In Between Days

by Andrew Porter

  “Let’s go,” he says. “Come on.” His eyes are suddenly wild with excitement. “She’s here.”

  “Who?”

  “The girl,” he says, smiling now. “She’s here.”

  4

  OUTSIDE THE KITCHEN WINDOW, Elson can see the first rays of dawn lightening the horizon, the sky above him overcast and dark, a few random lights going on in the neighboring houses. He is bracing himself for the long day ahead, the long day of interviews and meetings with the police, the second round of interrogations, but for now he feels strangely at peace. He is standing in the kitchen of the first and only house he’d ever bought, and he is no longer a stranger here. He is not an unwanted guest. He is here because his wife has asked him to be here and because she needs him at this moment, because she’s opened her arms to him once again, and the thought of this now, the thought of Cadence asleep in their room while he is down here in the kitchen, about to make breakfast, the thought of this is so comforting to him at this moment that he almost has to smile. Despite all of the chaos in their lives, despite all of the uncertainty surrounding his daughter’s absence, despite the profound fear that he now feels for her well-being, despite all of that, there is still a momentary glimmer of hope in the air, a possibility that they might all come out on the other side of this okay.

  He places the skillet on the stove and cracks two eggs, then pulls out a carton of orange juice from the refrigerator and begins to grind the beans for their coffee. He hasn’t made breakfast for himself or anyone else in several months. When Lorna used to stay over, they’d always go out to eat, and when he was on his own, he’d typically skip breakfast or sometimes grab a bagel with his coffee on the way to work. The ritual of breakfast, however, was something he’d reserved solely for his family, for his wife and kids, and it was a ritual, he now realized, he’d dearly missed. He could still remember, when Chloe was young, the way she’d wake up early on Sunday mornings and grab the newspaper and then begin to check off the important football games of the day, the games that might have serious playoff implications for the Oilers, back when the Oilers were still in Houston, or later, when she was in high school, the Texans. Football had always been a thing they’d shared, a father-daughter thing, a subject that Richard had little interest in. She would always sit there, reading off the latest injury reports or casting her own projections while he would stand at the stove, making them omelets or pancakes or sometimes, when Chloe begged, his famous French toast. Meanwhile, Cadence and Richard would come down a little later, usually a little groggy, and lie on the couches in the family room doing The New York Times crossword puzzle together. Later, when the kids were older, they seemed to do this less and less, but for a while there it had been a ritual of theirs, a thing that defined them as a family, and it occurs to Elson now that if they had simply kept this up, if he had maybe made it mandatory, just like their weekly meals, it might have been enough to save them.

  It is this that he’s thinking about when he hears the sound of Cadence’s minivan in the driveway and then, later, the sound of the laundry room door opening. Upstairs, Cadence is fast asleep, so he knows it must be Richard, and were he not so caught up in his own distant memories at this moment, were he not so distracted by the past, he might have reacted a little more quickly, might have run up to the bedroom and hidden from his son, but at this moment it doesn’t even occur to him that there is anything wrong about the fact he’s standing here in his own kitchen making eggs, and so when Richard walks in, looking strung out and dingy, his entire body reeking of booze, he doesn’t think twice about extending his hand to him and greeting him.

  Richard stares at him for a moment, confused, like he’s looking at an apparition, then scrunches his nose.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” he says finally, ignoring his outstretched hand.

  “I’m making us some breakfast, buddy,” Elson says. “Have a seat.”

  Richard studies his body, his pajama pants, his wrinkly T-shirt, putting it all together.

  “You slept here?”

  “I slept on the couch.”

  “But you slept here?”

  “Your mother didn’t want me driving.”

  Richard shakes his head, and he can see he doesn’t believe him.

  “What the hell?” Richard says. “What are you guys, like, together again?”

  “Richard.”

  “I can’t fucking believe this.”

  “It’s not what you’re thinking.” Elson walks over to him now and tries to touch his shoulder, but Richard jerks away. “Just sit down a second, buddy.”

  “Don’t touch me,” Richard says, and then they stand there at a stalemate, neither of them saying a word. Finally, Richard sits down at the counter. “So, what is this, like your master plan or something? To keep messing with our heads until we all go crazy? Haven’t you done enough?”

  Elson stands there, motionless, his son’s words stinging him, reminding him once again of how much the boy hates him. Ever since he first came out, ever since Elson had suggested that he see a shrink to fix his problem, the boy had never forgiven him. Even when he’d come around to it, even when he’d come to accept it, even when he’d come to even admire his son’s courage for embracing a lifestyle that surely wasn’t easy, even when he’d told him these things, the boy had never forgiven him. He’d held on to that phrase, fix your problem, and had used it against him like a tool.

  “Let me make you some breakfast,” Elson says, staring at the skillet, which is starting to fill the room with smoke, with the smell of burnt butter. “You like eggs, right?”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “You need to eat something.”

  “I’m not fucking hungry, Dad.”

