Elizabeth Tallent - Mendocino Fire

“I want that gun out of the house,” Daisy said.

Sean had gone out into the chilly night and folded the passenger seat of his truck forward and tucked the pistol, a lightweight Walther.22, into the torn parka he kept there, thinking that if Victor had meant to carry through on his threat he would have gotten a more serious gun. In bed that night Daisy turned to Sean, maybe needing to feel that something was still right in their life, and while he understood the impulse and even shared it he found he was picturing Esme’s pointed chin, her head thrown back, her urchin hair fanned out across a mattress in the woods, an image so wrong and good he couldn’t stop breathing life into it, the visitation no longer blissfully involuntary but nursed along, fed with details; the childish lift of her upper lip as she picked at the gift-box ribbon came to him, the imagined grace of her pale body against the stained mattress, her arms stretched overhead, her profile clean against the ropy twists of dirty hair — no she wouldn’t look, she wouldn’t look — and he came without warning, Daisy far enough gone that momentum rocked her farther, Sean relieved when she managed the trick that mostly eluded her while also, in some far-back, disownable part of his mind, judging her climax too naked, too needful, and at the same time impersonal, since she had no idea where he was in his head, and this, her greedy solitary capacity, bothered him.

In the slowed-down aftermath, when their habit was to roll apart and stretch frankly and begin to talk about whatever came to mind, a brief spell, an island whose sanctity they understood, where they were truly, idly, themselves, their true selves, the secret selves only they recognized in each other, she didn’t move or speak and he continued to lie on her, worrying that he was growing heavier and heavier, her panting exaggerated as if to communicate the extremity of her pleasure, and for a sorry couple of minutes he hated her. There was something offensive in her unawareness of his faithlessness. If he was faithless, even in his mind, he wanted it to matter, and it couldn’t matter unless she could sense it and hold him accountable and, by exerting herself against him as she had a right to, remind him he belonged to her and her alone. That was her responsibility. If she couldn’t do it then he might continue to be bewilderingly alone and even slightly, weirdly in love with the lost girl Esme, indefensible as that was, and astounding. Daisy squirmed companionably out from under, turned on her side, a hand below her cheek, the crook of her other arm bracing her breasts, her smile confiding, genuine, her goodness obvious, the goodness at the heart of his world, the expression on his face god knows what, but by her considering stillness she was working up to a revelation. With Daisy sex sometimes turned the keys of the oldest locks, and he could never guess what was coming, since years and decades of wrongs and sorrows awaited confession, and even now, having loved her for twenty years, he could be blindsided by some small flatly told story of a terrible thing that had happened when she was a kid. Damage did that, went in so deep it took long years to surface. Tonight he had no inclination to be trusted, but could hardly stop her. “This thing’s been happening. Maybe four or five times. This thing of the phone ringing and no one being there. ‘Hello.’” The hello imitated a voice not hers. “And no answer. And ‘Hello.’ And no answer. Somebody there, though. Somebody there.”

Such a relief not to have to travel again through the charred landscape of her childhood that he almost yawned. “Kids. Messing around.”

“No,” she said. “Her.” His frown must have been baffled because she said, “Esme.”

“Esme.”

“Don’t believe me, then, but I’m right, it was her. And the last time she called I said, ‘Listen to me. Are you listening?’ and there was no answer and I said, ‘Never come back.’ I didn’t know that was about to come out of my mouth, I was probably more surprised than she was. But I meant it — I’ve never meant anything more. Just — pure. From deep down. ‘Never come back.’”

“And then what?”

“Well, she got it. People get it when you say a thing from real deep down. And she hung up.” Daisy scratched one foot with the toes of the other. “And I was left thinking, what was that? Was that really me?” Rueful smile. “If I’d said, ‘Honey, where are you? Are you in trouble?’ that would have been like me, right? And maybe she would have told me, maybe something is wrong and that girl has nowhere else to turn. She’s the kind of girl there’s not just one filthy mattress in the woods in her life, but last time she was lucky and found us, and we let her come live in our house, and we loved her, I think — did we love her? — and I’m guessing if things got bad enough for her she’d think of us and remember we were good to her — weren’t we good to her?”

“Yes.”

“Yes, and now it’s like I’m waiting for her to call again. Or turn up. I think that’s next. She’ll turn up. And I don’t want her to. I never want to see that girl’s face again.”

He couldn’t summon the energy for I’m sure it wasn’t her , even if that was probably the case. He could also have accepted Daisy’s irrational conviction and addressed it with his usual calm. Of course you’re angry. Irresponsible, not just to her little boy, but to us who took her in, who cared about her — she left without a word. It’s natural to be angry.

He lay there, withholding the reassurance that was his part in this back-and-forth, until she turned onto her back and stared at the ceiling.

I made a serious mistake with Esme once. Gave her a bracelet. If he could have said that. If he could have found a way to begin.

Dent Figueredo wasn’t someone Sean thought of as a friend, but this sweet May evening they were alone in the Tip-Top, door open to the street alive with sparrow song and redolent of asphalt cooling in newly patched potholes, Dent behind the bar, Sean on his bar stool worrying about taxes, paying no attention until he heard, “I want your take on this.”

“My take.”

“You’re smart about women.”

Women? But Sean nodded, and when that didn’t seem to be enough, he said, “Hit me.”

“See, first of all, despite her quote flawless English, she utters barely a word in the airport, just looks at me like I saved her life, which you’d think I would be a sucker for, but no, I’m praying Get me out of this , ready to turn the truck around and put her on the next flight home, and like she knows what I’m on the verge of she unbuckles and slides over and you know Highway 20 twists and turns like a snake on glass, I never felt so trapped before in my life, just because this itty-bitty gal has hold of my dick through my trousers and you know she’s never done that before and I should’ve remembered that at this late date I’m not good husband material, but naw, I had to get melty when I seen her doe-eyed picture on the Internet. Shit.”

“Husband material.”

“What you got to promise if you want a nice Filipina girl,” Dent said. “She’s some kind of born-again. Dressed like a little nun, baggy skirt and these flat black worn-out shoes. No makeup. Won’t hold your eye.” When he caught Sean’s eye he looked down and away, smiling, this imitation of girly freshness at odds with Dent’s bald sun-spotted pate and the patch of silvery whiskers he missed on his Adam’s apple, and Sean couldn’t help laughing.

“What happens to her now?”

“Stories she tells, shit, curl your hair.” Dent used his glass to print circles of wet on the bar. “America still looks good to a lot of the world, I tell you.” He crouched to the refrigerator with his crippled leg stuck out behind. “She’s staying in my house till I can figure out what comes next, and you should see the place, neat as a picture in a magazine. Hard little worker, I give her that. If any of my boys was unmarried, I’d drag him to the altar by the scruff of his neck.” He levered open his beer, raising it politely. Sean shook his head. “Course before long,” Dent continued, “one of them boys will shake loose.”