Fool's Journey (23 page)

           
“We’re on our way to a good time,” he said. “Thrift
stores are like carnivals, and we’ve got fifty bucks to blow.”

           
Deirdre grabbed her satchel and yanked it open. She
fished an envelope from the bottom.

           
“We’ve got a hell of a lot more than that.” Deirdre
ruffled the bills and glanced at Manny. “A little loose change,” she said
dryly.

           
Manny glanced over and nodded. “Looks like it.”

           
She read the look of caution in his eyes. “Don’t worry. I
didn’t stick up a 7-11. This money has been gathering dust and there’s lots
more where it came from. It should be doing good instead of sitting in the
dark.”

           
“I remember now,” he said. “Your father was some kind of
zillionaire, wasn’t he? I’d forgotten.”

           
“I tried to,” she said. “It didn’t work, of course. It
keeps leading right back to me, like ants on a sugar trail.”

She
told him briefly about her aunt’s surprise appearance at the nursing home.

“It’s
like you said,” she went on. “The past doesn’t always want to stay buried.
Sometimes maybe it shouldn’t. I tried to bury all this money in a bank vault,
as if it were a physical part of my father, like his skeleton or ashes. I
didn’t think of anything except my own pain.”

“We
all cope the best way we can,” he said. “This aunt of yours—how long since
you've seen her?"

           
"Until yesterday it had been about three years. When
I moved my mother here she found out and came up, supposedly to check the
facility."

           
"But not really?"

           
"No. She just wanted me to release the contents of
my parents' house to her. She claimed there were photos and family pieces she
wanted. It didn't matter to me. Everything had been in storage for years. I
signed it all over to her, hoping she'd go away. She could have sold the art
and furniture for enough to last a lifetime."

           
"Living well is addictive, I hear."

           
"Apparently. When all of this dies down, I'll look
into setting up a trust of some kind for her. As long as she stays away from
me."

"Sounds
like a plan if she bothers you that much, and you can afford it. Now, where
to?”

           
“You choose,” she said. “I wouldn’t have any idea where
to start. I don’t have much experience spending.”

           
He shot her a sidelong glance. “It will come to you, I
think.”

XXIX.

           
 
They didn’t go to
the thrift shop. “These kids should have brand new clothes,” Deirdre decided.
“And toys, bright happy toys.”

           
As they drove through the downtown area, she spotted a
store called Monday’s Child, and said, “Let’s start here.”

           
She made her way through the boutique, touching the
fabric and smiling at the rainbow colors. Her own clothes had been so serious
when she was growing up. Everything in grown-up style, matched and muted.
Protective coloration was her mother’s best defensive strategy.
Don’t stand out in any way. You’re safe
until he notices you.
So there had been no oranges or reds or pansy purples
for her.

           
Now,
she piled one item after the other on the dismayed clerk’s counter. Sailor
caps, bunny slippers, ruffled socks. She picked out a bright yellow rain
slicker for Ana and little green boots with frog faces on the toes. They made
her laugh just to look at them.

           
 
“Do you think
she’ll wear them?” Deirdre asked Manny. “Will she think they’re silly?”

           
He was sitting in a chair by the window watching her.
“Sure she’ll wear them. They’re great!”

           
“They are, aren’t they?” She held the rain boots up. “I
just wish they had them in my size. I’d go jumping in puddles today! Come on
and help me—you’re missing the fun.”

           
Manny added several pairs of Levi’s lined with red flannel
and some bright sweaters and stocking caps. It was great to watch her, he
thought. She was smiling continuously, relaxed for the first time since he’d
met her, and truly beautiful. It amazed him that simple things could bring her
such joy.

           
When
the clerk wrapped up the purchases, Deirdre handed her a thousand dollar bill.
“I’m sorry,“ she said, “I don’t have anything smaller.” It took all the money
in the drawer to make change.

           
“I hope you have a truck,” the clerk remarked wryly.
“That’s quite a pile.”

           
“I didn’t think of that. What are we going to do, Manny?
Your car’s going to fill up too fast.”

           
The clerk cleared her throat. “Some people,” she said
hesitantly, “call a cab and have the driver deliver their purchases. It’s
expensive, but...”

           
“Practical,” Deirdre finished the sentence for her.
“Sounds like a plan.”

           
They cut a swath through every toy store and children’s
department in downtown Seattle before Deirdre took a breath. At almost hourly
intervals, cabs had been dispatched bearing goods. Deirdre felt like a fairy
godmother and liked it. Doing good was gratifying in and of itself, but doing
it extravagantly afforded more enjoyment than she had ever thought possible. It
was uncontrolled and wonderful. There was more, too, that made it satisfying,
although not for the most admirable of reasons. Her father had been detestable
in many ways and bigotry was among them. The notion of spending his money to
help little brown-eyed children pleased her enormously.

           
“I don’t know about you, Deirdre,” Manny said at last,
“but I’d like to sit down and have some lunch. You’ve worn me out.”

           
“Sorry. I guess I got a little carried away. Do you think
your aunt will be offended?”

           
Manny laughed and shook his head. “Don’t be silly. How
could she be offended at such munificence? Come on – here’s a spot.”

           
He caught her glancing at another window display and
grabbed her by the elbow before she could protest. He steered her into a small
restaurant just off the lobby of a small elegant hotel.

           
“It does feel good to sit down,” she admitted. “What time
is it?”