  Were the circumstances different, were Richard still in high school and were he and Cadence still together, he would have never tolerated this type of thing, this type of recalcitrance, but he is not in any position to argue these days, and Richard knows this, has been using it against him now for several months.

  “Where’s Mom anyway?” Richard says finally.

  “She’s upstairs sleeping.”

  “I think we should wake her up.”

  “I don’t think that’s such a good idea.”

  “I think we need to talk about this.”

  “Richard.”

  “I think we need to have a little family sit-down. Isn’t that what you used to call it? A sit-down?”

  Elson says nothing, feeling even more powerless than he had a moment before. He walks over to the stove and turns off the heat, then puts the skillet down in the sink. Finally, returning to the island counter in the middle of the room, he sits down across from his son and tries again to extend his hand to him, to touch his shoulder, which this time Richard lets him do. “Look,” he says finally. “I think we’re all just a little confused right now, buddy. Your mother’s confused, I’m confused, and I’m sure that you’re very confused, too. And when you’re confused, you sometimes do things that you shouldn’t do. And that’s all this is. I think we’re all just scared to death right now for your sister.”

  Richard looks at him, and he can suddenly see something in his eyes softening, giving way, a sign of recognition perhaps, or maybe hesitation. He knows his son well enough to know when he’s scared.

  “What is it?” Elson asks finally.

  Richard shakes his head.

  “What is it, buddy? What’s on your mind?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Just tell me.”

  Richard turns away, then walks over to the patio doors and stares out at the pool. A moment later, Elson walks up behind him and again touches his son’s shoulder, squeezes it until he finally relaxes.

  “I think I may have screwed up, Dad,” Richard says finally, without turning around.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I think I may have really screwed up.”

  “Is this about your sister?”

  Richard turns to him
then, but doesn’t answer.

  “Well, whatever you did, buddy,” Elson says, feeling suddenly nervous, trying to choose his words carefully. “Whatever you did, I’m sure there’s a way out of it, okay. But you’re gonna have to tell me what it is.”

  Richard looks down at his hands for a moment, then looks away, and he can tell that he’s lost him.

  “Buddy?”

  “It’s nothing,” Richard says finally. “Forget it.”

  “Look, Rich—”

  “Dad, I gotta go. I got stuff to do.” And just like that, he walks out of the kitchen and up to his room, and Elson is left there alone, staring at the kitchen, the charred remains of his failed breakfast.

  At various times during their childhood he had been a strict disciplinarian, but he had never struck his children, and this was something he often took pride in. Several of his friends had admitted to him on various occasions that they had occasionally lost their cool, let a hand slip, or grabbed their child too intensely, and he could see in their pained expressions how much they now regretted it. But Elson had never done this. He had never even abused his children verbally, from what he could tell. He may have lost his cool from time to time, may have raised his voice, but he’d never put them down, never degraded them in the way that his own father had degraded him. And yet, they had still come to resent him, even despise him, in recent months, and he wasn’t entirely sure why this was. Cadence had told him that it was all in his mind, that they didn’t really despise him, that it was only a phase, a natural part of the healing process when two people broke up. But Elson had sensed it long before the divorce, had seen it in Chloe’s expressions in high school, had heard it in Richard’s voice when he first left for college. And now, when the three of them were together, when they were together without Cadence, he often felt like a prison warden holding his children against their will, making them eat dinners with him, forcing them to talk about their lives, when it was perfectly obvious to everyone that they’d rather be somewhere else.

  It is this that he’s thinking about as he cleans up the kitchen and, later, as he sits with Cadence out on the back patio by the pool, drinking coffee. It is an overcast morning, the threat of a storm coming in the late afternoon. The rhododendron bushes on the far end of the yard look sickly, and just beyond the pool he can see that all but one of the azalea bushes have died. It seems that the entire yard has gone to shit since he left, no one around to take care of it anymore, no one around to weed or fertilize or rake out the beds. He considers mentioning this to Cadence, but he can tell that she’s already somewhere else. Only moments before he had explained to her what had happened with Richard in the kitchen, what he’d told him, and he can tell she’s upset.

  “So he knows,” she says finally.

  “He knows.”

  “And you told him.”

  “I didn’t tell him. He guessed.”

  She looks at him, shakes her head. “I knew this was a mistake,” she says.

  “Cadence.”

  “Seriously, Elson. What the hell were we thinking?”

  “I don’t know that we were thinking,” he says. “Wasn’t that kind of the point?”

  She puts down her cup and looks around, and he can see that he’s losing her, that she’s not in the mood to joke around anymore.

  “Look,” he says. “It doesn’t have to be.”

  “What?”

  “It doesn’t have to be a mistake.”

  “Elson.”

  “I’m just saying.” But he knows, in a way, that she’s right. As much as he wants to believe that this is all just the start of something bigger, a new beginning for their relationship, a part of him knows that there’s too much damage still to repair. And besides, the timing couldn’t be worse. With everything that’s going on right now, with everything they’re being forced to contend with, this is the last thing that either of them should be thinking about. Still, looking at his wife now, he finds it hard to let go.

