might get embarrassed. I’ll just wait. I look atmy clock: 1:30. Who would be calling now? Whoever it is, they don’t know my father. Or maybe this is an emergency. It’s funny, the first thing I think is, Oh, that would be interesting, an emergency, I wonder what it is. And then I get ashamed of myself. And then I think, Diane.
I come out into the hall. “Dad?”
He doesn’t move.
“Dad?”
He turns around, holds up a finger. “Get me my robe,” he says quietly, still listening.
I get his robe off the end of his bed, bring it to him. After he puts it on, I go to sit on the floor in front of him to see if I can tell what’s going on. “Are you talking to Diane?” I say.
He puts his hand over the mouthpiece. “Katie, just wait. No. It’s Dickie.” Then, into the phone, “Well, I’ll be there. I’ll leave in just a little while.”
Some quiet, his face working on something.
“No, I think I should. I’ll be there as soon as I can. I’ll call you from the road for directions when I get closer.”
He hangs up, sighs, looks at me. “She lost the baby.”
Oh, this soft punch, right to the center. I miss that baby I never met, and I feel so sorry for Diane. She must be lying pale on the pillow, empty and still.
“Is she okay?”
“Well, she’s in some goddamn Mexican hospital.”
I think of a Mexican nurse, straightening with the insult. He doesn’t know about Mexican hospitals. “Are they bad?”
“They’re not here,” he scoffs.
“But are they bad?”
“Katie, listen to me now. I’m going to get her, and bring her home. And I’m going to call Ginger right now to come and stay with you. All right?”
I nod. It’s too late. Ginger’s asleep. The buses don’t run now. But he is on the phone, dialing her number.
“Go to your room,” he says.
Now, why?
But I go.
I get under my covers, think, how did that baby look? Why did it leave? I wonder if Diane’s stomach hurts, if she is crying. I would guess not. I would guess she is staring straight ahead. Dickie will come in and say, “Your father’s coming to take you home.” She will say, “The hell he is.” I could save my father a trip. I know she will never come back with him. Whatever pain she has about this baby she will just add to my father’s pile. It’s how the two of them are together, and I for one have given up hoping it will ever change.
My door opens, and my father says, “I’ve got to go pick Ginger up. I’ll be back.”
“Can I come?”
“No. Go to sleep.”
“I can’t sleep now!”
He stands there for a moment, the light from the hall outlining him like he is an alien. Then, “Fine,” he says. “Put on your coat. I want to get moving.”
Well, so do I. That’s why I asked to come.
Ginger lives in a little house on a narrow street. It’s a white house with window boxes, empty now, but waiting. There is a small porch in front with a wicker rocker on it, a mailbox hanging a little crooked at the side of her door. A deep yellow light is on to say welcome.
We pull up to the curb, and a dog starts barking. I didn’t know Ginger had a dog. He’s a big one, too; I see his head at the window.
We get out of the car and ring the doorbell and now the dog really goes berserk, barking hoarsely and hurling himself at the door like he thinks he’s the star of a cop show.
“Bones!” Ginger yells. “Stop that!”
Bones! Well, now that is one dog’s name I have never heard before.
She opens the door, yanks at Bones’s collar. “Come on in,” she says. “I’ll be ready in a minute. Don’t worry about him—he’s all talk.”
The dog is a skinny one, who looks like he has a lot of Great Dane in him. I see where he got his name. His ribs look like he is wearing them as a vest.
“I just got him a couple of weeks ago,” Ginger says. “Poor thing, you should have seen him.”
I don’t want to hurt her feelings, but he is nothing to write home about now.
“I’ll get his leash,” she
I come out into the hall. “Dad?”
He doesn’t move.
“Dad?”
He turns around, holds up a finger. “Get me my robe,” he says quietly, still listening.
I get his robe off the end of his bed, bring it to him. After he puts it on, I go to sit on the floor in front of him to see if I can tell what’s going on. “Are you talking to Diane?” I say.
He puts his hand over the mouthpiece. “Katie, just wait. No. It’s Dickie.” Then, into the phone, “Well, I’ll be there. I’ll leave in just a little while.”
Some quiet, his face working on something.
“No, I think I should. I’ll be there as soon as I can. I’ll call you from the road for directions when I get closer.”
He hangs up, sighs, looks at me. “She lost the baby.”
Oh, this soft punch, right to the center. I miss that baby I never met, and I feel so sorry for Diane. She must be lying pale on the pillow, empty and still.
“Is she okay?”
“Well, she’s in some goddamn Mexican hospital.”
I think of a Mexican nurse, straightening with the insult. He doesn’t know about Mexican hospitals. “Are they bad?”
“They’re not here,” he scoffs.
“But are they bad?”
“Katie, listen to me now. I’m going to get her, and bring her home. And I’m going to call Ginger right now to come and stay with you. All right?”
I nod. It’s too late. Ginger’s asleep. The buses don’t run now. But he is on the phone, dialing her number.
“Go to your room,” he says.
Now, why?
But I go.
I get under my covers, think, how did that baby look? Why did it leave? I wonder if Diane’s stomach hurts, if she is crying. I would guess not. I would guess she is staring straight ahead. Dickie will come in and say, “Your father’s coming to take you home.” She will say, “The hell he is.” I could save my father a trip. I know she will never come back with him. Whatever pain she has about this baby she will just add to my father’s pile. It’s how the two of them are together, and I for one have given up hoping it will ever change.
My door opens, and my father says, “I’ve got to go pick Ginger up. I’ll be back.”
“Can I come?”
“No. Go to sleep.”
“I can’t sleep now!”
He stands there for a moment, the light from the hall outlining him like he is an alien. Then, “Fine,” he says. “Put on your coat. I want to get moving.”
Well, so do I. That’s why I asked to come.
Ginger lives in a little house on a narrow street. It’s a white house with window boxes, empty now, but waiting. There is a small porch in front with a wicker rocker on it, a mailbox hanging a little crooked at the side of her door. A deep yellow light is on to say welcome.
We pull up to the curb, and a dog starts barking. I didn’t know Ginger had a dog. He’s a big one, too; I see his head at the window.
We get out of the car and ring the doorbell and now the dog really goes berserk, barking hoarsely and hurling himself at the door like he thinks he’s the star of a cop show.
“Bones!” Ginger yells. “Stop that!”
Bones! Well, now that is one dog’s name I have never heard before.
She opens the door, yanks at Bones’s collar. “Come on in,” she says. “I’ll be ready in a minute. Don’t worry about him—he’s all talk.”
The dog is a skinny one, who looks like he has a lot of Great Dane in him. I see where he got his name. His ribs look like he is wearing them as a vest.
“I just got him a couple of weeks ago,” Ginger says. “Poor thing, you should have seen him.”
I don’t want to hurt her feelings, but he is nothing to write home about now.
“I’ll get his leash,” she
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