This Raging Light (13 page)

I run back in, deliver the guac and the check to my now semi-irritated customers, apologize to Rachel, and then start praying for everyone to eat and get out fast. I tell myself this is a nice little town, that people don't get murdered here, that Wren is safe and warm in the car, that really there's no better place for her and no one will see her anyway, certainly not kidnap and dismember her or anything. I grab the credit card from twelve, run it as fast as I can, and search the floor for Rachel so I can turn it in to her to take back to the waiting family sitting there. Their kids are falling asleep too.

Which is when I smack into Digby like he's a damn wall and almost fall down in my silly high heels.

He is turning colors looking at me.

“What are you doing here?” I say. “I thought you were out.”

“I was . . . am out. I just came by to check on you.”

“Well, you don't have to. I'm fine.”

“But it's Wren's birthday,” he says, like that should explain his presence, like it has anything at all to do with him. “I pulled up next to you in the back. The car was on. I thought you might be out there. Wren's in the car.”

“I'm aware of that,” I say as snappishly as I can manage. “I'm just finishing up. I'll be out of here in a few minutes.”

“Hey,” Shane says, eyeing Digby, “I need to get by you.”

“He's leaving,” I say.

“No I'm not.”

“Isn't your girlfriend waiting for you?” I spit. We're yelling a little bit anyway, the music is so loud.

“She went ahead to Parker's with Katrina,” he says. “Eden is outside with Wren.”

I want to cry. Eden isn't talking to me—she doesn't get to talk to Wren, either. Also, if not for all this insanity, I would be going to Parker's too. I was there last Halloween. My biggest worry back then was whether or not he was going to figure out a way to defile me in my bumblebee costume.

“Move,” Val says. She's not as diplomatic as Shane. “You two are blocking the way.” She grabs a couple of beers out of the fridge. “These are for table six, Lucille. Make sure you tell Rach. Now beat it.”

I march into the hall by the bathrooms so we can talk more privately, since it appears he's not going anywhere.

“I should have watched her for you,” Digby says when we're alone, music beating behind us instead of all over us. “And it's her birthday and everything.”

“She's not your problem.”

I didn't mean that the way it sounded. Wren is not a problem.

He pauses. “Did your mom call?”

I shake my head because I can't manage anything else.

“Write? Send a present? Anything?”

“You should go,” I say. “I want to get out of here and get Wren home.”

He's shifting around, and him there, so uncertain and vulnerable, it sends me into that trancelike state. Still, I try to hold my ground.

“Why are you here, Digby Jones?”

He gets a faraway, pained look on his face.

When he doesn't answer fast enough, I say, “I have to get back to work. I need to finish up.”

“You look beautiful,” he says. “Really.”

“Go away,” I say, but weak.

And then he's hugging me, his head leaned down into my neck. I am hugging back, and then my legs wrap around his waist like I've always wanted to, my back against the wall, and he kisses me again. So soft. So, so soft. This time it's different, not like finding out something new, but like returning to something perfect and familiar, to a home I wish I had.

“Shit,” he whispers against my lips. I couldn't have heard him, he said it so low. I felt him say it instead.

“What the fuck is this?” It's Fred, and he looks like he's ready to pull out his fake guns and go out in a blaze of glory.

Digby takes a step back. I put my feet down. I am throbbing everywhere.

“Freddie,” I say.

“We just got done seating for the night,” he says, and I can't stand the look on his face, like I disappointed him. “You're not done yet. Get back on the floor.”

“Okay,” I say.

“I've got Wren,” Digby says, and he scoots past Fred without meeting his eyes.

When I get outside twenty minutes later, Eden and Wren are playing Coca-Cola, standing next to Mom's car, slapping hands, wagging hips, smiling huge.

