Interstate (4 page)

Has to serve his maximum sentence, minus a few months, and is let out, returns to his old city and rents a single room, gets a job in a cheap hamburger-steak place, work he learned in prison, not the hamburgers so much or steaks at all though they're easy enough, steaks a bit trickier, but just weighing and frying and grilling and boiling and recooking lots of food quickly and on a much larger scale and dishing it out all at once and where he was one of many cooks rather than the only one behind the counter now who has to do some of the dishwashing too. Daughter marries but doesn't tell him where or when—she stopped writing him a few months after that last visit and her mother, when he called for Margo's phone number and address when he got out, told him about the marriage and said “I'll tell her you called, next time I hear from her—it could be this week or next—and if she wants to get in touch with you I'll give her your phone number and address—what are they, and by the way how are you?” and he said “Exhausted, demoralized, done in, badly off, but couldn't you call her today and tell her I'm out and want very much to see her, at least hear from her?” and she said “I'll try”—has a baby very quickly he hears soon after that from his ex-wife when he calls again for Margo's phone number or address or even her city and husband's last name and who won't give it, “Once again, that's her business,” she says, “she has her ways, which I don't necessarily approve of regarding you, but nothing I can say—I'll keep forwarding your letters and packages to her if you keep sending them here care of me or Dave, though with the packages, since we also aren't in great financial shape, maybe you can mail them first class instead of fourth or parcel post so we don't have to put out for the extra forwarding cost—and Margo says, well she still hasn't said anything about not wanting your mail, so maybe one day, I'm sure this'll be the case—she's still a kid, even with one of her own, and congratulations, Grandpa, I'm sure nobody's said that to you before, and kids change—she'll switch over,” and he says “From what—seeing or hearing from me or something deeper I don't know about? Or just the obvious—she say she's ashamed of my having done time or frightened because I once pummeled and killed some guy, now that she has her own child?” and she says “Wish I knew, Nat, she's closemouthed on the subject, but you remember her as a girl—supersensitive and always a reader, never one for talk or introspection except about her dreams and books—she in fact reprimands me when I ask what gives over you,” and he says “Plead with her, Lee, please plead with her for me—tell her prison neutered and weakened me and I've become the most harmless of men, slapping patties, going home and reading newspapers, on my days off taking walks and going to movies and museums and in the park looking at the kids playing in the playground till it gets to look suspicious and in the zoo throwing old restaurant rolls to those birds that stand on one leg, flamingos, and all kinds of no-flying ducks—sounds hokey, I know, but I'm not saying it to make me seem even more harmless to you so you can report back to her how much but because it's what I am, or have become—which is it? for I truly forget a lot of what I was like before I bopped those guys—for there are no friends or nothing else from before, the jobs I had where I knew people I got so far behind at in twelve years, and no doubt my prison and what I did to get in didn't help, that they wouldn't hire me anymore, all of which I've said endlessly in my letters to her, and about my harmlessness, but maybe she'll tune into it better coming from you,” and she says “I'll try but not to the point where she then won't want to speak to me,” and he says “So she lives nearby you?” and she says “No, why'd you say that?” and he says “I don't know—thought if she did I could trick you into saying so and maybe where and if she didn't and you said so, I'd know that too, which I now do and isn't any help to me and just shows how desperate I am to know even the slightest inkling of her and just to see her, I'm sorry,” and she says “You ever think that perhaps desperation like that is what might be pushing her away?” and he says “Why should it be?—I'm just a familyless father showing normal loss and love after so many years with probably some holdover woe going all the way back to our poor Julie, for do you ever forget?” and she says “I don't want to talk about it,” and he says “Okay, you got other people to do it to, which I'm glad for you, plus also you've another kid, but did Margo tell you that about pushing her away?” and she says “In all honesty, no,” and some years later Margo calls him at work—he'd given her the number in his letters, always at the top left under his address along with his home phone number and what times and days he's usually at either place—and says “Hello, it's Margo, your daughter, how are you?” and he says “Margo, my goodness, oh-h-h, gosh, where you calling from, how are you?” and she says “I tried getting you at home the last few hours but nobody answered and you have no answering machine,” and he says “My hours aren't others', and me, a machine? but I thought I gave my work and home