share of a good time. Caution is
creeping in, not bloody-knife caution, but the guardians of disappointment. The
excitement of not knowing has been so fulfilling that the knowing can't possibly
compare.
Trina isn't at Carerra's yet, no Thunderbird at
the curb. Jack the dog rises from his tired haunches and greets me with a nose
to my palm as I go in.
87
I do a double take when I see Trina already at
her booth. "Where's your ... Oh, shit," I say.
"I don't want to hear a word. Not one word,"
Trina says. "It's gone," I say.
"Good riddance," Trina says. But something's
wrong with her face. Her cheeks seem bigger and her eyes smaller, and then I
realize her face is puffy from crying.
I get this hollow-horrible feeling, that cavern
of loss. Along with it comes an awareness--the kind that comes when you realize
a situation is a few layers deeper than what it seemed. Getting rid of the
Thunderbird is not a way to exorcise Roger. Trina needs the money. Suddenly that fact is a secret we're all keeping--Trina from us, us from Trina.
I don't know what to do. "Pie," I say. I put my stuff down quick, put on my
apron and wash my hands, and understand why people feed grief with macaroni
casseroles.
Joe ambles, shakes his head sadly, and then
Nick, too.
"Who bought it?" Nick says. "Tell me it at
least went to a good home."
"Tell us you got a fair price," Joe says. He
lifts himself up onto the counter stool, opens a menu and peruses, as if it's
the first time he's seen it.
"My cousin," Trina says. "He's always ..." She
clears her throat, straightens the wobble in her voice. "Admired it."
The kitchen door swings open. Jane's got a new
haircut, and it's short and swoopy-banged, youthful around her strong face.
"Come on, people, it's a car." Her voice has the buoyancy of the
well-intentioned lie. "Indigo! God. The envelope! Let me go get it."
She bustles to the back and Funny Coyote comes
in, her backpack over one shoulder, and so does the same couple with the toddler
from the weekend before. Just my luck, they liked the
88
place. I fetch the high chair and the menus and
then Jane is back. "Cute new hair," I say.
She combs the ends with her fingers, the ones
that are not holding the large yellow envelope. "You think?"
"Absolutely," I say.
She hands the envelope to me. "Well? Here it
is. Do you think he'll be in today?"
"I don't know," I say. But I do know. Because
as I hold that envelope and see my name on it, written in the lovely, polite
loops of the Vespa guy's handwriting in black ink pen, I understand it holds
something decisive.
"What are you waiting for?" Nick Harrison
says.
I turn the envelope over, run my finger against
the licked-down edge. And then: "No," I say. I don't want to open it like this,
as if its contents are a party trick for the amusement of all involved. It's my
name that's there, it's to me, and it's between me and Vespa guy. I feel like
this requires special surroundings, the right time. Me alone, sitting at the
edge of my bed, unhurried.
"You've got to be kidding me," Funny Coyote
says. "You're not gonna open it? Somebody hand me a knife."
Trina hands Funny her butter knife over the
back of the booth, and Funny brandishes it menacingly for a moment before
setting it down on her napkin. I'm saved, though, because the people with the
toddler catch my attention and ask for a banana for Junior, To help keep him
busy, because Junior is scootching and squirreling way down in the high
chair seat, so that his chin is nearly on the tray and his body is dangling
beneath.
I fetch the banana and Junior is righted again
with screaming protests and then a couple comes in and sits at Leroy's table,
which is going to piss him off. Leroy comes in and glares at the
89
couple who will eye him nervously through the
rest of their meal, though Leroy joins Joe at the counter and does something he
never does: orders Joe's same full breakfast. Bill, the creep that works at
creeping in, not bloody-knife caution, but the guardians of disappointment. The
excitement of not knowing has been so fulfilling that the knowing can't possibly
compare.
Trina isn't at Carerra's yet, no Thunderbird at
the curb. Jack the dog rises from his tired haunches and greets me with a nose
to my palm as I go in.
87
I do a double take when I see Trina already at
her booth. "Where's your ... Oh, shit," I say.
"I don't want to hear a word. Not one word,"
Trina says. "It's gone," I say.
"Good riddance," Trina says. But something's
wrong with her face. Her cheeks seem bigger and her eyes smaller, and then I
realize her face is puffy from crying.
I get this hollow-horrible feeling, that cavern
of loss. Along with it comes an awareness--the kind that comes when you realize
a situation is a few layers deeper than what it seemed. Getting rid of the
Thunderbird is not a way to exorcise Roger. Trina needs the money. Suddenly that fact is a secret we're all keeping--Trina from us, us from Trina.
I don't know what to do. "Pie," I say. I put my stuff down quick, put on my
apron and wash my hands, and understand why people feed grief with macaroni
casseroles.
Joe ambles, shakes his head sadly, and then
Nick, too.
"Who bought it?" Nick says. "Tell me it at
least went to a good home."
"Tell us you got a fair price," Joe says. He
lifts himself up onto the counter stool, opens a menu and peruses, as if it's
the first time he's seen it.
"My cousin," Trina says. "He's always ..." She
clears her throat, straightens the wobble in her voice. "Admired it."
The kitchen door swings open. Jane's got a new
haircut, and it's short and swoopy-banged, youthful around her strong face.
"Come on, people, it's a car." Her voice has the buoyancy of the
well-intentioned lie. "Indigo! God. The envelope! Let me go get it."
She bustles to the back and Funny Coyote comes
in, her backpack over one shoulder, and so does the same couple with the toddler
from the weekend before. Just my luck, they liked the
88
place. I fetch the high chair and the menus and
then Jane is back. "Cute new hair," I say.
She combs the ends with her fingers, the ones
that are not holding the large yellow envelope. "You think?"
"Absolutely," I say.
She hands the envelope to me. "Well? Here it
is. Do you think he'll be in today?"
"I don't know," I say. But I do know. Because
as I hold that envelope and see my name on it, written in the lovely, polite
loops of the Vespa guy's handwriting in black ink pen, I understand it holds
something decisive.
"What are you waiting for?" Nick Harrison
says.
I turn the envelope over, run my finger against
the licked-down edge. And then: "No," I say. I don't want to open it like this,
as if its contents are a party trick for the amusement of all involved. It's my
name that's there, it's to me, and it's between me and Vespa guy. I feel like
this requires special surroundings, the right time. Me alone, sitting at the
edge of my bed, unhurried.
"You've got to be kidding me," Funny Coyote
says. "You're not gonna open it? Somebody hand me a knife."
Trina hands Funny her butter knife over the
back of the booth, and Funny brandishes it menacingly for a moment before
setting it down on her napkin. I'm saved, though, because the people with the
toddler catch my attention and ask for a banana for Junior, To help keep him
busy, because Junior is scootching and squirreling way down in the high
chair seat, so that his chin is nearly on the tray and his body is dangling
beneath.
I fetch the banana and Junior is righted again
with screaming protests and then a couple comes in and sits at Leroy's table,
which is going to piss him off. Leroy comes in and glares at the
89
couple who will eye him nervously through the
rest of their meal, though Leroy joins Joe at the counter and does something he
never does: orders Joe's same full breakfast. Bill, the creep that works at
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