One Small Thing (29 page)

Dan tried to keep the tears out of his eyes, but he couldn’t. All of it was too much. Randi was dead. He’d never see her again, never have the chance to ask for
her
forgiveness. The only way he could make it up to her was to care for Daniel. Even if it meant his marriage was ruined. Even if his own parents wouldn’t acknowledge their grandchild. He had to come clean, say what was necessary, and then move on. Like Bret Parish told him, he couldn’t expect his parents to change. But Dan could. He had to.

“Those were horrible years, Dan,” his mother said softly. “We didn’t know what we had done wrong.”

“We did nothing wrong,” Bill snapped. “We raised two boys the same way, and one stole and lied and ruined his life and the other didn’t. It wasn’t us.”

“It doesn’t matter who did what. We’re left here, though, Dad. It’s like you’ve wanted to keep living back when I was 19 or 20. You haven’t noticed that I’ve changed my life. I didn’t ruin it at all. I have a good life. I have a good job. I have Avery. You won’t even let us stay in your home. You still think I’m the same person I was back then.”

Bill was silent, his arms tight around his chest. “You stole from us.”

“Bill!”

“I know! I’m sorry. I was wrong!” Dan cried out. “My life was wrong, but out of it, I have a child. And I’m scared. It’s hard. He’s damaged, and I’m trying my best. But—but I need you. I need help.” He put his head in his hands and wept, sobs climbing his ribs like stairs.

“Oh,” said Marian, standing up and then stopping as she looked at Bill. “Oh.”

“Dan,” Bill said. “Dan.”

Choking on the river of salt and mucus in his throat, Dan scooted back in his chair and leaned over the table, pressing his face against the table cloth, feeling the plastic lace against his cheek. Then there was his mother’s soft hand on his hair and the sound he remembered from when he was very little, a soft low, hum, letting him know she was there. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled, letting the canned air of his parents’ house hold him, feeling his mother’s touch, listening as his father cleared his throat. Listening to his father not say anything.

Before he left that night, the wreck cleared up, the traffic flowing through the arteries that fed into the San Francisco, Dan went up to his old room. His parents were downstairs watching the early local news, both silent and stiff in their chairs. After he had stopped crying, they’d all sat around the table, his mother still patting him on the head, the shoulder, finally resting her palm on his arm. No one said anything real after that, but the evening moved on without any further argument. And Marian had even said, “We’ll come down on the weekend.”

Dan pushed open his door and turned on the light. The two twin beds were crisply made, the bedspreads taut across their slim bodies, and the extra blankets he and Jared had used on winter nights folded neatly at the foot of each. The brown curtain on the big window between the beds was open, the Fitzgerald’s’ house lit up within the frame like a photograph. When he and Jared were very little, their bedtime was 8.30. In the summer, it was still light when their mother closed the door softly behind her, the sky bright, then a grainy gray, and then barely dark because of the streetlights. Dan and his brother would climb out of bed, sit on the dresser under the window, and stare into the houses across the street, watching the awake life of everyone else.

“What are they doing?” Jared would ask, holding his skinny legs with his hands.

“The dad is leaving,” Dan would tell him. “He’s packing. He’s going far away. He might never come back.”

“How does Heather feel about that?” Jared asked, worried about the Fitzgerald’s’ youngest daughter.

“She’s happy. She’s glad. Her mother is going to let her sleep in the big bed. She’s going to let her play dress up with the dad’s leftover clothes.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. And then they are all going to go on vacation and forget about him.”

“But won’t he be lonely?” Jared squeezed his bony knees tighter.

“No. He has a lot of friends somewhere else. Away. Not here.”

“Oh. What else?”

Dan would tell stories about all the neighbors, tales of fathers who were gone or at least happy. Children who ran away or were able to play games at night with eager dads. Stories of mothers handing out bags of candy and driving their kids to Disneyland. Tales with no school and all play. Days where the sun never set at all.

