The Last Days of California: A Novel by Mary Miller Page A

morgue for three days. Elise walked over to the car. My father repeated that he didn’t have much money and then asked how much he needed and the man went over the mileage there and back and said he guessed about eighty dollars. When my father hesitated, the man told him he had a check for that exact amount but didn’t have time to cash it. He promised to take our address and pay us back, swore he’d have the money by Monday and could put it in the mail.
    We left our father with the man, who wasn’t poorly dressed or dirty. He was just a regular man, a little overweight, in worn but clean clothes. I wouldn’t have given him anything, but he wasn’t looking at me like that, with those eyes full of need and an answer for everything.
    My mother and I got in the car. She played with the radio while Elise and I watched.
    “I can’t believe he’s giving him money,” Elise said.
    “It’s okay,” our mother said.
    “But we don’t have any money.”
    “We have money.”
    “We know he lost his job.”
    “It’s not your business what your father does,” our mother said. “He wouldn’t give it if we didn’t have it to give.”
    “Is that true? He lost his job?” I asked, stirring my Frosty, which tasted better when it was half-melted, like a cold delicious soup.
    “And now he’s giving him some more!” Elise said. “Oh my God. Anybody could tell that was a story—he’s been rehearsing it all day.” My mother turned the air conditioner up and adjusted all the vents so they pointed at her. “If he gives that man our address, he’s a bigger idiot than I thought.”
    Our father got back in the car, wiping his face with a handkerchief.
    “How much did you give him?” Elise asked.
    There was a long pause before he said, “Eighty dollars,” like he couldn’t believe it himself.
    “Eighty dollars!” Elise said.
    “He needed it more than we do.”
    “Did you even give him a tract?” I asked.
    “He was in a bad fix,” he said.
    My father knew he’d been taken but stuck with his story—that he believed the man—the man wasn’t on drugs or alcohol, and was clearly in a bad fix. It made me a little sick to think about his wallet minus eighty dollars. I imagined the man at the liquor store, buying steaks for a cookout. How he’d tell the story of the sucker who gave him eighty bucks and laugh.
    “Did you give him our address?” I asked.
    “It’s bad practice to lend money, it creates resentment. Money should be given with no expectation of repayment,” he said, trying to turn it into a teaching moment.
    “I’m going to be sick,” Elise said. “Pull over.”
    Our father pulled onto the big shoulder, cutting off a truck in the right-hand lane. The person in the truck laid on the horn; he honked so long we could hear it fade out. Elise toppled out of the car making retching sounds, but there was only a string of spit.
    After several more hours—during which time the radio was silent and everyone slept or pretended to sleep—our father pulled off at an exit. I hadn’t seen a sign advertising gas and he was taking his chances. He’d waited nearly too long. The car told him exactly how many miles it had to go until it was empty and we were down to eight, which was the lowest he’d gotten while traveling, though not in Montgomery. In Montgomery, he’d made it to two.
    “You ran out of gas once,” our mother said.
    Elise and I didn’t remember him running out of gas, but he didn’t deny it. And then we were at seven miles and the car dinged again— ding, ding, ding! Elise raised her eyebrows at me and elbowed me for good measure.
    At the top of the hill, we looked left and right and saw no sign of a gas station, no sign of anything in either direction.
    “What do you think?” he asked. “Left or right?”
    “Why didn’t we get gas when we stopped for lunch?” my mother asked.
    “That question isn’t relevant or helpful, Barbara,” he said. He never called her Barbara. It was funny