Black Tickets (12 page)

She sat watching her father. His robe was patterned with tiny horses, sorrels in arabesques. When she was very young, she had started ballet lessons. At the first class her teacher raised her leg until her foot was flat against the wall beside her head. He held it there and looked at her. She looked back at him, thinking to herself it didn’t hurt and willing her eyes dry.

Her father was twisting his hands. How’s your mother? She must be half crazy by now. She wanted to be by herself and brother that’s what she got.

J
ANCY’S FATHER
always wanted to fix her car. Every time she came home for a visit, he called her at her mother’s house and asked about the car with a second sentence.

Well, he’d say, How are you?

Fine, I’m fine.

And how’s the car? Have any trouble?

He became incensed if Jancy’s mother answered. He slammed the receiver down and broke the connection. They always knew who it was by the stutter of silence, then the violent click. He lived alone in a house ten blocks away.

Often, he would drive by and see Jancy’s car before she’d even taken her coat off. He stopped his aging black Ford on the sloping street and honked two tentative blasts. He hadn’t come inside her mother’s house since the divorce five years ago. He wouldn’t even step on the grass of the block-shaped lawn. This time Jancy saw his car from the bathroom
window. She cursed and pulled her pants up. She walked outside and the heavy car door swung open. Her father wore a wool hat with a turned-up brim and small gray feather. Jancy loved the feather.

Hi, she said.

Well, hi there. When did you get in?

About five minutes ago.

Have any trouble?

She got into the car. The black interior was very clean and the empty litter bag hung from the radio knob. Jancy thought she could smell its new plastic mingling with the odor of his cigar. She leaned over and kissed him.

Thank god, she thought, he looks better.

He pointed to her car. What the hell did you do to the chrome along the side there? he said.

Trying to park, Jancy said. Got in a tight spot.

Her father shook his head and grimaced. He held the butt of the cigar with his thumb and forefinger. Jancy saw the flat chewed softness of the butt where he held it in his mouth, and the stain on his lips where it touched.

Jesus, Honey, he said.

Can’t win them all.

But you got to win some of them, he said. That car’s got to last you a long time.

It will, Jancy said. It’s a good car. Like a tank. I could drive that car through the fiery pits of hell and come out smelling like a rose.

Well. Everything you do to it takes money to fix. And I just don’t have it.

Don’t want it fixed, Jancy said. Works fine without the chrome.

He never asked her at first how long she was going to
stay. For the past few years she’d come home between school terms. Or from far-flung towns up East, out West. Sometimes during her visits she left to see friends. He would rant close to her face, breathing hard.

Why in God’s name would you go to Washington, D.C.? Nothing there but niggers. And what the hell do you want in New York? You’re going to wear out your car. You’ve driven that car thirty thousand miles in one year—Why? What the hell for?

The people I care about are far apart. I don’t get many chances to see them.

Jesus Christ, you come home and off you go.

I’ll be back in four days.

That’s not the goddamn point. You’ll get yourself crippled up in a car wreck running around like this. Then where will you be?

Jancy would sigh and feel herself harden.

I won’t stay in one place all my life out of fear I’ll get crippled if I move, she’d say.

Well I understand that, but
Jesus
.

His breathing would grow quiet. He rubbed his fingers and twisted the gold Masonic ring he wore in place of a wedding band.

Honey, he’d say. You got to
think
of these things.

And they would both sit staring.

Down the street Jancy saw red stop signs and the lawns of churches. Today he was in a good mood. Today he was just glad to see her. And he didn’t know she was going to see Michael. Or was she?

What do you think? he said. Do you want to go out for lunch tomorrow? I go down to the Catholic church there, they have a senior citizen’s meal. Pretty good food.

Jancy smiled. Do you remember when you stopped buying Listerine, she asked, because you found out a Catholic owned the company?

She could tell he didn’t remember, but he grinned.

Hell, he said. Damn Catholics own everything.

