.â
âI donât want you going.â Heâll never budge.
â. . . Itâs my life, my time to do such things.â
He stares at his daughter, at the band of freckles crossing her forehead, the clarity of her eyes, the strong jaw, the length of her fingers, and realizes heâs memorizing her.
⢠⢠â¢
In the silence of her room the computer stands as a gateway to the rest of his life. Her messages were coming two a day, one every two days, once a three-day interval, but itâs been six days. Jesus, God, Crap! Howâs he supposed to survive that? Rereading previous e-mails, which he never deletes, the information is lodged in his brain. She arrived; sheâs fine; itâs too hot. She needs another couple of pairs of shorts; donât send them, no real address. Sheâs bunking in a camp-like situation, electricity on and off. The beauty can feel like an insult: clay-colored dunes, sky so blue it hurts her eyes, stars so bright they light up the night. The misery, the poverty . . . the kids are killing her; hopeless, depressed by age eight. Her last e-mail bragged she could say words in Arabic, some in Hebrew. Tan, Dad, she wrote, Iâm so tan, itâs amazing.
He picks up the bottle, takes a long swig of bourbon. Itâll be a month tomorrow. Two more to go. Heâs crashing in Gloryâs bed now. Without the sleep pills, dreams and crawly, creepy stuff wake him every hour or two. Even now his feet feel itchy. He peels off his socks and checks for fungus. Clean.
Then he remembers . . . begins rummaging through the desk drawer, slides a piece of paper out from under others; three names: Josh Towns, Emanuel Walker, Robert Messenger. He takes another long drink from the diminishing contents, finds himself on the faded couch in the living room punching in the first number. It rings until voicemail picks up. He leaves a message. He dials Walkerâs number.
âHi.â Sounds like a child.
âIs your Mom or Dad there?â
âWho should I say is calling?â Her little voice is prissy.
Who indeed? âA friend of . . .â âand here he takes a chanceâ âyour brotherâs.â
âI donât have a brother.â
âYour fatherâs Emanuel Walker?â The decibels rise.
âI canât say.â
âLet me talk to your mom, now, please.â Jesus! Damn, the bourbonâs still in Gloryâs room.
âHello.â Itâs a voice so dull he wants to hang up.
He introduces himself. â. . . and I havenât had an e-mail in nearly a week, so I wondered . . .â
âMy husband and I . . . weâre not communicating much. If I hear anything . . . leave me your number.â
He does, but sheâll never call.
Staring at the third name, he decides he needs hope; heâll try it tomorrow.
⢠⢠â¢
Two groups of noisy young people take over several diner booths. Itâs the middle of the night and theyâre ready to eat everything including the inventory. He works the orders nonstop. A few strays come in as well, probably because thereâs nowhere else to go. The kitchen is steamy; heâs sweating. He stares at a chit but the letters scramble, so he blinks a few times, tries again, but the words still blur. He cups some cold water in his hands and splashes his face, tamps it dry with a paper towel and tries deciphering it again. Better. Except thereâs a pull in his stomach even though he visited the bathroom minutes ago. âAva,â he stage-whispers over the divider.
She turns her perfectly shaped head to look at him and hurries into the kitchen.
âHave to go home . . . need to check the machine . . . Iâve been away for hours . . . havenât had an e-mail in days . . .â his voice trails off.
âThat doesnât mean a thing, Nick. Itâs not New York. It canât be easy to find a computer.â
âAll the orders