He sat on his bed and ran his hand along the grain of the red bedspread. Back then, he would never have imagined all that happened later, Randi, the stealing, the drugs, much less the miracle of college, Avery, and his job. And Daniel. He wouldn’t have had the vocabulary to explain that to Jared or even himself. All Dan knew then was that he was unhappy and couldn’t work out a way to be otherwise. He wanted his father to change—he wanted his life to change, and he didn’t know how to make any of that happen. When he was finally old enough to feel power in his body and voice, he yanked himself out of the riptide of this room, this house. When he first moved in with Randi, he couldn’t believe how good it felt to be away from Bill and Marian, free of the suspicious looks and disapproval. After awhile, he saw it wasn’t perfect, full of rent and late night visitors who ended up barfing in the small bathroom, and tedious, part-time, minimum wage jobs. But at least it had been different. At least he hadn’t been sitting on the dresser, imagining life. He lived it, all of it.

Dan stood up and walked to the dresser, feeling the thin layer of dust under his palm. When they were kids, Marian would have never tolerated a layer of dust—not even a speck. Early on, they’d both learned to use a rag and the can of Pledge. Before dusting, Jared would write his foamy name on the wood, the J melting as the D fizzed on the dresser.

He opened the top drawer on his side, and sat back down on the bed. The T-shirts were still there, the ones he’d left at home, the dopey ones with logos on the backs,
Disneyland, Tahoe City, Gumby
. He stood up and opened the others, all still full of him. Briefs and tube socks and torn boxers. A leather belt. Two gum wrappers. A yo-yo.

Looking out at the Fitzgerald’s, he knew that for the past fifteen years, his mother had been telling herself a story, one where her oldest boy was a senior in high school, ready to move into his happy life. He could become anything, this boy: a doctor, a lawyer, a teacher. He may have a wild girlfriend, but he would meet someone else, a good girl. He would settle down. In these clothes, Dan’s happy life was still possible. If these clothes still stayed folded in their drawers, just waiting for his body, the future stayed unwritten.

Dan closed all the drawers. A comet of clean wood swooshed across top of the dresser where he’d wiped it. By the time he’d worn the Disneyland shirt—senior year trip, Randi and he drunk on the Matterhorn and then kicked off Space Mountain—his mother’s story of him was a cliché. By the last time she’d folded these shirts, he was in the apartment across town, rolling a joint and then sharing a double Whopper and fries with Randi.

Turning from the window and the neighborhood outside, Dan thought of the dresser he, Luis, Isabel, and Val had put together, full of Daniel’s clothes, all new, crisp and clean and folded neatly. If they were lucky, maybe that story had time. Maybe that story was yet to be written.



It was late when he pulled up to the house, only streetlight and the front lights Avery left on illuminating Dias Dorados. Dan decided to park in the driveway, not wanting the garage door to rumble Avery or Daniel awake. He closed the car door and stretched. It had taken more than two hours to get home, the freeways still full of weary, hot, desperate commuters who’d sat out the jam in bars or restaurants or with friends and family. Like he had. When he left, both Marian and Bill stood on their porch, Marian waving, Bill holding up a hand. It had been years since they had felt more than relief at his departures, but tonight, Dan felt their sadness, the tears under his mother’s fine, wrinkled cheeks, his father’s Adam’s apple moving up and down even though he wasn’t saying a word. And they promised they’d come visit on the weekend. He told himself not to expect anything, but excitement radiated from his heart in waves. If his parents had listened, maybe Avery would.

The last of the summer crickets scratched their wings in the star jasmine. Soon all the leaves would fall, the sky would cloud and darken, and the season would turn. It had been almost a quarter year since his life changed. All their lives. Maybe by the time winter cracked into spring, this ugly story would have smoothed itself into memory, painful but harder to remember, the events not sensitive to touch.

He opened the front door, stepped in and closed it quietly behind him. The house was dark save for the light over the stove Avery had left on, and he walked into the kitchen. On the counter was a bag from The Grind, the skate shop in Lafayette. He reached in and found the receipt: skateboard plus assembly, helmet, stickers, knee and elbow pads. Leaning on the counter, he closed his eyes, grateful for this gift from Avery and from whatever made her treat Daniel like this. With kindness. Like a stepmom. Like a mom.

