Halfway House (13 page)

Blockbuster leaned out and pointed savagely at the front hood of a Lincoln as Split leaned on the horn. The car next to them finally slowed, and Split immediately swerved the Chevy in front of it. Just in time to make the last twenty feet of the exit lane before it ended at a bridge abutment, they passed under the Welcome Bridge and entered the 110 Freeway heading north. They left San Pedro for Van Nuys. And if he was lucky, Bobby would come home with a record and a father.

The sun was directly overhead when Kanga felt himself being moved. He was vaguely aware of the smaller man carrying a bag and pushing him up the path. Halfway up Kanga, recognized him. Mark Nunez, the stocky surfer who knew Hawaiian bone breaking. They’d sparred on the beach, more often than not with Mark twisting Kanga into a knot. The young man was into freestyle and flowed with his art. He was good. Real good.

Kanga didn’t care about that now. Instead, he returned inward to where things were happening. He’d just met his daughter. Could there have been a more special time? Could there have been a more special girl? He hastened to continue where he’d left off. Six months ago. He’d followed her for a full month. She’d even noticed him a few times, once hurrying to her car, fearful that he might cause her harm. Silly girl. He’d already caused her harm, only she didn’t even know it. So why had he continued to stalk her? Selfishness. Did she deserve him? Pure hubris to think she did. Did she even want him in her life? She should have never been put in the position to ask the question. But then he remembered the startled look in her eyes as he sat behind her and tapped her on the shoulder at the Point Fermin Park band shell where Shakespeare’s
Twelfth Night
was being acted out.

“Excuse me.” He remembered how his heart felt so small, confined in the space of a needle, decidedly larger than his self-esteem. He wanted to scoop her up and hug her, tell her that he was her father. But what right did he have? He’d left without a by-your-leave, never knowing she was born until a party girl mentioned it while passing a joint at a beach party in La Jolla two years later. Two years. He shook his head. He’d had a child for two years and hadn’t known.

“Yes?” She turned with a smile, but when she saw him it slid. Grabbing her sweater, she pulled it tighter, covering the area he’d touched. Her gaze went to Viola on stage, the woman disguised as a man.

“Excuse me, Laurie?” His heart felt ready to explode. His skin was abuzz with energy. He’d dreamed of those words and now that he’d said them, he felt empowered.

“Do I know you?” Her frown shifted to concern. When he smiled, she returned it automatically, not realizing the curve of her lips was the same as his.

“No. But you should.” He removed his hand from the back of the chair and put it in his lap. When he looked down trying to figure out what to say next, she shrugged and returned her attention to the stage where Duke Orsino was speaking with the disguised Viola about the nature of love.

*DUKE ORSINO*
And what’s her history?

*VIOLA*
A blank, my lord. She never told her love, but let concealment be like a
worm
in the bud. She sat like patience on a monument.

*DUKE ORSINO*
Did she die of her love?

That was the question he needed desperately to answer. Should he challenge the possibility of her rejection, or remain forever on the outside watching her, never letting her know of his existence, never making it possible for them to become what he wanted more than life itself, to be father and daughter? Or would he remain the vision of the woman who Viola described to the count, and be that mute statue of want,
struck marble
by the fear of a nonreciprocating love, undying and dead for lack of trying?

He leaned forward, drawing the glares of a couple next to him who
shushed
and gestured toward the stage. He ignored them, gripping the back of her seat with both hands. “I meant to come sooner. I wanted to be here a long time ago.”

She turned halfway, politely listening but reluctant to remove her gaze from the actors. Her lips pursed unspoken words.

“I’m sorry about your mother. I should have been here for you.”

She turned to look at him now, her heavy-lidded gaze gone, and her eyes wide with apprehension. But instead of a smile, she frowned. “How do you know my mother?”

This was it.

All he had to do was speak the truth.

Those simple words.

Darth Vader had done it.

