Promises to Keep (30 page)
I whirled around and looked up at my father’s smiling face. “Daddy! How did you know I was here?”
He reached for the book and handed it to me. “I know you come here a couple times a week with your friend. I figured you’d show up again sooner or later.”
Mara was in Nonfiction, searching for books on the Civil War for her social studies class. I nodded at Daddy and said, “That’s Mara, you know. She loves books.”
“I can see that. Bright little kid, isn’t she.”
“She’s real smart. I wish I had her brains.”
Daddy bent down to meet me eye to eye. “Now listen, Roz,” he said. “You’re every bit as smart as she is, and don’t let anything make you think otherwise.”
“How do you know I’m as smart as she is?”
“Because you’re my daughter. I know how smart you are.”
“But I don’t get all As like Mara does.”
“That doesn’t matter. Grades aren’t everything.”
We gazed at each other a moment. I had a feeling he hadn’t come here to talk about grades. Finally he said, “Mara doesn’t know about me, does she?”
“No,” I said. I was amazed at my own ability to look him in the eye and lie without flinching. Lying was easier than it used to be.
“That’s good. Does anyone know I’m here?”
“If they do,” I said, “it’s not because I told them.”
He smiled again and winked. “That’s my girl. I told you you were smart. Because if anyone finds out, everything will be ruined.”
I pursed my lips, searched his face for hints of what he meant. “What’s
everything
, Daddy?”
“Well, you know, honey. I’ve already told you. I’m trying to put our life back together. I’m trying to put the family back together. You believe me, don’t you?”
I was tired of not knowing what to believe. I wanted to stop wavering and be settled and to live as though everything was going to be all right. At that moment I decided to throw in my lot with Daddy. “I believe you, Daddy,” I told him.
“That’s good, Roz. It won’t be long now. There’s a lucky day coming up, and I want to take advantage of it.”
Sighing, I had to stop myself from rolling my eyes. Daddy and his lucky days. It had driven Mom crazy. We were always having to do or not do something, depending on whether or not it was a lucky day.
“What day’s the lucky day, Daddy?” I asked, trying to sound agreeable.
“I can’t tell you yet, but I’ll tell you soon. Anyway, listen, I wanted to apologize for Wednesday night at the boardinghouse. You understand, don’t you, that I really wasn’t mad at you? I was just surprised, is all. I didn’t expect to see you there, and it caught me off guard. And then when Mr. Wainwright came in, I had to act as though I didn’t know you, but you understand why, don’t you?”
When I nodded, he put both hands on my shoulders and held my gaze. “Listen, honey, I’m working real hard to make everything right again. I mean it. And someday I’m going to be proud to tell people I’m your father, but I just can’t do it yet. But soon. You’ll see. And Roz, I missed Christmas, and I’m sorry about that, but I was up in Chicago working, and I couldn’t get away. But I have something for you.” He moved one hand off my shoulder and reached into his shirt pocket. I watched expectantly, wondering what it was. “Hold out your hand,” he said.
I did, and he dropped something silver and shiny into it. I laid
Huckleberry Finn
on a shelf to free up my other hand, then picked up the necklace by the chain and watched the heart-shaped pendant swing like a pendulum. “It’s beautiful, Daddy,” I whispered.
“It means I love you.”
My chest felt tight, and I thought I might cry. “I love you too, Daddy.”
He opened his arms and I fell into them. Then my arms were around his neck, and he was kissing my cheek and caressing my hair and telling me how much he loved me. And then the tears came, because I felt as though I finally had everything I ever wanted. Daddy wasn’t a wolf in sheep’s clothing. He was a good man, and he loved me.
When I pulled back and he saw my tears, he asked gently, “What’s this?” He held my face in his hands and wiped at my cheeks with both thumbs. “Why are you crying, Roz?”
I shrugged. “I’m just happy, Daddy.”
He took a deep breath and smiled. “I’m glad, honey. And pretty soon we’re going to be happy together, and nothing’s going to separate us again. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“Do you want to put the necklace on?”
I nodded. I unlatched the chain and handed it to Daddy. He put it around my neck and fastened it again. “A pretty necklace for a pretty girl.”
I reached for the heart and held it tight in my hand. “Thank you, Daddy. It’s the best Christmas gift ever.”
“You’re welcome, honey. But listen, it’d be best if your mother doesn’t see it, all right?”
“All right.”
“Because then you’d have to explain . . .”
“I know, Daddy. I won’t let her see it.”
