Richard Lange - Dead Boys - Stories

“Watering the flowers,” Tracy replies.

WE PLAY UNO and Candyland with the girls, and then it’s bedtime. Sundays are their father’s, and he’s picking them up early in the morning. Liz manages to get them upstairs without too much whining on the promise of a story. Tracy gathers the toys scattered about and tosses them into a wooden chest in the corner of the room while I go to the refrigerator for another beer.

“They love their Auntie Liz,” Tracy says.

I hope she means that in a nice way. I think she does.

There’s a knock at the door. Tracy looks worried, so I stand behind her as she answers. The police officer on the porch gives us an official smile.

“Mr. and Mrs. Milano?”

“Ms. Milano. He’s my brother.”

The cop scribbles on his clipboard. “Okay, well, we’re out warning residents that they may be asked to evacuate if this fire swings around,” he says.

“Oh God,” Tracy sighs.

“Right now things are looking good, but you should be prepared just in case.”

“God fucking dammit.”

When the cop leaves, Tracy turns on the TV, but there are no special reports or live coverage. Liz comes downstairs, and I fill her in. She asks Tracy what she wants to pack, and Tracy says, “Nothing. None of it means anything to me.” It’s embarrassing to hear her talk like that. Liz treats the comment as a joke, though, and soon the two of them are placing photo albums in a plastic trash bag.

I decide to venture toward the fire line to see if I can get more information. Liz insists on coming along. We drive down out of the condos to pick up a frontage road paralleling the freeway. There’s an orange glow on the horizon, and we make for that. A new squeak in the car gets on my nerves. I feel around the dash, desperate to locate it, and things get a little out of control. I almost hit a guardrail because I’m not watching where I’m going.

“Dammit, Jack, pay attention,” Liz snaps. “Are you drunk?”

The road we’re on descends into a dark, narrow canyon dotted with houses, the lights of which wink frantic messages through the trees. We hit bottom, then climb up the other side. As we crest the hill, the source of the glow is revealed to be a monstrous driving range lit by mercury vapor lamps. The golfers lined up at the tees swing mechanically. There is ash falling here, too, and the stink of smoke, but nobody’s worried.

We pull over at a spot above the range and get out of the car to watch. It feels like something teenagers might do. Balls soar through the air and bounce in the dead grass. Liz drapes my arm across her shoulders. She really is great with those kids.

“Are you sure you don’t want a baby?” I ask.

I watch her face. Nothing is going to get past me. When she wants to be blank, though, she’s so blank. “I’ve got you,” she says.

“No, really.”

“Let’s keep it simple. That’s what I like about us.”

We made a decision a few years ago. Her childhood wasn’t the greatest either. A gust of wind rattles the leaves of the eucalyptus trees behind us, and the shadows of the branches look like people fighting in the street. When I close my eyes for a second, my blood does something scary on its way through my heart.

TOMMY BORCHARDT HANGED himself in his garage after they gave half his accounts to a new hire. No note, no nothing. Three kids. That’s what I wake up thinking about after tossing and turning all night, waiting for another knock at the door.

We’re in the girls’ room, in their little beds. They’re sleeping with Tracy. On a shelf near the ceiling, beyond the kids’ reach, sits a collection of porcelain dolls. The sun shining through the window lights up their eyes and peeks up their frilly dresses. Their hair looks so real, I finally have to stand and touch it. Liz coughs and rolls over. Her clothes are folded neatly on the floor. She was in a rock band in high school. I wish I could have seen that.

Downstairs, I find some news on TV and learn that the fire has changed course and is headed away from any structures. They believe it was started by lightning. Tracy’s coffeemaker is different from ours, but I figure it out. It’s fun to poke around in her cupboard and see what kind of canned goods she buys.

The kids sneak up on me. I turn, and there they are. I ask if they want me to fix them breakfast, but Kendra says that’s her job. She stands on a stool to reach the counter and pours two bowls of cereal. I still remember learning to cook bacon. As far as I was concerned, I was ready to live on my own after that. Kendra slices a banana with a butter knife. She won’t even let me get the milk out of the refrigerator for her. Tracy shouts at them to hurry and eat, their dad will be waiting.

“Is it fun at your dad’s?” I ask as they sit at the table, shoveling Cheerios.

“It’s okay,” Kendra says, like that’s what she’s been told to say.

“We have bikes over there,” Cassie adds.

HUNDREDS OF PIGEONS have occupied the shopping center parking lot where Tracy meets Tony to hand off the kids. They perch on the streetlamps and telephone poles and march about pecking at garbage. Everything is streaked with their shit. When a car approaches, the birds wait until the last possible second to scoot out of its way. Tracy and Tony meet here because it’s equidistant from both their places. He won’t drive any farther than he’s required to by the court.

I had to beg Tracy to let me come with her. She’s worried that I’ll start something. I like that, that she’s worried, but I assure her that I’ll hold my tongue. My hope is that when Tony sees me, he’ll figure that she’s pulled together some support and back off his custody demands. He’s a hardhead, though. We almost came to blows once over who was going to pick up a check at dinner.

The girls wait like little diplomats, wise in their silence. Carrie, strapped into her car seat, reaches out to touch the window of the minivan. Five minutes pass with just the radio playing. I watch the pigeons, the people pushing their carts out of the supermarket and filling their trunks with groceries. A cloud wanders across the sky, and I track the progress of its shadow.

After ten minutes I ask, “Is this normal?”

“He’s very busy,” Tracy replies, sarcastic.

There’s a candy store next to the market. It’s just opening up.

“Take the kids in there,” I say. “You guys want candy? Take them in there and buy them something. Here’s some money. I’ll keep an eye out for him.”

The girls are imbued with new energy. They screech and bicker and fight for the handle that slides open the side of the van.

“Look what you started,” Tracy says.

I shrug as she flips down the sun visor and checks herself in the mirror there. The girls, already outside, practice tightrope walking on the yellow lines painted on the asphalt.

“Calm down,” Tracy yells. “You want to get hit by a car just for some candy?”

Tony pulls up next to the van shortly after they enter the store. He’s driving a new Volvo. He squints when he sees me, then gives a lazy wave. I’m all smiles as I hop out and walk around to his open window. He grew up on the East Coast somewhere and moved to California after college. Tracy cut his hair, that’s how they met. He works in computers. I rest my palms on the roof of his car and bend over to talk to him.

“Yo, Adrian,” I say. I used to kid him that he sounded like Rocky.

“Jack.”

“They should just be a minute. The girls were getting cranky, waiting so long.”

Tony lights a cigarette. The ashtray is overflowing with butts. Don’t you sometimes see a chick and just want to tie her up and slap her around? He asked me that once while he was still married to Tracy. We were camping in Yosemite, all of us. The women and kids had gone to bed. I remember looking up at the stars and down at the fire and thinking, Whoops! He pushes his sunglasses up on his nose and flicks ash out the window, between me and the car door.