Laura Caldwell - The Night I got Lucky

“I don’t know. I was the last child, and I’ve always wondered if I somehow pushed you over the edge.”

“Oh, hell, Billy. No. Absolutely not. You were a wonderful, amazing little girl. You seem to be an amazing woman. It was me who was the problem. I hated myself back then. I hated myself when I left, too. In my own eyes, nothing could redeem me. I was horrible and I knew it, and I knew without a doubt that you girls were better off without me. Or at least I convinced myself that that was the case. It was only when I met Lillian about ten years ago that I stopped the booze and I stopped running through life. I was able to look at what I’d done, what I’d been like.”

“She seems nice,” I said grudgingly.

“She’s wonderful. She was my massage therapist in Los Angeles. That’s how we met.” He chuckled. “She got me to see what a jerk I was. She got me sober, which wasn’t easy. We moved out here six years ago, and opened up this store the next year…” His words died away. “I have to say this to you.” He paused and looked at me intently. “Billy, I am sorry. I’m truly sorry.”

I said nothing.

“An apology doesn’t help, does it?” he said.

“Not much.” I paused. “Maybe a little.”

I took a sip of tea, and I noticed him glancing at my hands.

“You’re married, right?” he asked.

The teacup rattled as I set it down. “I don’t know anymore.”

Somehow, someway, I ended up telling my father about Evan and that night at the party. The tale rushed from my mouth. Other than Chris, I’d told no one what I’d done, but I realized now that I needed a confessor. That such a person would be my deadbeat father was beyond bizarre and yet somehow strangely right.

He nodded while I talked, his expression one of rapt attention, but his face lacked judgment, which kept me talking.

“I can’t believe I did it,” I said, as I came to the end. “I’m so ashamed.”

“Shame and regret,” he said shaking his head a little. “They’re the most insidious of emotions. I know them all too well. And what I’ve learned is that eventually they’ll devour you if you let them.”

“I want to be devoured by them.”

“You want to be punished?”

I nodded.

“Oh, sweetheart.” His voice was filled with sadness. “Did you tell your husband?”

I nodded again.

“Well, then you’re being punished, I would guess.”

“I deserve it.”

He didn’t respond at first. Then he said, “Do you want your marriage to work?”

“Yes.” My voice cracked a little. “God, yes. He’s such a good man. And I love him. I really do.”

“You’ll have to fight for it. I wish I had.”

I met his eyes. They were brown, like mine. “Were you having an affair when you left us?”

“I was having an affair with myself. I was a selfish bastard. But I wasn’t involved with another woman until I moved to L.A.”

I took a sip of the tea that had grown cool. There seemed to be nothing else to say just then. A breeze rustled the fronds of a large plant next to the table. A few birds flew overhead, chirping.

“Do you like music?” my father asked.

“What do you mean?”

“Live music. Do you like seeing live music?”

I felt a burst of something like hope in my chest. “I do. I love it.”

He grinned. “Me, too. There’s a great acoustic guitarist playing tonight down the street. Will you stay? Maybe meet Lil and me?”

“I’d like that.”

I left Cover to Cover with a lilt in my step, glancing around the town. Brick-front clothing shops, cafés and stores pushed tight together. A few moms with kids ambled down the street. A jogger trotted by. I smiled at everyone, feeling lighter than I had before and more clear-headed, as if the skies had opened above me for the first time in months. It had been only four weeks since Blinda had given me the frog, and yet I’d been through what seemed like a few years of changes. Now, after finding my dad and hearing him say he was sorry, I felt like I’d knocked something off a large emotional checklist. And we were going out for music that night! I was seeing my father.

My delight at the situation slowed my steps. That I should be so excited about this potential relationship struck me as pathetic. After all, this was a man who had abandoned a wife and three daughters. Why was I letting him off the hook so easy?

Weighted now rather than light, I trudged back to my room at the New Sheridan Hotel. It had a large, carved Victorian bed and a red velvet Victorian-style chair. I dragged the chair to the window, bringing my cell phone with me. Outside my window, the mountains looked like hunks of gleaming gray granite with occasional outcroppings of green and a few snowcaps up high. A beautiful vista, but maybe my time in this town was over. Maybe it was time to go home.

I lifted up the phone and dialed the airlines.

I gave my reservation number and mentioned the fact that my flight to O’Hare wasn’t leaving until the next morning. “But I’d like to get a flight today,” I said.

“Okay, let’s see what we have,” the agent said. “Hmm, it doesn’t look good. You could try standby on the two flights left to Denver, but they’re already overbooked. You’re better off going tomorrow.”

I hung up the phone, wondering what to do. I stood and went to the small writing desk. In the top drawer was a book detailing activities in Telluride. I couldn’t leave until tomorrow, and I had hours before I was supposed to meet my father, something I wasn’t even sure I wanted to do now. I’d found him and I’d spoken to him. I’d gone so far as to ask him why he’d left. I’d done what I came to do. What was the point of making nice and seeing him again? He would probably never be a part of my life.

I flipped through the Telluride book some more, deciding that I would do what I often did at home when I was confused-I would find a museum.

A half hour later, I entered the Telluride Historical Society, housed in a large, red brick building with white gabled roofs. Immediately, I lost myself in the history of the place, learning it had once been a hospital and that it had been destroyed a few times before being restored. I turned to the photographs, which showed the hardworking inhabitants of what had once been a thriving mining town and, before that, a summer camp for Indians. I read about how the railroad came into town, and how the wealth of Telluride had attracted Butch Cassidy and his gang.

I stopped at the materials about Butch Cassidy, thinking that Chris should be here. He’d always been fascinated by Cassidy’s “Wild Bunch.” But more importantly, I wished he could meet my father. I had made the trip to Telluride for me, but I wished my husband was at my side.

I left the museum and walked until I found a park. Sinking onto a shady patch of grass, I dialed Chris’s work number.

His secretary answered and said he was out to lunch. My heart dipped. “Do you know when he’ll be back?”

“Mmm, not sure. Maybe…Oh there he is! One sec, Billy.” I was put on hold. It took Chris, by my watch, three minutes and five seconds to pick up the phone, and by that time I’d gone from missing him to being pissed off at him.

“Hi, Billy,” he said, his tone lifeless.

“Took you quite a while to get to the phone, hmm?”

“Yeah, I’m working here.”

“Yes, work is always important to you,” I said. We were both quiet. “But you’ve got other work to do. We both do. Our marriage is falling apart, Chris.”

There was a thud on his end. He’d pushed his office door closed. “Thanks to you,” he said.

“Excuse me?”

“Well, you’re the one who decided to mess around with Evan.”