Burn Down the Ground (19 page)

I still had my job at the yacht club, but that was in jeopardy, too. The excessive cost of gas and time outweighed the benefits.

“You’ll have to quit,” Mom said. “But not until after the company Christmas party.” She and Dad weren’t missing a free meal and an open bar. I was excited about the party, too, since I had never been to one outside our own trailer. Dad drove us to the yacht club, and the closer we got the more nervous I became. I was wearing my nicest jeans, but fretted about whom I would talk to.

When we arrived, my parents and I went straight to the buffet, piling on mountains of food before going back for seconds. I
asked for extra slices of meat, enjoyed bananas set on fire, ordered ice cream with heaps of every topping, then went back for more.

The instant the DJ started the music, Mom and Dad hit the dance floor. When their glasses were empty, they took turns getting refills and juggled extra drinks so the trips to the bar were less frequent.

Miguel was the only other busboy there. We were the youngest two and gravitated to each other, partly in solidarity and partly in resigned surrender. We only talked during work, so our conversations existed in short bursts before we were called away to pepper a salad, refill water glasses, or clear a table. Now, without distractions, we quickly discovered we had common ground. We each had our own horse, smoked Marlboros, and thought Van Halen was the greatest band in all creation.

“Hey, you want me to try to get a bottle of liquor?”

“Sure.” I shrugged. He seemed determined to get drunk, sneaking swigs of abandoned beers and chugging the remains of half-empty glasses.

He went to the bar to start smooth-talking the bartender, Joe. I was sure if Joe knew I was going to share the bottle, Miguel would come up empty-handed. Joe glanced over Miguel’s shoulder and made eye contact with me.

Shit
.

I darted my eyes away and saw Mom nursing a drink while Dad was burning a hole through the dance floor. His big smile showed both rows of straight white teeth and his arms swept back and forth in wide movements, forcing other dancers to spread back.

I glanced back to the bar, but Miguel was gone. I felt a tap on my shoulder, and I turned around to see Miguel grinning from ear to ear. He was holding up a paper bag in triumph, and pulled out a bottle of white wine just far enough for me to see the label.

We went outside and stood behind a big pine tree. Miguel pulled a corkscrew from his pocket. He didn’t know how to use it, so I said I’d try.

Like a basic instinct, cracking open a bottle of hooch came naturally to me. I pried out the cork and took the first big swig out of the bottle before passing it back to Miguel.

“Hey, slow down,” he laughed. “I got us some glasses.” He held up two Waterford crystal flutes usually reserved for yacht club weddings.

Glass or not, I still chugged so my parents wouldn’t notice I was missing from the Christmas party. Miguel discarded the empty bottle and we headed back inside.

As I entered the double doorway, I caught Dad’s eye from the dance floor and he beckoned me to join him. Thinking we were busted, Miguel took off running back to the parking lot like a hound dog that had just spotted a rabbit.

“Come dance with me,” Dad signed.

I stood frozen for a second. I had no idea how to dance.

Dad didn’t know this would be my first time and wasn’t letting up. “What’s wrong? Come on!” He signed wildly and smiled more broadly than I’d ever seen. I weaved my way through tables toward him, gripping the backs of chairs to keep me stabilized. I reached the portable parquet dance floor just as the DJ cued “Footloose,” one of my favorites.

I joined Dad and began dancing with wild abandon. The effects
of the wine and my enthusiasm for Kenny Loggins gave me newfound confidence. I bit my lower lip, snapped my fingers, and flailed my arms and legs.

“You’re a good dancer,” Dad signed. He looked pleasantly surprised and backed up in order to take in the full picture.

I grew self-conscious for a moment, but I quickly swelled with pride. Dad, who danced better than John Travolta in
Saturday Night Fever
, was complimenting me!

I must be a natural
.

Dad and I boogied all night, improvising dance moves, dips, and twirls until the lights came on and the music stopped. I was sweaty and happy, even though my buzz from the wine had worn off.

No wonder Mom liked going out with Dad all the time
.

D
ad unwraps a fresh stick of gum and asks, “Are you still working in Rockefeller Center?”

“No, I run my own business full-time now. I produce live theater and comedy shows and help plays and comedians get publicity.” I tell him about the parties, the different people I work with, and how I once met Tina Louise from
Gilligan’s Island.
He always did like redheads
.

“I’m proud of you.” Dad claps his hands to applaud me, then adds, “Please remember, don’t take any dopes and drink heavily.”

“I know, Dad.”

If anyone knows the consequences, he does. As if on cue, he starts to regale me with tales from the Free World, before he was Inmate #13A46B7, many of which involve weed, booze, gambling, or a combination of all three. “One night I was out partying, dancing, drinking, you know. I saw a beautiful woman watching me play pool. I wanted to show off so I acted like that movie
Color of Money
and twirled my pool cue. I didn’t hear her walk up as I swung around. The stick hit her head and her hair went flying. She was bald! I screamed and grabbed the wig and put it back on her head and said, ‘Sorry, sorry, sorry!’ I never saw her again!”

