At first I think of Jesse, who’d have some random historical detail about the music, but then I’m not thinking of anything. I’m just here—a girl on a summer night, having dinner on a patio, listening to music. My feet, appendages not normally inclined to keeping rhythm, take off on a toe-tapping hoedown. I’m not thinking or worrying or angst-ing. In fact, I’m watching Clem and smiling. His fingers on the violin neck are giving the speed of light a run for its money. The crowd loves him. They beg for another song when he finishes, but he waves them off, promising to return later if they’ll have him. He hands back the fiddle to its owner and rejoins me at the table.
“You really are international man,” I tease when he sits down. “You’ve got Appalachia written all over you. You sure you want to go into classical?”
“Why? You think I’d make a good hillbilly?”
“I don’t know. Let’s hear your country twang.”
He’s twanging away like the best of them when a pretty, middle-aged woman with gray hair and a similar skin tone to Clem’s, sidles up onto the bench next to him and bumps him with her hip. “Now that’s the music I’m talking about,” she says with a wink. “You and Vassar really are blood brothers.”
Clem lights up and gives the woman an affectionate hug. “Hey, Ma. ‘Orange Blossom Special,’ just for you.” He turns to me and his eyebrows shoot up his forehead. “I hope you don’t mind. When you went to the bathroom before we left the library I texted my mom and asked her to come by.”
“No, of course I don’t mind,” I say, despite the pang of jealousy. Not jealousy at having his mom here. I’m cool with the mom thing. It’s that he has a mom to be here at all. And a sober mom he obviously adores and who adores him.
“Great.” He looks relieved. “Faith, meet my mom, Dolores. Mom, meet Faith.”
I’m about to return Dolores’ warm smile with a handshake, but before I have a chance, she wraps me up in a bosomy hug as if she’s known me all my life. “Nice to meet you, Faith,” she says when she releases me. “Clem says you’re here all the way from the East Coast to study genetics. If you need anything, you just call me, okay?”
Normally I’m unreceptive to invitations to call on strangers, but somehow in this woman’s presence, I drop my defenses and agree.
“I can only stay for a minute, Sweetie,” she says, turning her attention back to Clem. “My shift starts in half hour.”
“I thought you weren’t doing the night shifts anymore,” Clem complains. “Your back?”
“I know, but one of the nurses called in sick, and I could use the overtime.” She gives him a playful pinch. “I’m fine, Clemmy. Stop worrying and have fun with your friend. Don’t forget, dinner Wednesday?”
Clem sighs and agrees. “Just be careful,” he tells her.
She chuckles. “I’m supposed to be the one telling that to you.” She winks and picks herself off the bench. “Love you, Sweetie. See you Wednesday.”
She says good-bye, and we watch her make her way across the patio to the street.
“She works at the hospital,” Clem tells me when she’s gone. “She’s a nurse. I worry about her, you know? Maybe…”
“Maybe what?” I prompt.
“Nah.” He looks down. “It’s nothing”
“If it was nothing then you wouldn’t have said it.”
He looks up again. His eyes seem troubled. “I just worry about going to New York City for music school. Leaving my mom. Maybe I should stay closer to home.” Before I can respond, he reaches into his backpack and puts the yearbook with my father’s photo on the table. “I checked this out while you were in the bathroom.”
“Wow, you accomplished a lot while I was in the shitter. Imagine if I’d been constipated.”
We both crack up, and as the food comes, his mood seems to brighten. The Frito pie does the job, sparking my salivary glands and returning my appetite to full force. Frito pie, you are no challenge for me, I think and dig in.
We listen to the music as we eat. People dance. A pack of kids spins around in unabashed musical glee. A woman, who has to be eighty, dressed head-to-toe in tie-dye, waves her arms above her head and shuffles her feet. There’s a cheerful, laid back vibe about the place, and when I’m done eating, I feel light and unburdened. So light, in fact, that before my turbulent emotions surrounding Alvaro Flores have the chance to return, I decide to take action. I push back from my seat, tell Clem I’ll be right back, and head inside to find someone who works here.