“Dan!” He swallowed and turned, still holding the receipt in his hand.

“Oh, Aves. This . . .” He moved his arm over the bag. “Is so nice.”

She ignored him and moved closer, her face pale. “Someone called. I think you need to call Midori or Vince. It was really weird.”

Dan stood up straight. “Who?”

“He said his name was Galvin Gold. He hung up before I could ask him who he was. Who is he, Dan? What does he want? Is that Randi’s dad? Daniel’s grandfather? I thought he was dead or something.”

Shaking his head and almost laughing, Dan wondered how he could have let himself feel happy. He should walk backwards out of the house, into his car, and sit in the driveway, listening to the crickets and remembering his parents’ strangely apologetic faces. The empty bag full of presents for Daniel would still be on the counter. He could still imagine that in a few months, he would have his family back in a way he’d never had them before. Parents. Wife. Child.

And even though Avery seemed disturbed by the call, Dan wondered if she envisioned Galvin Gold as a trapdoor they could shove Daniel into so he would disappear and their lives could go back to normal. Galvin was Daniel’s grandfather. Someone Daniel probably knew far better than Dan and Avery. But Dan knew the truth about Galvin, could still see him on the couch with his Saturday six-pack of Olympia and a carton of Camels as he watched the Raider game. “What’s up lovebirds,” he would call out to them, laughing until he began to cough. “Going on a little datey?” They’d skirted the edge of the living room, shooting into Randi’s room as fast as possible, slamming the door behind them. And Randi had told him just enough about the iron of Galvin’s flat palm, the way it reached out for soft, smart-ass skin whenever possible, sending her sailing across the room. There was no way Galvin wanted Daniel--he hadn’t had use for his own daughter--but he wanted something.

Dan moved past Avery toward the bedroom, needing to call Midori right away. He crushed the receipt in his hand.

“Dan! Who is this man?”

He wanted to tell her about the way Galvin’s slap looked hours later on Randi’s cheek, a purple, red hand on her white skin. He wanted to tell her Galvin Gold was the reason Randi left the house, all her belongings stuffed in a sleeping bag. But he didn’t know if he could, every word he said put in the scales of Avery’s decision about him, about Daniel, about everything.

“No one,” Dan said as he walked into the dark hall. “As far as I’m concerned, no one at all.”

ELEVEN

As the plane took off, Avery held her stomach, thinking she might need to use the barf bag. As the plane lifted up, up, she dug in the pocket in front of her, grabbing the white bag and opening it. She leaned back, closed her eyes, and tried her yoga breathing. In and out, one and two, soft and soft and soft. And as the plane slowly leveled off, the rush of hot acid slowly slid back down her esophagus, where it burbled in her stomach and then settled. Safe, for now.

When she opened her eyes, the man next to her smiled. “Rough take off?”

“Yeah. I shouldn’t have had that cup of coffee at the airport.” Avery folded the bag and stuffed it back into the pocket.

“Good advice for all airports. No food or drink.” He turned back to his report, and Avery closed her eyes again, leaning into the leather of the business class seat.

For the first time since she’d started back to work, Avery had not wanted to leave the house. Dan had been on the phone for over an hour with Midori two nights ago, and then he called in sick to work the next day in order to talk with Vince and then Anita at the school. In almost an afterthought, Avery remembered to tell him about the sandbox incident, Galvin Gold on the top of her mind.

“He what?” Dan had said, sitting on the bed, cradling the phone in his hands.

“That’s why I was home. He hid in the sandbox so he didn’t have to do some writing assignment. The yard duty found him on her way home.”

Dan shook his head. “I’m doing such a great job as a dad. Daniel’s just getting along splendidly, isn’t he? No wonder my parents are so proud of me. By the way, they’re coming over this weekend.” He laughed strangely and then put a hand over his mouth.