  “Do you regret it?” he asks finally.

  She looks at him. “That’s not the point.”

  “Just tell me.”

  “No,” she says softly. “I don’t regret it, but I also don’t think that this is something we should be wasting our time talking about right now.”

  “Fair enough,” he says and crosses his arms.

  She picks up her coffee then and sips it. “Did he say anything else?”

  “About?”

  “About, you know, Chloe.”

  Elson shakes his head. “No, but I think he knows something.”

  “Why?”

  “He seemed like he wanted to tell me something.”

  “About her?”

  “I don’t know. About something. Earlier. In the kitchen.”

  “Maybe we should have him talk to the detectives.”

  “You really want to put him through that?”

  Cadence pauses. “I don’t know. What other choice do we have?”

  And it is then that he hears his cell phone ringing in his pocket and pulls it out. Glancing quickly at the caller ID, he sees Lorna’s name flashing across the screen, feels a sudden rush, then quickly closes it. As he turns off the ringer, Cadence eyes him suspiciously.

  “Who was that?” she asks.

  “Nobody,” he says. “Work.”

  “They’re still bothering you?”

  “Yeah,” he says, and shrugs. “You know, loose ends and stuff.”

  She nods, but he can tell she doesn’t believe him.

  He sits there and stares out at the yard.

  When he first moved out, he’d told himself that he was catching a break, a second chance at life. He’d told himself that the woman he was leaving behind, his wife of twenty-five years, was too old, too needy, too intense, and what he needed right now was someone else, someone younger and more like him. And in his quest to find such a person, he had found Lorna, who was exactly that, the polar opposite of Cadence, but he wonders now, looking at his wife, if this is in fact what he wanted after all. Was there ever an ideal person in the end, and if so, was it possible that that person for him had been Cadence all along? She was certainly far from perfect, and they were certainly far from perfect together, but they were something after all, weren’t they? In a very fundamental way, they worked, and in another very fundamental way, he needed her, found it hard to exist without her, and he was pretty sure she felt the same.

  And yet now, thinking of the cell phone in his pocket, the message that Lorna has surely left, he feels an irrational desire to sneak off and listen to it, to find out what she wants, even as Cadence stares at him suspiciously, dubious of his intent.

  “We need to meet the detectives at three,” she says finally.

  He nods. “Okay.”

  “So if you have something to do before then—”

  “I don’t.”

  “Well, I do,” she says.

  “What?”

  “Homework.”

  He stares at her.

  “For my business class.”

  How she can do homework at a time like this is beyond him, though he senses by the way she averts her eyes that this is simply an excuse, a way to get him to leave.

  “Fair enough,” he says finally. “Mind if I stick around?”

  “I’d rather you didn’t.”

  He stares at her again, trying to meet her eyes, but she looks away. Finally he stands up. “Okay,” he says. “I’m not going to push.”

  She nods.

  “But you’re sure you meant what you said?”

  “About what?”

  “About not regretting last night.”

  She looks at him now. “I told you I didn’t.”

  “But you always have some regrets, don’t you?”

  “Well, that’s just me, Elson,” she says. “You know, that’s just my nature.”

  He looks at her now, suddenly remembering the strange scene from the night before, standing outside the bathroom door, whispering to her
through the keyhole, the pungent odor of marijuana filling up the room. When she’d finally come out, almost an hour later, he was lying in bed, reading a book, waiting for her, but she didn’t even look at him. She just asked him to turn out the light, then she slid into bed and put her arms around him very tightly and began to weep. And as he lay there, holding her, comforting her, he began to think about what a strange testament this all was to family life, to life in the modern age, that you could have a family torn apart by tragedy, you could have a son who despised you, an ex-wife who smoked marijuana in the bathroom, and a daughter who was very possibly going to jail, and yet you could still take simple pleasure in the fact that you were somehow a part of something larger and that the people around you needed you, that they depended on you, even if they didn’t know it.

  “You know, if you’d like, I could stick around and work on the garden,” he says.

  “The garden?”

  “Yeah, it’s a mess if you haven’t noticed.”

  “Elson.”

  “Okay,” he says. “I’m leaving. I was just offering. But look, sooner or later someone’s gonna have to take care of it, okay. In fact, there’s a lot of things around here, Cadence—if you haven’t noticed—there’s a lot of things around here that need some work.”

  She smiles at him then and rolls her eyes in that wry, ironic way of hers. “Yeah, Elson,” she says, sighing. “I’ve noticed.”

  5

  STANDING IN LINE at Kinko’s, Richard feels suddenly nauseous. The thought of his parents getting back together, the thought of them actually being civil to one another, the thought of that combined with everything else, with the very real possibility that he has just enabled his sister to leave the country, that she is quite possibly standing on foreign soil at this very moment, the thought of all of these things put together, it’s almost too much for his mind to process at this moment.