I find the hostess talking to a waiter, also in Western garb (apparently the Cowgirl is for cowboys, too.) “Excuse me,” I say interrupting the adorable cow-people. “I’m looking for someone who used to hang out here, or maybe still does. Alvaro Flores?”
“I’ve only worked here for a few weeks,” the cute cowgirl tells me. “Griz might know. He’s worked here forever and knows everyone.”
She points me to the bartender. I head his way and instantly understand why he’s called Griz. The guy is huge and his face is covered with thick brown hair—eyebrows, beard, mustache—a grizzly bear in human form.
“You have ID?” Griz asks as I approach the bar.
“No,” I say, pushing up against the crowded counter between two guys, drinking beer. “And I don’t want a drink. I just have a question.”
“Well then I have an answer,” he says, a smile emerging from his downy cover.
“Okay, well, it’s kind of weird.”
“Right up my alley.”
“So, there’s this guy,” I begin.
“Uh oh.”
“No, it’s not like that,” I quickly add. “This guy’s old, like in his mid-thirties. His name is Alvaro Flores.” I show Griz the yearbook picture. “This is kind of an old photo, but I’m wondering if you recognize him or if you’ve seen him around.”
He looks at the photo and then up at me. “I might. Who’s asking?”
“He’s a friend of my uncle,” I say, blurting out the first thing that comes to me. “I’m spending the summer here and my uncle told me to look him up.”
A customer asks for a gin and tonic. Griz turns and reaches for a clear bottle from a shelf above a crackled mirror and TV. “You ask if I know Alvaro and if I’ve seen him,” he says when he turns back to me. “The answer is yes and no.”
He starts pouring the alcohol into a glass, his attention on the drink now. I’m not sure if he’s going to elaborate on the yes and no statement, so I press. “Which part is yes and which is no?”
He stops what he’s doing and raises his eyes to me. “I know Alvaro well. Known him since before that picture was taken. He used to hang out here all the time. As far as if I’ve seen him?” He wipes a hand like a bear paw across his wrinkled brow, then he sighs as if he’d rather say anything than what he’s about to tell me. “That’s the no part. I haven’t seen him because he’s dead.”
Five
“Dead?” I repeat, choking out the word.
“Yep. Sorry to say. He died about eight months ago.”
The customer who ordered the gin and tonic asks where his drink is, another wants a beer. Griz’s attention goes to his patrons, but he’s back to me a moment later, wiping his hands on a towel. “Your uncle didn’t know about this?” he asks, lowering those furry brows.
“My uncle?” I say, momentarily spacing on my story. “Yeah. I mean, no. I guess not. They were…” My voice trails off. “Kind of out of touch. So, anyway, thanks for telling me. I’ll let my uncle know.” I turn from the counter and start to leave.
“Hey! What’s your name?” Griz calls after me.
“Faith Flores,” I reply, and scurry away before he can ask any more questions.
Instead of returning to the table, I go to the bathroom where I lock myself in a stall and perch on the edge of the toilet. The memory of finding my mom dead on the bathroom floor smashes into news of m
y father’s death, a head-on collision without a seatbelt. I bury my face in my hands and take a few deep breaths, telling myself that his being dead shouldn’t matter since I never even met him. The thing is, though, my mom’s death left a hole in me, not just a hole of having lost her, but a hole that emphasized the absence of my other parent, and the word “orphan” pops into my brain—the fact that I’m now officially parentless.
Two girls stumble into the bathroom, chattering loudly in giddy, drunken voices and bursting my privacy bubble. I can’t hide in here forever, so I force myself out of the stall and head back into the restaurant.
I stop a few feet from our table. A part of me wants to tell Clem what I found out, but the bigger part wants to keep it in a locked box and throw away the key. I was stupid to bring Clem into my drama in the first place. I clear my throat, smooth my hair, as if hair smoothing can remedy my mental state, and head to the table.
The second I get there, Clem looks at me and asks if I’m okay.
I look away, but I feel his gaze on me. “Yeah. Of course. I’m fine. I just don’t feel that great all of a sudden.”
The gray-haired band dude calls out to Clem, asks if he’s ready to play another tune. Clem holds up a finger, keeping his focus on me.
