T. Boyle - T.C. Boyle Stories II - Volume II

—

Angelle remembered waiting for him longer than usual that day. He’d been late before — he was almost always late, because of work, because he had such a hectic schedule — but this time she’d already got through half her homework, the blue backpack canted away from her and her notebook spread open across her knees as she sat at the curb, and still he wasn’t there. The sun had sunk into the trees across the street and she felt a chill where she’d sweated through her shorts and T-shirt at soccer. Lisette’s team had finished before hers and for a while her sister had sat beside her, drawing big x ’s and o ’s in two different colors on a sheet of loose-leaf paper, but she’d got bored and run off to play on the swings with two other kids whose parents were late.

Every few minutes a car would round the turn at the top of the street, and her eyes would jump to it, but it wasn’t theirs. She watched a black SUV pull up in front of the school and saw Dani Mead and Sarah Schuster burst through the doors, laughing, their backpacks riding up off their shoulders and their hair swaying back and forth as they slid into the cavernous back seat and the door slammed shut. The car’s brake lights flashed and then it rolled slowly out of the parking lot and into the street, and she watched it till it disappeared round the corner. He was always working, she knew that, trying to dig himself out from under all the work he had piled up — that was his phrase, dig himself out, and she pictured him in his office surrounded by towering stacks of papers, papers like the Leaning Tower of Pisa, and a shovel in his hands as if he were one of those men in the orange jackets bent over a hole in the road — but still, she felt impatient. Felt cold. Hungry. And where was he?

Finally, after the last two kids had been picked up by their mothers and the sun reduced to a streak that ran across the tile roof of the school and up into the crowns of the palms behind it, after Lisette had come back to sit on the curb and whine and pout and complain like the baby she was ( He’s just drunk, I bet that’s it, just drunk like Mom said ) and she had to tell her she didn’t know what she was talking about, there he was. Lisette saw the car first. It appeared at the top of the street like a mirage, coming so slowly round the turn it might have been rolling under its own power, with nobody in it, and Angelle remembered what her father had told her about always setting the handbrake, always, no matter what. She hadn’t really wanted a lesson — she’d have to be sixteen for that — but they were up in the mountains, at the summer cabin, just after her mother had left for France, and there was nobody around. “You’re a big girl,” he’d told her, and she was, tall for her age — people always mistook her for an eighth grader or even a freshman. “Go ahead, it’s easy,” he told her. “Like bumper cars. Only you don’t bump anything.” And she’d laughed and he laughed and she got behind the wheel with him guiding her and her heart was pounding till she thought she was going to lift right out of the seat. Everything looked different through the windshield, yellow spots and dirt, the world wrapped in a bubble. The sun was in her eyes. The road was a black river, oozing through the dried-out weeds, the trees looming and receding as if a wave had passed through them. And the car crept down the road the way it was creeping now. Too slow. Much too slow.

When her father pulled up to the curb, she saw right away that something was wrong. He was smiling at them, or trying to smile, but his face was too heavy, his face weighed a thousand tons, carved of rock like the faces of the presidents on Mount Rushmore, and it distorted the smile till it was more like a grimace. A flare of anger rose in her — Lisette was right — and then it died away and she was scared. Just scared.

“Sorry,” he murmured, “sorry I’m late, I—” and he didn’t finish the thought or excuse or whatever it was because he was pushing open the door now, the driver’s door, and pulling himself out onto the pavement. He took a minute to remove his sunglasses and polish them on the tail of his shirt before leaning heavily against the side of the car. He gave her a weak smile — half a smile, not even half — and carefully fitted them back over his ears, though it was too dark for sunglasses, anybody could see that. Plus, these were his old sunglasses — two shining blue disks in wire frames that made his eyes disappear — which meant that he must have lost his good ones, the ones that had cost him two hundred and fifty dollars on sale at the Sunglass Hut. “Listen,” he said, as Lisette pulled open the rear door and flung her backpack across the seat, “I just — I forgot the time, is all. I’m sorry. I am. I really am.”

She gave him a look that was meant to burn into him, to make him feel what she was feeling, but she couldn’t tell if he was looking at her or not. “We’ve been sitting here since four,” she said, and she heard the hurt and accusation in her own voice. She pulled open the other door, the one right beside him, because she was going to sit in back as a demonstration of her disapproval — they’d both sit in back, she and Lisette, and nobody up front — when he stopped her with a gesture, reaching out suddenly to brush the hair away from her face.

“You’ve got to help me out here,” he said, and a pleading tone had come into his voice. “Because”—the words were stalling, congealing, sticking in his throat—“because, hey, why lie, huh? I wouldn’t lie to you.”

The sun faded. A car went up the street. There was a boy on a bicycle, a boy she knew, and he gave her a look as he cruised past, the wheels a blur.

“I was, I had lunch with Marcy, because, well, you know how hard I’ve been — and I just needed to kick back, you know? Everybody does. It’s no sin.” A pause, his hand going to his pocket and then back to her hair again. “And we had some wine. Some wine with lunch.” He gazed off down the street then, as if he were looking for the tapering long-necked green bottles the wine had come in, as if he were going to produce them for evidence.

She just stood there staring at him, her jaw set, but she let his hand fall to her shoulder and give her a squeeze, the sort of squeeze he gave her when he was proud of her, when she got an A on a test or cleaned up the dishes all by herself without anybody asking.

“I know this is terrible,” he was saying, “I mean I hate to do this, I hate to… but Angelle, I’m asking you just this once, because the thing is?”—and here he tugged down the little blue discs so that she could see the dull sheen of his eyes focused on her—“I don’t think I can drive.”

—

When the valet brought the car round, the strangest thing happened, a little lapse, and it was because he wasn’t paying attention. He was distracted by Marcy in her low-slung Miata with the top down, the redness of it, a sleek thing, pin your ears back and fly, Marcy wheeling out of the lot with a wave and two fingers kissed to her lips, her hair lifting on the breeze. And there was the attendant, another college kid, shorter and darker than the one upstairs frowning over the tip but with the same haircut, as if they’d both been to the same barber or stylist or whatever, and the attendant had said something to him— Your car, sir; here’s your car, sir —and the strange thing was that for a second there he didn’t recognize it. Thought the kid was trying to put something over on him. Was this his car? Was this the sort of thing he’d own? This mud-splattered charcoal-gray SUV with the seriously depleted tires? And that dent in the front fender, the knee-high scrape that ran the length of the body as if some metallic claw had caught hold of it? Was this some kind of trick?