But he couldn’t. His mouth was stuck in the open position. He held her gaze until she stood, grabbed her sweater and walked briskly into the night, heading for 25th Avenue. He stared after her, cursing himself for his inability to act, finally forcing himself to rise and follow. Behind him the scene had changed, and Sir Toby Belch was making mincemeat of Malvolio. That’s okay. Malvolio was a Fop. He deserved it.

She walked fast, both hands on her purse. It took him a hundred yards to catch up to her and when he did, she whirled with a can of pepper spray, holding it out with a straight arm, finger poised on the red button. “Stay away from me, old man.”

“I can’t.”

“You will or else—”

“I-I’m your father,” he stammered. He watched both her eyes and her finger. Now would be the perfect time to spray him. He deserved it.

Twenty seconds passed and finally her finger moved before her eyes did. It jerked once, then followed the hand as it fell to her waist. Then her eyes moved and he watched her as she saw him as if for the first time. She’d surely seen pictures. She was probably trying to merge his older features with those of a young surfer. She probably saw facets of her own face in his. She stopped examining and shot him straight through the heart with a clinical glare. “Where have you been?” she asked, like he’d only been gone a week.

“Here and there.”

“You come home for a while?”

“I’ve come home to stay.”

She seemed to acknowledge the answer, but he wasn’t sure until later, because tears suddenly filled her eyes. His filled as well and they stood there three feet apart staring at each other, crying silently. Every so often a sob would escape. Every so often they’d smile.

Obituary from the Daily Breeze

Maria Doloros Rivera passed last night after a long illness at her home in San Pedro. She is survived by her husband, Renee Rivera, and her two sons, who are currently serving in the merchant marines. Services will be held at Our Lady of the Sea on Sunday at 3:00 PM.

She sighed when she died, and that sigh carried her on and on and on, her soul rushing free like air from an errant balloon. At last she’d been liberated from the pain: the pain of her cancer that had metastasized throughout her torso, the pain of her sons being so far beyond reach and caring, and the pain of her beloved Polo, who’d spent the last month crying beside her bed late at night when he’d thought her asleep.

Spread beneath her rising soul lay death and regret; above and heavenward lay redemption. She’d been a God-fearing, churchgoing woman her entire life and cherished the reward she was about earn. Suffused with a feeling of joy, she rose and rose, anticipating the touch of Mary, who would welcome her into the bosom of Heaven.

The mists parted, revealing the great sprawl of Los Angeles beneath her. From Malibu to Rancho Palos Verdes, the coast was lit by lights. She picked out Hollywood in the far distance. Compton and Hawthorn shone brightly nearby. Beneath her lay San Pedro, every alley and nook and cranny known to her since she’d been a
niña
playing among the palms.

She heard a snatch of tinny music. A song barely remembered on the edge of her mind, the music evoked a feeling she’d held tight to her breast through adulthood.

Brightly colored confetti.

The earthy smell of sawdust.

The roar of a lion.

And the ever-present Mariachi Clowns of the Chimera Circus.

Her eyes sought what the memory told her must be there and she found it—a red and orange striped big top tent. Clowns with balloons. Vendors selling grilled corn, roasted peanuts and churros. Not everyday cinnamon churros, but those filled with vanilla and chocolate which were as rare as snow on the harbor.

She tried to remember the last time she’d eaten a vanilla-filled churro.

Had it been that long ago?

Of course it had.

Sadness blurred the edges of her vision as she remembered when Polo still had both arms and drank. There wasn’t much the family did together during those days except hide when he came home and pray that he’d pass out. And when they were too loud, or when Polo was in a foul mood, he’d unleash his left hand and share his mood in the most humiliating and violent ways.

Maria found that she was drifting closer to the circus. Laughter and screams of delight filtered through the fabric of the tent, which was lit from within like a Japanese lantern. She’d loved the dog circus within the circus—Poodles, Pekingese and Chihuahuas walking tightropes, jumping through flaming hoops and riding atop the back of a pink-striped burro. She’d been entranced by the elephants—strange storybook leviathans that seemed unreal until their ticklish hairy trunks plucked a peanut from her tiny grasp. She’d been amazed by the trapeze artists, swinging death-defying acrobatics through the air as she and the rest of the audience gasped and cringed.