Coca-Cola went to town

Diet Pepsi shot him down

Dr Pepper fixed him up

Now we're drinking Seven-Up

Seven-Up got the flu

Now we're drinking Mountain Dew

Mountain Dew fell off the mountain

Now we're drinking from the fountain

Fountain broke, that's no joke

Now we're back to drinking Coke

Eden and I used to love that one. Whoever was quickest on the draw got to give the other a smack. They go for each other's foreheads now, and Eden lets Wrenny win. Takes the hit like a champ, smiling.

Eden catches me standing there, and I can't tell what she's thinking. I can usually read her so well, what with the brain sharing and all, but lately it's like she erected a Great Wall at the halfway point between us. It's funny how when you've done something wrong, or you're fighting with someone, they become scary, unfamiliar. Even though I've known Eden forever, even though she's my best friend, will always be my best friend, she is scary right now. She's scary because I'm afraid she doesn't love me anymore.

“I'm sorry,” I say to her.

Eden shrugs.

Digby leans on the car.

“Thank you,” I say to both of them. “For watching Wren. Again.” Digby isn't looking at me.

“Happy birthday, Wrenny girl,” Eden says, and gives Wren a big kiss on the cheek. “I'm going to get you next time, though.”

“You'll never win!” Wren crows.

Eden glides her hand across my shoulder, then gets in the truck. “Come on, Dig, you don't want to leave Elaine over there too long. She'll have kittens.” It seems like she said that to hurt me.

“Okay,” he says. “Happy birthday, Wren. I'm sorry we didn't get to hang out today. I'll take you trick-or-treating next year. I promise.”

“Really? Cool! I'll be eleven, you know,” she says, and clambers back into the car.

He lingers.

“Why are you doing that?” I say. “Letting her make plans with you like that. You're going to make her hope.”

“I didn't mean to. I will take her next year.”

“Really? Coming back from college to take your sister's friend's sister to get candy?”

His face goes slack.

“Dammit,” he says.

“She doesn't need to lose anyone else, get it?”

“Yeah, I get it,” he says. “I'm a blockhead.”

“Yeah, you are.” A lying blockhead.

I think he's going to slink away, that I made him feel that bad, but instead he comes closer and drapes his arms around me. I shiver everywhere, so caught between the wanting and the hurting that I don't think I'll ever get away. I hold on tight, tight, only vaguely thinking that people might be witnessing us doing strange things, that anyone could be driving by and see us.

“Stay warm tonight,” he says. “There's supposed to be an ice storm coming.”

“Yeah, okay,” I say. “I'll do my best.”

When he climbs into the Beast, Eden watches me through the window as they drive away. She watches me hard.

I'm almost all the way home, Wren singing, wide-awake again after seeing Digby and Eden. My phone starts humming on my lap. I completely forgot to take off my apron. My heart totally vomits out of my face. I pull over and yank the phone out from under a bunch of straws and napkins. I don't recognize the number.

“Mom?” I say as I answer. Wren shoots up straight and silent. I wouldn't be mad at Mom. I only know it now. I want it to be her so, so much. There's a pause, a shaky voice on the other end. My insides drip away.

“Oh,” I say. “Hi, Daddy.” His scratchy voice rumbles at me.

“Your mama's so fat,” Wren sing-songs from the back.

I go to the halfway house the next day,
even though the ice storm Digby talked about came and coated everything in premature winter, like translucent blown glass. The big trucks salted, and the roads aren't bad. The sun has come out a little, and it is melting everything away.

It doesn't smell so different from the elementary school when I walk through the doors that say
COLUMBINE HOUSE
, minus the apple juice and plus the off-center. If I designed a place like this, there would be little fountains, soft plushy couches, deep colors, not cheesy paintings on the walls. There would be things to fall into, against, to lean on.

Dad's been living here, in this house. While I do battle out there, he's getting up and brushing his teeth and talking to people, probably going to group therapy, lamenting how we ruined his life. What's it like to have everything stripped away like this, to just be a guy with a room, a bed, a roommate? Maybe it's a relief not to have to think all the time, to go sit in circles and talk about things or to listen to other people talk about their problems. I would take lots of naps. I would read all those books Eden always talks about. But what does he do? Maybe he's getting religion or something.

