He pops one into the machine and the dull, whirling sound begins. “What do you mean, what’s left of it?” he asks, frowning.
“We’re still doing the truth-telling thing?”
“Hell, yeah, we’re still doing it,” he says, and the crooked smile creeps in.
Like a jerk, the fancy brewing machine falls quiet. It’s just my voice circling now as my stomach folds in on itself. I can’t even take a breath or blink or turn back on this. The words feel like fire behind my lips. I actually want to say it, what happened, so I do. “On Christmas Eve, ten years ago, there was an accident. My brothers . . . they both died. Now it’s just me, my folks and their constant heartache. That’s why I don’t like coming home and why I don’t talk about my family.” My entire chest settles back into place and I feel—literally, physically—lighter for this one perfect and brief moment. And then I see my father’s red, sad eyes, his trembling self, trying to coax a tincture of truth from me for once, for good. I couldn’t find an opening for him, but here I am, letting it stream out of me with a stranger that I met on a plane. That’s the dividing line: Miles is a stranger. He only knows the parts of the truth that I tell him. My father, he can’t know even the thinnest parts of the truth. He couldn’t bear it. I can’t, most days.
“That’s fucking fucked-up, for real. Shit.” He stirs through the steam billowing above the large white mug and hands it to me. “I’m sorry, man. I’m sorry about your brothers.”
There’s no pity painted on his face and it’s refreshing. In fact, he looks distressed, almost angry. The heat of the mug feels good against my palms. “That’s maybe the best description I’ve heard in a while: fucking fucked-up. It’s definitely that.” Miles is still frowning and shaking his head as he slides the misaligned box back into place. “My turn,” I say, blowing on the scalding tea. His face softens. “When we were in the cab, I saw your arm, the scars. I’ve seen that before; my college roommate. That’s why I changed my mind in the taxi and why I didn’t come up here with you, why I didn’t plan on calling you back. I stuffed your card in my coat pocket and let the whole idea of you go. I thought you were dealing with some raw stuff and didn’t think some one-night-stand bullshit would help.” His eyebrow shoots up. “Come on, Miles. I don’t live here. It was only ever going to be a one-time, hookup thing.”
“Oh, so you were doing me a favor by ignoring my calls? That’s pretty fucking presumptuous. Is that what you’re doing now, laying things out for me, helping me sort through my problems? Is this the interview?”
Of course I have to follow him out of the kitchen, but I hang back, keep a smart distance and my eye on the closest exit. “Calm down, Miles. I’m not trying to upset you. I just want to be straight with you. Remember, trying the truth?”
“Yeah. Got it.” He walks over to his glass-top table in the corner of the living room near the window and leans over another slim, silver laptop. “All right. You want to go for truth? Let’s keep it real, then,” he says, without looking up from the screen. “Yeah, some of those marks are exactly what you thought. High school shit. But the other scars, and the ones that cut across my ribs and the big-ass one that runs down the part of my leg that’s still real flesh—those are from this.” Justin spins the laptop around with one rough push. I have to step in closer to see the photo, and when I do, when I see it, I feel sick and sorry and foolish.
“I was in an accident too. Ran over an IED in Afghanistan. I didn’t lose my life; I lost my leg and probably a lot of my good parts; my mind, for sure. But I got it all back, mostly.” He juts out his foot. “Shit, this new leg is probably better than the old one. Bionics. Ain’t never been a day that I was lying around here feeling sorry for me. We all get raw deals, man. It’s the fucking human condition, as my CO liked to say. That’s one thing the army taught me: Don’t take none of this shit personal. You can’t play the game right if you out there takin’ shit personal. Otherwise every day will be a fight to tap out, just put a gun in your mouth and tap out for real. Misery and fucked-up situations, that shit’s go’n come regardless of who you are. But it’s how you deal that makes the difference. Adjust, accept, shake hands with yourself on it, and keep it moving. That’s the truth I know.”
“That’s really . . . real. And I’m sorry. I don’t know why I had to push and poke and assume that I know anything about anything. I’m sorry.”
Miles closes the laptop with a soft swat. He seems less agitated and I’m actually wishing for the return of his goofball grin.
Nothing. Only a short exhale leaves his lips. He’s still leaning on the table, not looking at me. Trying the truth was a bad idea.
“That tea’s probably chilled now,” Miles says.
“It’s fine.”
“Do you want me to make you something else?”
I shake my head and rest the cup down on the edge of the frosted table. “But I could go for one of those hot chocolates doused with bourbon. They make ’em at Old Dublin, if I recall.”
The creases in Miles’s face loosen and that wonky grin takes its sweet time spreading across his mouth like the thickest molasses. “Next time, say that first. I’ll get our coats.”
Using Miles’s cell was a no-brainer. Plus, the “my phone is dead” thing was still working in my favor. My mother doesn’t answer calls from numbers she doesn’t recognize. She’s always been slightly funky about the telephone, and the introduction of caller ID really let that beast free.
I left a hasty message telling them first that I was okay—as if that was a concern for my parents—and that I was taking a night train to Toronto, back late tomorrow night. I knew Miles was giving me sideways looks for the duration of the minute-long mumble message; I could practically hear the questions rumbling in his chest. The second round of special coco
as took care of that, though. He got lost on some looping tangent about the trouble with TV cop dramas and procedurals. We were about to leave the chocolate sweetness behind, move into the well with our drinks, when good sense showed up and cut us off. Miles had a long drive ahead to meet up with his boy Justin, and he offered to drop me off at Via Rail for a 5 p.m., nearly sold-out train that I absolutely could not miss.
We made it and the good-bye wasn’t strained or strange. Getting Miles slightly lubricated made him that much more enchanting and sweet. I tucked his business card deeper into my pocket as he drove off from the station. He’s definitely going to be added to the contacts . . . that is, whenever I finally decide to turn my phone back on.
The train was full. I had to grab the first available seat: back of the second car, no one next to me. Not bad.
Sleep was not an option. I didn’t want to be jerked awake by some random rattling twenty minutes later with a headache and dry mouth. Tried to chill instead. But that wasn’t happening. Did the crossword and sudoku in the Destinations magazine—Ryan Gosling’s on the cover. That’s a BFD for a flimsy, onboard, freebie train mag. But the Gosling piece was all cotton candy. Probably a phoner or worse, a bullshit write-around. (I still jammed that glossy thing in my bag. I mean, it’s Ryan Gosling. In a tight shirt.)
I’ve already pulled out my notes about twenty times and flipped through the grubby copy of my father’s “How to Interview Workshop” handout. What’s one more time?
Macro Strategy: Work the Answer
Blend—Make them Active; Establish Common Ground
Extend—Pick a Blend Point; Follow Your Blocking
Control
I highlight the questions from his top ten that I’ll likely use most:
10. What’s an example?
8. What were the options?
6. In what way?
5. Why is that?
2. What do you mean?
1. What happened?
And I’ve also stared at these pictures just as much. Fatima was the prettiest sister. A hard thing to discern given how beautiful everyone in the Imam family was—even Bashir, with his thick, arched brows, bronzed skin and deep-set, twilight-moon eyes. I can never look at his face for too long; the darkness of it, the torment steeped in his face starts to feel too alive and sinister. I know it sounds crazy, but there’s something real and wicked bubbling behind the flat photo of this man, and it creeps me out every time.
The Thunder Beneath Us Page 20