“No, go ahead,” I say, using the music as a chance to make my break. “You should play another one with them. The crowd loves you. I’m going to head back to the dorm and call it a night.”
“Then I’ll go with you.” He leaps out of his chair and swings around to my side, as if he’s going to pull out the seat for me. The guy’s got serious old school manners like when “please” and “thank you” hadn’t yet hit the endangered species list.
“I’m good,” I say. “I know the way back.” I put on a showcase smile, which the skeptical expression on his face tells me he knows is crap. “I’ll see you tomorrow, okay? Here.” I reach into my pocket for my wallet and hand him some money for dinner.
“It’s on me,” he says, refusing the cash and sounding hurt. For a moment I hesitate, thinking I’ll stay and tell him what I found out, but then, no way. I want to forget about Alvaro Flores, not broadcast his death to a kid I’ve known for approximately twenty-seven hours.
I turn and dash across the patio without looking back. I can’t get away fast enough.
***
Back in my dorm room I don’t bother turning on a light. I lie on the hard mattress, pinned to the bed like an insect on an entomologist’s tray. At least I don’t have a roommate to have to make small talk with, I think, as I study my father’s yearbook photo. What were he and Mom like as a couple? How’d they meet? Did he love her? Wondering these things gives me a strange, unmoored feeling. They’re both dead and I’m still here, tumbling blind through a dark, parentless universe. The sole Flores offspring to carry out the legacy of a junkie mom and a who-knows-what of a father? I guess I’ll never know.
I don’t know how long I lie there in the silence, pierced only by the occasional voice in the hall, but at some point the tightness in my chest loosens and I’m no longer looking at the yearbook. In fact, at some point I’d stopped thinking about him, and my mind arrived in a zoned-out, empty state some people call enlightenment, others call stoned, and I just call calm. Whatever it is, the end result is when I blink back to hello-I-need-chocolate consciousness and go to the desk for my stash, I flash on something unexpected. Relief. And with that feeling comes something else. Closure.
As I unpeel the foil and break off a square of milk chocolate I realize something else—I no longer have to wonder if my father’s out there somewhere, if he’s thinking about me. I no longer have to be pissed off, knowing that he isn’t thinking about me, that he doesn’t give a shit. I can let go and move on with my life. Still, the O-word pops up again.
With the orphan word rattling around in my brain, I remember the life skills class I had in ninth grade. “What is family?” I hear the soft, pleasant voice of a narrator say in a video the nurse showed us in the family and friends section of the class. “Some families have two moms.” Flash to smiling lesbian couple with baby. “Some families have two dads.” Flash to smiling gay men with baby. “Some families…” Montage of divorced/single/grandparent led/adopted ethnic child families. “What all these people have in common is love.”
The word love leads me to Aunt T. The janitor of my existence—picking up the pieces of Mom’s mess. The CEO of my life—making executive decisions regarding my well-being when Mom couldn’t. She’s been nurse and nutritionist, guidance counselor and shrink. If love is the definition of family, then Aunt T’s the real deal. Aunt T and me, a cozy family of two, and come to think of it, that’s pretty freaking awesome. No family baggage to carry around. Light traveling. No complicated relationships. For the first time in my life, there’s nobody to be angry at.
I guess I fall asleep with this thought, my clothes on, my teeth unbrushed, so when morning light wakes me it’s with a terrible taste in my mouth, like something crawled in there and died. I Crest away the taste, shower away last night’s haze, and as a lighter, and also hungrier, person, head to the cafeteria.
Organic-farm Dahlia, who looks so content with the simple fact of being alive, is sitting alone. I load my tray with sugar and carbs (hello, cafeteria food!) and slip into the chair next to her.
“Hi, Faith! How are you?!” she exclaims. Everything Dahlia says is an exclamatory sentence. There are no declarative statements in Dahlia-speak. I wonder if she’s this enthusiastic about getting out of bed in the morning, about a visit to the gynecologist.
“I’m fine,” I say, testing out my newfound lightness with words. “How are you?”