           
He glanced at his watch. “Almost three o’clock.”

           
“Is it too early for champagne?” she asked.

           
“You really are feeling festive.” He smiled. “I don’t
think it’s ever too early for champagne. Besides, as someone once said, it’s
bound to be after five o’clock somewhere.”

           
As she returned his smile, Manny suddenly remembered the
dream he’d had of her last night. He had stayed with her long after she had
dropped off to sleep, listening to her even breathing. She’d felt comfortable,
curled against his arm. Finally, he had nodded off to sleep as well. In the
dream, he had watched her from some high rocky promontory as she walked along a
gray shore. Now he knew what lay under the vague depression that had haunted
him throughout the day. The menace that had hounded her had been disarmed, at
least for the present, and she was enjoying herself. There was a gulf between
them, however, as steep and dangerous as the one in his dream.

 
He had known her for mere days, but the fact that
he was lost in fascinated love was as clear as the fact that he could never
have her. That’s what the dream told him. He hadn’t even known until this
moment how hopeless he was. All the usual reasons confronted him: her beauty,
education, wealth – yet even these obstacles were artificial. However stupidly
adolescent it sounded, loving Deirdre was like loving a statue of a goddess
brought to life. No matter how sincere his love might be, it could never be
brought to any real fruition.

“What
are you thinking, Manny?”

           
His frustration died when he looked into her eyes and saw
there was no guile, no intent to dazzle then withdraw.

           
“Why do you ask?” It was a cowardly response, of course.
No way could he tell her what had actually been on his mind.

           
“You looked so sad for a moment. I guess maybe this isn’t
the way most guys would like to spend their days.”

           
“I’m not hankering to be watching a football game, if
that’s what you’re worried about.” He’d wanted it to sound light, but somehow
it came out as flat and ungenerous.

           
Deirdre studied Manny’s face, the subtle tightening of
his jaw, the compression of his lips, and quick glance toward the door as
another patron entered. She could imagine the play of thoughts that lay behind
the subtle changes – not their content, of course, but the telegraphic
interchange between logic and intuition, even emotion.

           
She
considered the situation as it might appear to an outsider. Here they sat, two
young, attractive people, in a restaurant in a hotel.

If
this were a book and not her life, she would say,
Manny, I want you to make love to me.
He would make the
arrangements and she would follow him to the room a few minutes later. She
might wonder if she were making a mistake, but she’d dismiss it with a live for
today sort of thought.

What
would come next? The only images she had came from books and movies.

Manny
caught her eye and she felt a deep blush flood her cheeks. He smiled.
Impossible, she told herself, in all ways. This wasn’t fiction. There would be
no “fade to black” and a cut to the next scene. If nothing else, fear would
make a silent third party and crash any hope of intimacy.

She
looked past Manny to the window. A man in an overcoat and hat stood studying
the menu. She could see her father in his shape. It took almost nothing to
conjure him, especially if she dared to be happy.

           
She thought back to other triumphs: being released from
the sanitarium where she’d spent her adolescence, the first poem she’d ever
published, her bachelor’s and master’s degrees, defending her dissertation.
Just a few days ago with Panda at the Market she'd innocently toasted what had
seemed a sudden gift from above. Momentous moments all. But nothing compared to
today. And now, here was a day of happiness that came of nothing but sharing simple
pleasures: she hadn't thought once of the Dovinger or early tenure. Everything
she'd thought meant happiness had flown right out of her head.

           
“What should we call this celebration?” Manny asked.

           
“Let’s call it living,” she said and touched her glass
against his.

XXX.

Rosa Ruiz stood outside Deirdre’s
apartment, key in hand, hesitating a moment. She had called a friend to look
after the children, then made her way here without taking the time to examine
the impulse that drove her. It was very important to come right away, but she
didn’t know why. Her heart had begun to beat faster even as she pulled to the
curb, and now a rare panic overwhelmed her. She’d thought she’d seen enough of
darkness to be past fear, but now she knew she'd been wrong. She turned the key
in the lock and pushed the door open.

The stench of blood rolled out.

Rosa stood still, clutching the doorway.
What had happened here and when? There had been no look of murder in Deirdre’s
eyes last night, and this morning they were clear, full of relief and
gratitude.

           
Rosa stepped inside. A shape of
death: a body slumped against the wall. She felt the saliva flood her mouth and
knew she was about to vomit. Reeling backwards onto the landing, she leaned on
the rail and took a deep breath.

Even with her eyes closed, she could see
the interior of the apartment as clearly as if she were still standing inside.
Rosa steadied herself. Then she turned back to the door, kicked it farther
open, and let the sunshine in.

Suddenly, everything looked different.

Her hand went immediately to the light
switch, and she could see nothing unusual. There was no blood after all, and
only the memory of its cloying odor remained.

A vision, but of what? Had rage and
desire for revenge imprinted itself in the very air? Or had last night’s fear
mirrored the past, and opened the door to the spirit of Deirdre’s father? She
crossed herself quickly at the thought.

Rosa glanced around the room again. The
apartment had become a sick place now and must be purified. All traces of the
nightmare must be erased before Deirdre returned here. First, the mundane.
Taking the vacuum cleaner from the hall closet, she set about her work,
methodically running it across the rug, into the corners, sucking up the fallen
cigar ashes. It gave her a feeling of satisfaction and purpose, as if she were
erasing the sorrowful mistakes of the previous night.