She’d wanted to run away to the circus.

She’d wanted the clowns to be her family.

She’d wanted to escape the reality of her life and fill it with confetti and laughter.

Her father had been just like Polo. Love and hate came fast and hard from hands forged by the life of a longshoreman. She’d wanted to love her
papi
, but he’d returned her hugs with pain. No matter what she’d tried, she couldn’t get him to love her like all of her friends’ fathers loved them, which was why she probably married Polo, to try again to please her father in this younger, handsome version.

But she’d been unable to please and that failure led her to the realization that there was something wrong with her. Try as she might, just like with her own
papi
, her handsome young Polo would return her love with pain. She’d let it go on too long. Both of her sons felt her sadness and tried to stand up for her and she watched as each of them was beaten down until they had no more love to give—not even to her.

Ten years ago she’d finally had enough. She told Polo that either he needed to get help or she’d leave him, and if she was unable to leave, then she’d kill herself and he’d have to explain to all to the men he worked with about why his wife was so unhappy that she’d rather be dead than with him. It didn’t take long for the doctor to discover a chemical imbalance. Polo was diagnosed with bipolar disorder and within a month was the husband she’d always prayed for.

But for Polo the sudden realization of his problem had shocked his soul. With his treatment came the understanding of what he’d done, and the gravity of his abuse. No amount of apologies could come close to excusing the way he’d acted. Even if he’d been in the grips of a disorder, as a man he could not accept the results. He’d lost his children. He’d almost lost his wife. Every time he looked upon the hand that had caused so much pain, he felt self-revulsion to the point of nausea. So it was with the hope that his soul would reap the benefits of his particular retribution that he jammed his hand into a forklift and allowed the ten-thousand-pound container to slice away the offending appendage.

But it didn’t slice.

Instead, his hand and wrist had been pulped.

By the time they’d removed the container and rushed him to the hospital, blood poisoning had ruined the rest of his arm. Thus he became One-Armed Polo—half a man, but a man he could live with and, more importantly, a man Maria could live with. Only she and his friend Cabellos knew the truth, that he’d done it for love. That demonstration bound Maria to Renee “Polo” Rivera like a thousand Hallmark cards never could.

The triple strains of Mariachi came to her as if it were yesterday. During her reverie, she’d come closer to the big top, and three clown Mariachi played happily as they welcomed her to the circus.

Was this her heaven?

Was this her reward for a life of pain?

She giggled like the child she’d once been as she drifted closer. She made out more clowns and animals slipping inside the tent. She’d love to see inside, but her angle was all wrong. A sudden cheer went up and she wished to know, and just then the flap of the tent brushed aside, revealing a snippet of disaster involving a dozen clowns, a broken ladder, and a horse.

A leering clown smeared red with paint exited and beckoned for her to join him. He seemed faintly threatening and reminded her of someone, but her wish to be young again overrode her well-honed self-defense mechanisms. She willed herself closer and drifted within his grasp. She felt a tug and then a jerk as she was hauled down.

In his gloved hands he held a string. When he pulled, she felt herself jerked.

Wait.

Where were her arms and legs? She tried to look for them, but her vision wouldn’t shift. Instead all she could see was the clown pulling her by a string toward the entrance to the big top. And then, as the crowd crescendoed with another scream to the backdrop symphony of a hundred Mariachi, she was pulled inside.

A thousand clowns sat in tiered bleachers surrounding the empty center ring. Each one held a balloon and within each balloon was a face. The clowns laughed as the faces screamed. The clown pulling her sat down in a nearby seat, and as he did Maria began to spin, and it was in the spinning that she realized she was no longer flesh and blood. She was a balloon just like everyone else.

A woman wearing a white dress with a blazing red necklace strode into the center ring and placed a featureless square on the ground. She left and was replaced by a squat man with an amiable smile in coat and tails. He stilled the chattery clowns and screaming souls with the single gesture of his finger to his lips.