Bright Before Us (28 page)

How bad can he be?
you said.
Your mom is so lovely.

I shook my head.
I don't know.

Say yes,
you said.

I sighed.
What do I say? ‘Hey Dad, come pay for my wedding reception?'

Your eyes lit up.
I should call him! I should call and say, ‘Mr. Mason, this is your daughter-in-law.'

Yeah, right.
I imagined him, gruff and distracted, a golf cart or chattering caddy audible in the background.
No, wait, that could work,
I said. I remember thinking, Maybe he'll be nice to you.

You took two quarters out of your purse and grabbed my father's business card from my hand, heading toward the pay phone not far from where I had parked. I watched you hold the receiver between your neck and shoulder as you dialed. There was something on your ass. I squinted, looked down at the passenger seat: you had sat, somewhere, in gum.
Oh shit,
I said.

When I looked back up, you were speaking into the phone. Your face was pinched, worried.
Oh shit,
I said again. Why had I let you do this? This was the guy who called Jess a whore when he found out she had pierced her belly button, who rescinded a donation to my middle school after finding out my male science teacher had a ponytail. I rolled down the window but all I could hear
was the drone of the air force planes, the nasal whine as they took off or landed. You were nodding into the phone, smiling. Oh, thank God, I thought, remembering the dad who took me to Rockland Park on our bikes, how we rode damn near to Lake Berryessa. I had forgotten about the dad that showed up now and again to congratulate me for things, slip me a twenty or a gift card or a beer. That was who you had called. It was going to be okay.

You came back and opened the passenger door.

He didn't,
you said.
He's playing squash with a client, so I talked to his secretary. She said she'd tell him.

Gum,
I said.
What did you tell her?

I told her everything,
you said, picking at the thick green wad.
I have to change.

I want to get you home so bad,
you said suddenly.
I can't wait to get you home.
You leaned in, natural as anything.

We'll go buy you something to wear,
I said, my eyes closing as you put your hand up my shirt, whimpering in my ear.

 

In the Solano Mall there were a few elderly couples power-walking, some moms with strollers.
Here,
you said, pointing to a shop. It was a cheap jewelry store for teenagers, fully stocked with ill-made prom gear—badly sewn evening gloves, useless tiny purses, sub-CZ faux-diamond studs.
I just realized I need to look cute,
you said, grabbing some four-dollar pearl earrings, a thin strand of beads. In
the Mervyn's you zeroed in on a strapless white dress. It smelled like overheated polyester in there, like scorched carpet fibers and unchanged diaper. You grabbed your size in the white dress and barreled toward the dressing room. It was Tuesday afternoon in a low-traffic department store: there was nobody around, nobody working the fitting rooms. You grinned, motioning toward the handicapped cubicle.

But when you went in, I followed you.

You had barely locked the door before I had you pinned against the mirrored wall. We attacked the buckles and zippers that impeded us. When I lifted you, you were light. I shut my eyes to avoid my reflection in the mirror behind you, but then I didn't have to; you took my glasses off and I couldn't see. You gripped the back of my T-shirt in little fists, preparing yourself.
Are you sure?
I whispered, hesitating. But before you could answer I had decided for you, the hangers on the hooks above us rattling. It was happening, despite every one of my failures.
Are you okay?
I said, my chin pressed against your jaw. From the way your face wrenched, from the sounds that you made, I knew the answer.

Did I do alright?
I said.

It took a long time for you to open your eyes.

 

The dress fit so well you wore it out of the store. I paid for it at the counter—you had to lean funny so the guy could scan the tag still attached to your hip, all three of us laughing—and
we left.
I suppose these shoes will do,
you said, pointing at your Chuck Taylor's.
I think it works,
I said. I couldn't breathe right. You had folded the gum-tacked jeans neatly before leaving them on the fitting room floor.

Listen,
my mom said over the mariachi music,
I talked to Jess and it sounds like she can keep the ice cream cake in the freezer until it's time.

You leaned into me, my arm around you.
Ice cream cake,
you said. You looked like a cat in the sun.

Your dad will probably bring Carolyn along,
Mom said, sipping her margarita.
If he can make it, I mean.

I don't care if he shows up,
I said.

Jess is taking her break as soon as everybody gets here,
Mom said.
Did I tell you she's looking at Cal for next year?

Ask her,
Mom said.
She's your sister, Frankie.

I felt a presence draw near me, but before I could turn around I was in a half nelson.
Hey, Mister Matrimony,
Jess said.
Congratulations.
She offered you her hand and you clasped it, beaming.