Dad and I laugh so loud everyone around us stops and stares. I hear a nearby inmate tell his visitors, “He’s deaf. He’s a good guy. Real good guy.”

I smile. For a brief moment I think this isn’t so bad. In fact, this is the best I could have hoped for
.

I am having fun. I am visiting my father in jail, and I am having
fun. So is he. Through all the fighting and his roughened exterior, he has held on to his impish charm. The look of his smile and eyes and the way he tells me stories make it all worthwhile. Though I know he has an agenda, too
.

In the past, Dad has sent me cards that say, “Send money. Love, Daddy.” No “thank you.” No “please.” No gentilities. Now I’m overcome with satisfaction seeing him. Other prisoners admire him. His humor is intact. From now on when his notes are brief and beg for money, I will send him some. I will buy him new thermals that gleam white and new eyeglasses and smuggle in more gum and a burger. Whatever he wants
.

Suddenly a loud, angry shout breaks the hum of conversation in the prison visiting room. Startled, I jerk around but can’t tell who screamed. My adrenaline rushes and I am scared. The men surrounding me are dangerous. I am not in a comedy club. In this place, things could happen
.

“YOU!” A tall white man in beige slacks and white shirt with a tie screams again. I recognize him from the picture on the wall. The warden
.

Surely he isn’t looking at us. We’re just sitting here.

I raise my eyebrows and point to Dad. “Him?” Dad, finally aware that something is happening, turns his head in the direction of where I’m looking
.

The warden knows Dad is deaf, but he still shouts at full volume and overemphasizes each word so Dad can read his lips. “YES, YOU!”

The warden curls his index finger back and forth with each word as he commands Dad, “You! Come! Here! NOW!”

Dad struts over, cool as a cucumber
.

“WHAT’S IN YOUR MOUTH?” the warden demands. Dad opens wide and shows a mound of chewed gum resting on his tongue
.

The warden gets a crazy-eyed look and nearly pops a vein as he screams, “WHERE DID YOU GET THAT?”

Without hesitation, Dad points straight to me
.

My head spins. Not only are we busted, but Dad has ratted me out. I smile at the one-eyed murderer seated nearby, watching the events unfold. Hoping the warden will think I’m deaf, too, I act unfazed by what’s happening
.

The warden holds out a garbage pail and Dad spits out his wad of gum
.

Just like school
.

I squirm at seeing Dad being scolded like an unruly child. Dad is no longer the cool Danny Zuko of his youth, but a pathetic institutionalized version of himself. He saunters back to his seat as if nothing has happened
.

“What’s wrong?” I sign, with the most innocent face I can muster
.

“Not supposed to have gum.”

“Oh. Sorry,” I say with my own overexaggerated mouth movements to make sure the warden sees
.

I sip my Dr Pepper, but my hands are trembling and soda dribbles down my chin. Dad laughs. “You’re shaking? You’re scared? Pussy!”

REPO MAN

O
ur unforgettable night dancing at the yacht club party was one of the few times I saw Dad that year. Things at home were deteriorating between Mom and Dad. He wasn’t home as often, even when he wasn’t working. During one particularly prolonged absence, I confronted Mom.

“Where’s Daddy?” I asked her, dozens of times over the course of three or four days.

“I don’t know, Kambri,” Mom sighed.

“What if he had a wreck?”

“He didn’t have a wreck.”

Why doesn’t she care? Why doesn’t she call anyone?

I fretfully paced the driveway. I had tried preoccupying myself with my library or puzzles in
Games
magazine, but any creaking sound made by the trailer caused me to race outside to see if Dad was home. I preferred to stay outside and pick fleas and ticks off our dogs, a pair of boxers named Duke and Duchess and an American Eskimo pup named Cookie that Maria had given me. If the dogs were off on their own adventure, I drew patterns in the dirt with my big toe or shot baskets at our hoop, now about regulation height.

Dad’s disappearances had become regular occurrences over my thirteenth year, ever since I started working at the Walden Yacht Club and fireworks stand.

What if he’s dead? What will we do?

Mom gave me terse answers highlighted with exasperated sighs, which confused and frustrated me. I was no longer a kid. I was a teenager with responsibilities. I had even managed to work two jobs. I was accustomed to handling adult transactions, including interpreting conversations that were oftentimes inappropriate for my age. If my father’s frequent absences were troubling her, I didn’t know why she wouldn’t talk to me about it. Since his deaf friends were all in Houston, I wondered if he was too tired to drive home so late and slept on one of their couches instead. It seemed odd that Mom never panicked like I did.

This day, when I finally saw my father’s car advancing down our driveway, I ran to meet him.

“Where have you been? I was worried!” He smiled. To my annoyance, he looked amused that I had raced to greet him. “I’m sorry. I was with friends,” he signed.