He was sixty-seven. Tiny blood vessels in his cheeks had burst. There was that redness in his skin, and the blue of shadows, gauntness of the weight loss a year ago. His skin got softer, his eyelids translucent as crepe. His eyelashes were very short and reddish. The flesh drooped under his heavy brows. As a young man, he’d been almost sloe-eyed. Bedroom eyes, her mother called them. Now his eyes receded in the mysterious colors of his face.

OK, Jancy said. Lunch.

She got out of the car and bent to look in at him through the open window.

Hey, she said. You look pretty snappy in that hat.

Tonight her mother would leave after supper for Ohio. Jancy would be alone in the house and she would stare at the telephone. She tore lettuce while her mother broiled the steaks.

I don’t know why you want to drive all the way up there at night, Jancy said. Why don’t you leave in the morning?

I can make better time at night, her mother said. And besides, the wedding is in two days. Your aunt wanted me to come last week. It’s not every day her only daughter gets married, and since you refuse to go to weddings …

She paused. They heard the meat crackle in the oven.

I’m sorry to leave when you’ve just gotten here. I thought you’d be here two weeks ago, and we’d have some time before I left. But you’ll be here when I get back.

Jancy looked intently into the salad bowl.

Jancy? asked her mother. Why are you so late getting here? Why didn’t you write?

I was just busy … finishing the term, packing, subletting the apartment—

You could have phoned.

I didn’t want to. I hate calling long-distance. It makes me feel lost, listening to all that static.

That’s ridiculous, her mother said. Let’s get this table cleared off. I don’t know why you always come in and dump everything on the first available spot.

Because I believe in instant relief, Jancy said.

—books, backpack, maps, your purse—

She reached for the books and Jancy’s leather purse fell to the floor. Its contents spilled and rolled. She bent to retrieve the mess before Jancy could stop her, picking up small plastic bottles of pills.

What are these? she said. What are you doing with all these pills?

I cleaned out my medicine cabinet and threw all the bottles in my purse. They’re pills I’ve had for years—

Don’t you think you better throw them away? You might forget what you’re taking.

They’re all labeled, Jancy said.

Her mother glanced down.

Dalmane, she said. What’s Dalmane?

A sleeping pill.

Why would you need sleeping pills?

Because I have trouble sleeping. Why do you think?

Since when?

I don’t know. A long time. Off and on. Will you cut it out with the third degree?

Why can’t you sleep?

Because I dream my mother is relentlessly asking me questions.

It’s Michael. Michael’s thrown you for a loop.

Jancy threw the bottles in her purse and stood up quickly. No, she said, Or yes. We’re both upset right now.

He certainly is. You’re lucky to be rid of him.

I don’t want to be rid of him.

He’ll drive you crazy if you’re not careful. He’s got a screw loose and you know it.

You liked him, Jancy said. You liked him so much it made me angry.

Yes, I liked him. But not after this whole mess started. Calling you cruel because he couldn’t have things his way. If he was so in love it would have lasted. Cruel. There’s not a cruel bone in your body.

I should never have told you he said those things.

They were silent. Jancy smelled the meat cooking.

Why shouldn’t you tell me? her mother asked quietly. If you can’t talk to your mother, who can you talk to?

Oh Christ, Jancy said. Nobody. I’m hungry. Let’s eat and change the subject.

They sat down over full plates. There was steak when Jancy or her brothers came home. Their mother saved it for weeks, months, in the freezer. The meat sizzled on Jancy’s plate and she tried to eat. She looked up. The lines in her mother’s face seemed deeper than before, grown in. And she was so thin, so perfectly groomed. Earrings. Creased pants. Silk scarves. A bath at the same time every morning while the
Today
show played the news. At night she rubbed the calluses off her heels carefully with a pumice stone.

She looked at Jancy. What are you doing tomorrow? she asked.

Having lunch at the Catholic church, Jancy said.

That ought to be good. Canned peaches and weepy mashed potatoes. Your father is something. Of course he doesn’t speak to me on the street, but I see him drive by here in that black car. Every day. Watching for one of you to come home.

Jancy said nothing.

He looks terrible, her mother said.

He looks better than he did, said Jancy.