Jess turned to me, suddenly serious.
Hey, can you make sure my seat isn't by Dad?

You laughed, thinking this was a joke.

Francis,
someone bellowed. And there he was, trailed by my stepmother, Carolyn—a stubby, rounded brunette who knew how to cook only tuna casserole and adored Barbara Streisand.

I gotta get back,
Jess said, scurrying toward the kitchen.

Stand up,
he said.
Shake your old man's hand.
I stood, and you did too.

Fiery little redhead,
he said.

I watched your smile go from genuine to fake.

 

Jess arranged for the little band of waiters to come by with their sombreros and Spanish guitars, wishing us a happy birthday.
We don't have any wedding songs,
she said. Then they brought out a bottle of Cuervo.

I'm still a little queasy from last night,
you whispered.

Seconded,
I said.

What were you guys for Halloween?
Mom said.

Hasty,
my dad shouted.

We weren't anything,
you said.
We went to this awful party and got really drunk.

Shut up, I thought.

Well, there you have it,
Dad said.
It was either that or the other explanation.

She's not pregnant, Steven,
Mom said.
Have some class.

Nora, you know he wants to be a teacher?
Dad said, turning to you.
This area isn't kind to the poverty-stricken. Hope you like living small.

Your face hardened.
I own a home,
you said.
In San Francisco.

Every fork stilled. My father had a one-bedroom condo in Vacaville, near the state prison for the criminally insane. My mother only owned her house because her parents had willed it to her—before that, just after the divorce, she had been forty-four and living in a studio
apartment. You might as well have said you were descended from royalty.

Another piece of the puzzle falls into place,
my father said. He looked at me and raised his glass, bitterness clouding his expression.

 

They cleared the ice cream cake and Jess pulled up a chair. All of us watched the waiter set down the bill.

Steve,
Carolyn said—the first time she had spoken all evening—
let's get this.

Isn't it customary,
he said,
for the father of the bride to cover this kind of thing?

Steven,
Mom said. She shook her head.

Where
is
your family?
Jess asked.
I didn't notice until now.

Hey,
I said.
Who wants to look at our marriage certificate?

I'm talking, Francis,
Dad said.
I asked a question.

Steven, take a hint,
Mom said.

I'm sure my father would love to pay for my wedding,
you said.

I remember thinking, Please don't.

My father nodded solemnly. I was momentarily relieved—even an asshole like him could respect something that big. How could you hear something like that and press on? He couldn't. He had been shut up, he would be quiet now.

So that's how you own the house, then,
he said.

I stood up and pulled out your chair like a gentleman. You held my arm as we walked toward the door.

Wait,
Jess yelled, running after us.
Hang on, Frankie.

God, he just gets worse every time,
I said, shaking my head.

Here.
She handed me a folded piece of paper.

I opened it.
Is he fucking serious with this?

It's five grand, dude,
she said.
Who cares what he is, just take it.

I put the check in my pocket.

Remember when he used to not be like that?
Jess said.

We faced the bay, stretching out in the dark. I made out the restaurant, across the way in Berkeley, where we had gone to the prom.

Not really,
I said, giving her a hug.
You're going to Cal?

Are you joking?
She smoothed her apron.
I'd never get in.

We said our good-byes. On our way back to San Francisco I stopped at an ATM, depositing the check before he could call in a stop payment.

When we had almost reached the Bay Bridge I asked if you were tired.

Yes,
you said.
Extremely.

You looked at me lovingly.
You know, I think you'll be a good teacher,
you said.
I think you have the kindness for it.

I don't know,
I said.
I hope so.

You sat up abruptly.
We should go to Colma.

Now?
I said.

I want to tell them,
you said.
I have to tell them.

 

The cemetery gate was closed, but we managed to wrench it against its chains enough to squeeze through. We walked until we reached the small hill, illuminating the stones with the flashlight on my car keys. As we knelt by their grave it was hard to see your face.

Hi Mom and Dad.
You sounded cheerful.

Do you want me to give you a minute?
I said.

In the darkness, I could feel you waiting.

Hi Jack,
I said, hoarse.
Hi, Sandy.

We got married,
you said.
I wish you could have been there.

My parents would have chased you away pretty quick,
I said.
They were fucking ghastly tonight.

Don't say that,
you said. Even in the dark I could see how the grass had stained your white dress. When you spoke again it was inevitable:
Be glad that you have a family.