He gave a satisfied nod. He looked over my shoulder, then back at me. “Listen, sweetheart, I’ve got to go. The more time I spend with you, the more I’m pushing my luck.” He stood and stretched his legs. I picked up
Huckleberry Finn.
“You going to read that?” he asked.
“Yeah. I have to do a book report on it.”
“Uh-huh.” He was stalling for time, and I knew it. I had the feeling there was something left unsaid. Finally he asked, “Say, Roz, that guy, Tom Barrows. Your mother still seeing him?”
“Naw. They broke up a little while back.”
“Uh-huh.” His mouth twitched as he tried unsuccessfully to suppress a smile. “She’s not seeing anyone else, is she? What about this Monroe fellow who just moved in?”
“What about him?”
“Tell me again who he is.”
“He’s just Tillie’s son. And Tillie’s our . . . well, she helps Mom around the house with cooking and cleaning and stuff. And she takes care of Valerie.”
“So where does Tillie live?”
I paused a moment. “I don’t know. Over on Sayles Street, I think.”
“So how come her son isn’t living with her?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know, Daddy. He’s a grown-up. Would you want to live with your mother?”
He looked amused and chuckled softly. “You’ve got a point there, Roz. All right, well . . . so your mother isn’t seeing anyone?”
“No, she’s not seeing anyone, and I’m glad about it too.”
“Yeah, that’s good. It would just complicate things.”
I looked down at my necklace and gave it a small pat before tucking it under my blouse. I couldn’t wait to show Mara my gift from Daddy. Smiling, I lifted my head to look up at Daddy, but even as my chin was rising, I remembered something that happened not once but many times: Daddy, crazy jealous, accusing Mom of flirting with someone or other; Mom denying it, her voice trembling, her one arm rising to shield her face.
When my eyes met Daddy’s, though, it wasn’t the Daddy of the memory I saw. I found myself looking into eyes that held compassion and a certain hopefulness. Everything was changing. Everything was going to be all right.
The memory faded. “Daddy?”
“Yes, honey?”
“You love Mom, right?”
He took a deep breath, let it out. “Oh, darling,” he said quietly, “more than life itself.”
And then he kissed the top of my head and disappeared.
I soon began to wonder. Not about Daddy, but about Lyle Monroe. He started hopping on the city bus and coming over for supper two or three times a week, supposedly to see Tillie, but more often than not he ended up talking long hours with Mom. The two of them drank coffee in the living room while Tillie and I washed the dishes and put Valerie to bed.
I didn’t like it. Not one bit. I figured I was going to have to put Mara to work again, playing it up about the snoring and the cooking and maybe even dropping Valerie into Lyle Monroe’s lap. But I couldn’t deny the fact that, after Lyle began coming around, Mom started looking happy. And for the first time in a long time, she looked rested. Even younger, somehow. And then there was that undeniable sparkle in her eye the night Lyle surprised her with a sketch pad and a collection of charcoal pencils. You’d think he’d handed her the keys to a mansion, a Rolls Royce, and a prosperous future, the way she carried on about those art supplies.
“I don’t know what to say,” she exclaimed repeatedly, her hands on her cheeks, her eyes wide, till Lyle finally hushed her by saying, “You don’t have to say anything at all. You just have to sketch.”
Until that night I didn’t have a clue that my mother liked to draw. I didn’t know she had any interest in art at all, as I’d never seen her so much as doodle while talking on the telephone. But in just a short time that sketch pad was filled with amazingly good drawings – flowerpots, fruit bowls, land and seascapes, portraits of Valerie and me.
Eventually I cornered Lyle Monroe in the living room and asked, “How did you know my mom likes to draw?”
“I asked her,” he said simply. He was sitting in the easy chair listening to classical music on the radio, but he turned the volume down so we could talk.
“Why did you ask her?”
“Because I wanted to know about her. I wanted to know what she likes.”
“How come?”
He cocked his head. “That’s how you get to know a person, I suppose. You find out what they like, what interests them.” He smiled, waved a finger briefly to the notes drifting from the radio.
“You like music?” I asked.
“I appreciate certain composers, though I’m not a musician myself. But your mother, she’s a wonderful artist, don’t you think?”
I nodded. “But I’ve never seen her draw before. I didn’t even know she could.”
“Yes, well, that’s what happens. You get married, have children, and little by little some of these things fall by the wayside.”
“You mean she stopped drawing because of me?”