“I’m great! I love working at the farm! Don’t tell anyone, but I smuggled a chick into the dorm!” She’s not exactly whispering, so I’m thinking I don’t exactly have to tell anyone for the whole world to know. “She’s so adorable. I named her Free Ranger. I just couldn’t part with her when I left yesterday.”
“Chicken smuggling, huh?” I say with a smile. “I hear you do hard time for that.”
Her eyes widen and for a minute she looks panicked, but then she realizes I’m joking and giggles and punches my arm. It feels so good to delight in the pleasures of weightless conversation. I could listen to Dahlia talk about organic carrots and baby chickens and goat milk all day, but alas, there is one thing on my mind: Clem.
I’m a pretty good pretender at most things, but I can’t pretend I don’t notice that he’s not at breakfast. And I can’t pretend I wasn’t a shit last night, ditching him at the Cowgirl, not saying thank you. I finish my chocolate chip muffin, wish Dahlia a good day, and head up to his room.
“Hey,” he says, cracking open the door a few seconds after I knock.
“Hey,” I reply, not exactly the deepest exchange, but it’s a start.
“You made it home last night, I guess?”
“Yep. Can I come in?”
“No opposite sex in the rooms, remember?”
I shrug. “Live dangerously.”
He cracks the tiniest of smiles and opens the door wider. I go in and sit on the edge of the bed, atop a rumpled blanket, next to an iPod and earbuds and a scattered assortment of sheet music. It’s then I notice that his hair is uncombed and he’s in a T-shirt and boxers.
“Just wake up?” I ask, trying to pretend I don’t notice what he’s wearing—or not wearing.
“Nah. I’ve been listening to music since five.” He plops down next to me and picks up the earbuds, letting them dangle over his finger. “I’m trying to learn Paganini.”
I nod, attempting to look informed. Apparently I’m not looking informed, more like I have no idea who or what a Paganini is, because he says, “Nicolo Paganini? Italian violinist. Born in Genoa in 1782?”
“Oh! That Paganini. I thought you meant the other one.”
“I’m trying to learn ‘Caprice No. 1�
�� for the concert with the Dallas Symphony at the Lensic over the Fourth of July weekend. I’m a soloist,” he says without any humor. He tosses the earbuds back onto the bed and rakes his fingers through his hair. “I might as well play ‘Twinkle Twinkle Little Star,’ at the rate I’m going.”
“What’s wrong with ‘Twinkle Twinkle’? It’s a great song. It’s the same tune as ‘Bah Bah Black Sheep’ and the ‘ABCs.’ I mean how clever is that? Three for the price of one?” He’s not amused, and I get that violin isn’t something Clem jokes about. I clear my throat and continue. “Right. So. Anyway, I wanted to say sorry about last night.” I twist the bed sheet, clear my throat again, and tell him what I found out about my father, hoping he doesn’t try to hug me or console me or in any way act like I’m to be pitied.
“Man,” he says when I’m done talking. “That blows. Want some chocolate?”
I laugh. “Yeah. Chocolate sounds perfect.”
A bar of chocolate later we’re back to being friends. We agree to meet up at the end of the day and I head out for work, but not before I pick up my iPod from my room and download a tune by Paganini.
***
I try to call Jesse as I wait for the bus to SCPG. He doesn’t answer. I leave a voice message, and as the bus arrives, dial Aunt T, who answers on the first ring as if she’d been waiting all night for me to call. I tell her a lot of nothing stuff as I ease into the information about my father, and then I drop the bomb of his death because sometimes a thing isn’t real until you say it out loud. The second I finish explaining, she’s all on about if I’m okay and if I want her to come out here and if I need anything. I swear I hear her fingers on the keyboard, searching flights to Santa Fe.
Once Mom died and Aunt T became my legal guardian it was like she was making up for lost time in the parenting department. She delivered nervous lectures on birth control and teen pregnancy and underage drinking. It was like the A-to-Z of mandatory mother-daughter talks. I half expected her to start teaching me about my period and growing breasts. Never having had this kind of relationship with my mother, I wasn’t sure how to react, but I discovered I liked my aunt’s concern.
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