That’s not saying much. He looked horrible for months. Thinner and thinner, like a walking death. I’d see him downtown. He went to the pool hall every day, always by himself. He never did have any friends.

He did, Jancy said. He told me. In the war.

I don’t know. I didn’t meet him till after that, when he was nearly forty. By then he never seemed to belong—

I remember that weekend you went away and he moved out, Jancy said. He never belonged in this house. The house he built had such big rooms.

Did you know that house is for sale again? her mother asked. It’s changed hands several times.

I didn’t know, Jancy said. Let’s not talk about it.

Her mother sighed. All right, she said. Let’s talk about washing these dishes. I really have to get started.

Mom, Jancy said, I might call Michael.

What for? He’s five states away and that’s where he ought to be.

I may go up there.

Oh, Jancy.

I have to. I can’t just let it end here.

Her mother was silent. They heard a gentle thunder.

Clouding up, Jancy said. You may have rain. Need help with your bags?

The car’s already packed.

Well, Jancy said.

Her mother collected maps, parcels, a large white-ribboned present. Jancy heard her moving around and thought of waking at night in the house her father had built, the house in the country. There would be the cornered light from the bathroom in the hall. Her father would walk slowly past in slippers and robe to adjust the furnace. The motor would kick in and grunt its soft hum several times a night. Half asleep, Jancy knew her father was awake. The furnace. They must have been winter nights.

Can you grab this? her mother asked.

Jancy took the present. I’ll walk you out, she said.

No, just give it to me. There, I’ve got it.

Jancy smiled. Her mother took her hand.

You’re gutsy, she said. You’ll be OK.

Good, said Jancy. It’s always great to be OK.

Give me a hug.

Jancy embraced her. How often did someone hold her? Her hair smelled fragrant and dark.

Jancy left the lights off. She took a sleeping pill and lay down on the living room couch. Rain splattered the windows. She imagined her father standing by the dining room table. When he moved out he had talked to her brothers about guns.

One rifle goes, he’d said. One stays. Which do you want?

Jancy remembered cigarette smoke in the room, how it curled between their faces.

It don’t make any difference to me, he said. But this one’s the best for rabbit.

He fingered change far down in his trouser pockets. One
brother asked the other which he wanted. The other said it didn’t matter, didn’t matter. Finally the youngest took the gun and climbed the steps to his room. Their father walked into the kitchen, murmuring, It’ll kill rabbits and birds. And if you go after deer, just use slugs.

Jancy heard water dripping. How long had it gone on? Rain was coming down the chimney. She got up and closed the flue, mopped up the rain with a towel. The pills didn’t work anymore. What would she do all night? She was afraid of this house, afraid of all the houses in this town. After midnight they were silent and blank. They seemed abandoned.

She looked at the telephone. She picked up the receiver.

Michael? she said.

She dialed his number. The receiver clicked and snapped.

What number are you calling please?

He’s gone, thought Jancy.

Hello? What number—

Jancy repeated the numerals.

That number has been disconnected. There’s a new number. Shall I ring it for you?

The plastic dial of the princess phone was transparent and yellowed with light.

Ma’am? Shall I ring it?

Yes, Jancy said.

No one home.

Jancy took a bottle of whiskey off the shelf. She would drink enough to make her sleep. The rain had stopped and the house was still. Light from streetlamps fell through the windows. Jancy watched the deserted town. Heavy elms loomed over the sidewalks. Limbs of trees rose and fell on a night
breeze. Their shadows moved on the lit-up surface of the street.

A black car glided by.

Jancy stepped back from the window. Taillights blinked red as the car turned corners and passed away soundlessly.

She picked up the phone and dialed. She lay in the cramped hallway while the purr of a connection stopped and started. How did it sound there, ringing in the dark? Loud and empty.

Hello?

His voice, soft. When they lived together, he used to stand looking out the window at the alley late at night. He was naked and perfect. He watched the Midwestern alleys roll across eight city blocks paved in old brick. Telephone poles stood weathered and alone. Their drooping wires glistened, humming one note. He gripped the wooden frame of the window and stood looking, centaur, quiet, his flanks whitened in moonlight.