Purgatorium (27 page)

I smile, listening to her. “You really should pursue singing professionally,” I say. Madi frowns skeptically. “I know I tell you that all the time, but I’m serious. You have a terrific voice.”

“When I am ready, I will be ready. You know this,” she says to me, taking another sip.

“You know I’m not just telling you to be nice.”

“I don’t know. Maybe you are,” she says to me, flirtatiously.

I notice Madi looks restless, uncomfortable as always, with compliments about her singing. “Hiding talent like yours away is like slapping God in the face.”

“Is that so?” Madi says, a note of sarcasm in her voice. Undeterred, I nod definitively. “Well, I’m going to slap you in the face if you don’t pick out what you want to eat.” She draws out a laugh and looks at the menu.

I hear a silent voice whispering into my ear again. “She doesn’t care about your well-being. She wants you to drown in debt.”

“Fine. Let’s not be rich then,” I interrupt.

“You know my priorities,” Madi says, trying to explain. “Let’s not talk about this now, okay?”

“Right, I do. Because living in a cramped loft on the east side of town is the ideal, safe environment,” I rant. “A car that only stalls out half of the time is reliable enough. Let’s see here, have I covered everything? Oh yeah, Dollar Tree is the best place to pick up the finest steaks.”

“Oh, please, keep going,” Madi scoffs.

“Oh, I can keep going, all right.”

“How about this?” Madi says a little coldly. “I will promise to do something about my tragically withheld singing career just as soon you finish the bestseller you’ve been working on for...how many years is it?”

I roll my eyes while spinning the wine in my glass around. I have heard this refrain from Madi many times before. “Well?” she says.

“I happen to have gotten some really good stuff down on paper lately,” I say defiantly.

“Is that so?” Madi arches her eyebrow.

“Yes, and once my book finally gets published, you’re going to wish you never made that promise.”

“We’ll see,” she says with a soft heart.

“We will! You and I will be bathing in money!” I say, throwing up another toast.

“Money can’t buy you love.” Madi lingers on the last word, in that maddening way she always does when she wants to try to make a point. “Speaking of love…” begins Madi.

“Let’s not start this again,” I interrupt, curtly. “Look, you know how strongly I care about you. Can we drop this?”

Madi crosses her legs, leaning back, feigning indifference. “You’re going to end up exactly like your father, aren’t you?” she says, not looking at me.

I reach into my jacket pocket, pull out a cigarette pack, flip open the lid, and remove a smoke. I reach back into the pocket and feel around for my lighter.

“I am not at all like my father,” I mutter, looking at the piano player and realizing I left my lighter in the fitting room. At this moment, I notice a waiter coming through the kitchen door. He looks like
Raphael
.

The waiter walks to our table. “Your order will be ready momentarily,” he says. “In the meantime, do you have everything you need?”

I look at the waiter more closely now, feel an uncanny sense of terror overcome me. Before Madi or the waiter can say anything more, I blurt out awkwardly, “Do you happen to have any matchbooks…maybe at the bar?”

The waiter looks quizzically at Madi and then back at me. “I am quite sorry, sir,” he replies carefully. “But we do not allow smoking anywhere in the restaurant.”

I lay the cigarette beside my empty plate, look up at the waiter, and bark rudely, “Who said anything about smoking?! Can a guy just want a matchbook to remember the great service he had on this fine night?”

“Pardon me, sir?” The waiter leans back away from me a little stunned, forcing a smile.

“What is your problem?” Madi asks, shooting an embarrassed look at me. She looks up at the waiter. “Everything is fine here,” she reassures him. “We’re okay, thanks.”

“Very well. I will retrieve your meal,” the waiter says politely, seemingly already over the shock as he turns and starts back to the kitchen.

“I think I have a matchbook in my purse,” she says quietly to me, still looking embarrassed. She searches her purse and after a few moments, pulls out a matchbook and places it in front of me on the table. The matchbook is the same shiny silver kind
Raphael
uses. “I grabbed it when I was in the girls’ bathroom. So I could remember this wonderful moment we are sharing,” she says sarcastically.

“I’m serious. What’s wrong?”

“What do you mean?” I ask, clutching the matchbook.

“You’ve been getting so stressed out lately.”

“So?”

“So? I don’t know what to do.”

“Who said you have to do anything, Madi? I gave you a nice necklace. What else do you want?”

“Only you would think that buying me something expensive would keep me happy. I’m trying to get you to open up.” She reaches behind her neck, unlatches the necklace, and places it in front of me beside the matchbook.

“When are you finally going to open up to me and tell me what’s going on?” Madi asks pleadingly, leaning in to try to reassure me. I breathe out heavily, trying to calm down a little. I feel uncomfortable and pressured. “I mean, we’ve been together for a year and you still haven’t told me a thing about your past, except that you don’t like your dad.”

I sneer and say, “Look who’s talking! What about you? You clam up all the time. Like when we’re on the highway and drive past rest stop signs. You freak out. And then, when I ask you what’s wrong, you go completely quiet. What’s up with that?”

“Don’t drag me into this,” she says.

“Why not? You’re more than willing to interrogate me!” I say, gripping the table edge with both hands.

The waiter approaches our table carrying two silver, cloche-covered plates. “Pardon me. Your meal is ready,” he says, placing the covered plates in front of us. As he pulls back the silver lids, a feeling of horror overtakes me, but I can’t understand why. It’s the same meal I get each time, I think to myself. “Is there a problem, sir?” asks the waiter, noticing the change in my face.

I abruptly stand up, knocking my chair over behind me.

“Where are you going?” Madi asks, pleadingly. I step back away from the table. I am in control now, I think. I hear the sound of sand cascading, getting louder and louder. I gasp. The Valkyrie senses me changing things. I need to stop before it sees me.