“Well, not because of you per se. But . . . I’m not sure that came out right. You see, once a person becomes a parent, the child becomes the most important thing in the world, more important than hobbies or . . . you know, other interests. A parent is glad to give her time over to her children.”
“How do you know? You don’t have kids, do you?”
He sighed behind his smile. “No, I don’t. But I’ve talked with plenty of parents over the years. I know what’s important to them.”
I thought of Daddy, wondering whether I was important to him. I decided I was. The necklace was tucked safely away in my jewelry box, along with my Sugar Daddy wrappers. I looked at it every morning and every night.
“Mr. Monroe?”
“Yes, Roz?”
“Do you know a guy who lives where you live called Nelson Knutson?”
“Nelson . . . sure, I’ve met him. Why?”
“I was just wondering. Do you like him?”
He looked thoughtful a moment. “I don’t know much about him, but he seems like a nice enough fellow. How do you know him?”
“Oh, I’ve seen him at the library a couple of times. You know, that big library downtown. He’s helped me find some books.” It wasn’t a lie. At least not completely.
Nevertheless, Lyle Monroe didn’t look happy. He leaned forward, made a V of his index fingers, and tapped at his mouth a moment. Then – sounding like the schoolteacher that he was – he said, “You shouldn’t be talking to strangers, Roz. Especially men. You know that, don’t you?”
“But . . .”
“If you need help finding a book, ask a librarian. That’s what they’re there for.”
“But you said yourself he’s a nice guy.”
“Yes, but not everyone is, so just be careful in the future.” The two lines between his brows ran deep as he gave me a look of concern.
“Don’t worry, Mr. Monroe,” I assured him. “I’ll be careful. But I was lucky this time, right, to meet somebody nice like Mr. Knutson? I mean, he wouldn’t hurt me, would he?”
Lyle Monroe gazed at me sternly another moment before sniffing out a small laugh. “No, Roz, I’m sure Mr. Knutson wouldn’t hurt you. But I’m glad to hear you say you’ll be careful. Now – ” he lifted his chin and breathed deeply – “something smells good, doesn’t it? What do you say we go see what the ladies have cooked up for supper?”
Sitting on my bed, leaning back against the headboard, I held Wally’s book in my hands, the one he gave me the night he ran away. I wished he were there now, sitting at his desk in the next room, his finger scrolling over the pages of
On the Road
as though he were carefully studying every line.
I wanted Wally back, but I didn’t want him to be the Wally he was right before he went away. No, I had to go back farther, back several years, back to the days before . . .
But that was the hard part. I shut my eyes and squeezed the book tightly with both hands. I wanted to go all the way back to my earliest memories, when life was quieter and Wally and I were friends. But I couldn’t rewind the years without seeing the bad parts too. I couldn’t look backward without bumping up against that one event in particular, the thing that happened when Wally finally got big enough to fight back.
Valerie was about a year old. A series of colds and ear infections had kept her crying day and night for weeks. We were tired, all of us, a weariness made worse by the humid heat of the summer evening. All the windows in the house were thrown open and fans blew relentlessly in nearly every room, but nothing gave us much relief from the heat. Between the weather and Valerie’s cries, we were all on edge.
Mom went to Valerie’s day crib, the one set up in the den just off the kitchen. Before she could reach into the crib, Daddy was there, yelling, grabbing Mom’s wrists, telling her to leave Valerie alone, to let her cry it out so she would sleep from exhaustion. Mom pulled away and they began to argue, hurling harsh and ugly words at each other. I crouched in the kitchen watching, clutching my doll, fighting back tears. I was afraid for Mom, afraid of what Daddy might do. Usually I didn’t see the fights, only the aftermath: Mom’s black eye, her bloodied lip.
Daddy raised a fist and I screamed, my own fist pressed hard against my mouth. Turning to flee, I unlocked my knees and started to rise, but even before I was fully upright, I heard Wally’s bare feet slapping against the kitchen floor. He sprinted past me and into the den, head-butting Daddy in the gut like a linebacker making a tackle. He knocked Daddy off his feet and dove on top of him. Pinning him down, Wally began slamming his fists into Daddy’s face over and over again. Finally Daddy was able to throw Wally off, but the fight went on, the two of them swinging and punching until they were both dripping huge drops of sweat and blood. Mom screamed and pleaded with them to stop, but they ignored her, leaping at each other like wild animals, prompted by a rage so thick it hung in the air. I put my hands over my ears, but I couldn’t drown out the sounds: Valerie’s wails, Mom’s cries, the smack of flesh against flesh, the crash of bodies against furniture.