There are so many things I haven't wondered about until now. I've been too busy worrying about Mom, Wren, Eden, Digby. And here, this whole time, Dad's been forty-five minutes away. I never once thought of running to him. I wouldn't have known where to go, and anyway, after the last time I saw him it didn't seem like there was much to run to.

“What's your name, hon?” The house manager's Philly accent is thick, and her coarse fingers tug at my pinky. I wonder if she's been talking to me for long.

“Lucille,” I say. “Lucille Bennett.” I observe her very large, flower-laden bosom. How did she get to be in charge of this place? Flowers on her dress, flower ring, matching flower necklace, fake flower in her hair. Seriously. Five more minutes looking at that and
I
will be insane. “I'm here to see my dad,” I say.

“Get out,” she says. “You're Tony Bennett's kid?” She appears friendly, but she looks precisely like a tropical version of the witch I had nightmares about when I was little, and now she lets out a cackle to match. For the fortieth time since I drove up, my conscience is eased about leaving Wrenny with Shane.

I nod.

“Well, I'll be damned,” she says.

“Yeah,” I say.

“Tony Bennett,” she chuckles. “And he sings and everything.”

“Hell of a coincidence, isn't it?” I say, and however it comes out makes her reach for the phone.

“Does your dad know you're coming? He didn't mention it to me.”

“Yeah.” I am empty space. “Well, I mean I told him I would try. He told me these were visiting hours.” What if he doesn't want to see me today? What if he was just in some kind of mood when he called? I have not thought this through.

“Okay,” she says. “Give me a minute. I'll get Carlos for you. He's my right-hand man. He'll take you to one of our meeting rooms.” I must look alarmed, because she follows with “You'll be okay. Everybody loves your dad. Good guy. You're lucky.”

“I am,” I say. It feels like a question.

The floor is beige, with chairs to match. It's like they know there's no hope here and they've decorated for the occasion.

Every step I take, I get a little more emptied out until I am filled up with nothing, a head made up of ten thousand balloons. I can't feel my heart or my stomach or my lips. This is what surreal feels like. The guy who takes me back has a swagger to him, and even though the people who pass us titter and comment as I walk by, they don't get too loud. I think this guy is the reason.

“. . . Carlos,” he finishes. “If you need anything, you just call my name. That's what they keep me around for. It'll be all right, though. Your pops is cool.”

The room is the size of a broom closet. Same sickly colors and uncomfortable chairs. I size up the room, then pick a chair so my back is to the door. Dad never sits with his back to a door, especially here I bet. I want to push off looking him in the face for as long as possible.

He wasn't ever a regular dad, you know. He wore leather jackets. He loved bands like Fishbone and Bad Brains, and when pop music came on the radio he acted like someone was personally trying to mess up his day. He drank beer on the porch while everyone else drank wine. He swore. A lot. The door clicks behind me. I don't move at all.

My father sits down across from me, and the first thing I think is how good-looking he is. I forgot his big brown eyes, his hollowed-out cheeks, how massive he is, his shoulders. How much like Wrenny. How little like me. He looks kind of old, though. There's gray in his beard scraggle. That's new.

“Hey, Tigerlily.” He's the only person who's ever called me that. Because I'm part animal, part flower, he says. He lays one hand over the other, then taps out a little beat on the table.

I'm not scared of him like I thought I might be.

“Hey.”

Eternity lives in pauses.

“So,” he says, leaning forward finally, “how are you girls? How's your mom?”

“You haven't talked to her?”

“No.” He leans back again, knees spread out wide, eating the space around him. He obviously doesn't know anything. “I haven't,” he says. “I've been trying, but her phone says the mailbox is full.”

“She tried. Before. A lot.”

“I called,” he says.

“You told them not to tell us where you were.”

“I needed some space.”

He
tip tap taps
on the desk again, and it's like
BING BONG BONG
inside my head. Everything is a million times a million in here. Magnified.