“Talk to me!” Madi continues pleading, standing up, grabbing her purse, ready to follow me.

Suddenly, I step back to the table, grab the wine bottle, hold it up to my mouth, and swallow two mouthfuls. The warmth of the alcohol on my throat calms me slightly. I put the bottle down, loosen my collar, reach inside, and unlatch the coin necklace I am wearing. I drown myself back into my thoughts, letting the reins go.

I look around not knowing what is happening. I pick up the matchbook and the cigarette, walk out on to the outside balcony, lean against the railing and, hands slightly trembling, light my cigarette. I start walking up the set of stairs to my left, dragging on my smoke, feeling the nicotine calm my mind.

The staircase spirals around what seems like a large metal cylinder. I look up and see the glow of white light flashing above me. It’s really a lighthouse, I think. I reach the top, step closer to the railing, and look out over the bay, taking a long drag of my cigarette.

The full moon shines bright over the water, releasing a certain calm inside of me. I hear someone in high heels coming up the stairs behind me. In my periphery, I see Madi take the last few steps up before quietly arriving next to me. We both just stand there on top of the lighthouse, looking out over the glittering, moonlit water.

“Are you okay?” Madi asks softly.

I look at my coin necklace. “I do not remember much of my father before my mom died,” I begin, still looking at my coin. “He was the ultimate man’s man, always fixing stuff around the house. He never asked anyone for any help. My old man wanted to do everything by himself.” I take another drag from my cigarette.

“My father never once said ‘I love you,’” I continue, blowing the smoke out. “Not to me, at least. Nothing like my mom. She told me she loved me at least twice every single day. Sometimes I thought she was trying to make up for the affection missing from him.”

I look out at the bay and think of my mom. “I guess that’s why they suited each other. I remember my
mother
’s kindness and love. She loved to dance.” I smile slightly, still looking out the window at the water. “She taught me everything from the waltz to the mashed potato. She loved singing too. She sang me to sleep almost every night. She had an old record player and tons of albums. Her favorite, though, her absolute favorite…was ‘Running on Empty’ by Jackson Browne. I still remember her singing it to me as clearly as if it were last night. Best song ever, that song, especially when my mom sang it to me. It was probably the main reason why I started running.”

Madi nods, saying nothing, but looks over at me. She is probably hoping I will give her a kind look in return. I continue staring out, not wanting to show her my emotional soul.

“I love that song,” she says, almost whispering.

“When times got hard, though, my father sold all her records, even her favorites.” I take another drag from my cigarette. “My
mother also
loved taking pictures. She had one of those old Polaroid cameras. Growing up, that thing was like her third arm. She always took pictures, pictures of everything. I have a box full of those old pictures. But there’s not a single photo of her in there. She was behind the lens, never in front of it.”

I pause a moment, remembering the images, ordering them into a coherent chronology. “My father kept his feelings to himself, which drove her crazy. He then cheated on her and told her about it. She forgave him. Though I think she only stayed because of me.”

“I’m sorry,” Madi responds quietly, still watching my face.

“Even though he never told me, I could see my father never really forgave himself. After the cancer took my mom, my father shut down. He never came home a lot. Always working. Never went to any of my races. When I turned eighteen I left. The only time I hear from him is when I get a card from him on my birthday. Says something simple and never ends it with….” I stop for a second as I try fighting back the tears.

I look down at the cigarette in my hand. It has burnt down to nothing. I reach inside my pocket, take out the pack, pull another one from it, and put it in my mouth.

Madi, watching me, takes my matchbook from my hand, strikes a match lit, and reaches over. I lean towards her, letting her light the cigarette. I look at her quickly, smiling slightly, seeing that her eyes are wet.

“My happiest moments were at the beach with my family,” I say. “My mom wearing a green and pale blue sundress, taking pictures of me and my father as we dug moats and made sand castles. Everything was tactical for him. He measured every angle, made sure everything was just right.”

I exhale deeply as a look of grim resignation creeps across my face. “That was just like my father though. No room for error. Mom first taught me how to dance, right there in that sand. She was always a great dancer. Could have made something of herself, I guess, maybe gone professional. I wish those days could have gone on forever.”

Expecting Madi to respond in some way, I hesitate. But Madi says nothing. “I bet you had a lot of great family moments,” I say. Madi sobs a little. “What’s wrong?” I ask.

“I have been so afraid to tell you this,” Madi says, sobbing more loudly now. “I always thought you would think less of me or something when you found out.”

“I would never think badly of you, Madi, not ever,” I reply. “Why are you crying? Something about your mom?”

“No, my mom was…” she stammers.

“You can tell me,” I say, trying to reassure her. I hold her hands.

“When my dad left, my mom was scared and alone. But she was a
mother
and she believed in that ideal. She took care of me as well as she knew how, but when I turned six years old, there was this guy my mom started dating. There had been others before, but this guy… His name was Jacob.”

“What about Jacob, Madi?” I ask impatiently, scared of what Madi might say next.

“My
mother
only knew Jacob for about two months before she married him,” Madi says, laughing despairingly. “He seemed like a fun guy. He even took our last name, Jacob Persail. It seemed like a kind gesture but, as it turned out, he only did it to hide from the drug dealers he owed money too. He used to play games with me. He loved to hear me sing. It gave him a pleasure I didn’t understand at the time. He also had a game called Candy Town that he never let me win. It was the only game he loved playing, but not as much as red rover…”

Madi clutches my hands, gripping them tightly and crying harder. “It’s okay. I am right here,” I say softly.

“I didn’t know it at first, but she was doing drugs too. Not just on the weekends either. She was using heavily. They gave her an escape, a convenient avenue to forget about her life…forget what leaving my father had done to me.”