hours in my letters in case you did call, and they haven't changed in years,” and she says “I don't remember seeing them, and it's all right to talk to you here?” and he says “For the moment, sure, I practically run this joint, but don't hang up without letting me know where you are,” and she says “You're the manager?” and he says “Just a cook and counterman but of long standing and so honest they know they could never get another like me,” and she says “And that was a fib about the hours—I remember now—actually, I remembered when I mentioned them before, but I didn't jot them down, only your phone numbers and home address,” and he says “It's okay, it's okay, and you're okay, everything at home okay? nothing wrong I hope with your family or your mother or other sister, the one between Lee and her new husband—new, old, her second husband,” and she says “No, I'm just calling, and listen, I'm sorry I haven't contacted you sooner, haven't been in contact, period, I'm not certain why I haven't though I know it's inexcusable and more inexcusable why I didn't answer even a fraction of your wonderful letters,” and he says “They weren't wonderful, they were mostly sappy and dumb and maybe too beggarlike, right?” and she says “They were very nice, no excessive demands or reproaches on me, which I could have used to get me to write back, and also for the books and things for me you sent and birthday presents for what you thought were the birth dates of my boys,” and he says “I didn't know the exact dates, and am only finding out now the exact genders, but just the approximate ones by a month or two which is all your mother would tell me—she said you'd have to tell me yourself and when I said ‘What's the harm if I know the exact dates?'—though I'm not blaming her—‘in fact it'll be clearer to her kids,' I said, ‘why they're getting these gifts and if I know what sex they are I can get them even more fitting gifts, dolls for the boys, catcher mitts for the girls, et cetera,' only kidding, she said that's all she'd tell me, that she possibly shouldn't have even said you had kids, so I just guessed the sex and exact dates, hoping, sly devil I am, that you'd send a note back not thanking me so much as correcting me, but anyway, let's forget it, just hearing your voice is all and I'm talking too much to hear much of it, and you sound so different, nowhere near like you did, your speaking manner, use of words and proper diction—you make me feel like a dolt in comparison—you sure this is my old Margo and not some practical-joker one? only kidding again—just put up with me, honey, I'm so excited I can't stop mouthing, but where are you, in your city, the country?” and she says “No, yours, with my husband and oldest son,” and he says “That's right, three, and now boys, I know, and all of them you had while working plus going to school and then getting not one but two after-college degrees, your mother said, and in very difficult fields,” and she says “Rigorous disciplines, perhaps, but not difficult—I must have had the knack, just as I probably couldn't have done the schoolwork for what you did before, what was that?” and he says “Before what?” and she says “The present job,” and he says “Dental technician, something my father wanted me to do because he thought it a field where I'd always have a job, but by the time I got out, but wait a minute, the city? here? this one?” and she says “Glen, my husband, is attending a sales rally and the parent company of his firm wanted to have it here because of all the waterfront attractions and I guess the place caters to it, so I thought I'd turn it into a minivacation for me and sightseeing trip for our son and also a chance to see the few of my friends left here,” and he says “Oh, and who are they?” and she says “People, but getting back to before, I suppose part of why, if you don't mind my saying, though I'd like to get it out right away—that's the way I've become, open like that, though I'm not saying it's the best quality or I'm boasting or occasionally couldn't be more diplomatic at it,” and he says “Anyway, what were you saying?” and she says “That part of why I stopped having contact with you was that I wanted to cut myself off from my old life, childhood friends included, though perhaps not Mom—that would have been too radical a surgery—to develop on my own, if you can accept that,” and he says “Okay, that's interesting, something to think about, but speaking of cutting off, honey, and this is in no way a reaction to what you said, for there's nothing more in life I want to do than speak to you and soon after that to meet Glen and your boy, whatever his name is,” and she says “Saul,” and he says “Biblical—any reason, or Glen's family?” and she says no and he says “And the other two?” and she says “Dyon and Carlos,” and he says “Nice names too—after anyone I know?” and she says “No, we liked them as names,” and he says “But I thought everyone's named after someone—I'm named after my mother's father Nathaniel, who I never knew—he died, that's why, before I was born, which is how you usually did it, and ‘Margo' comes from my mother's brother Marvin who was killed in the war, and which your mother was kind enough to go along with, but you know this,” and she says “Not the particulars, so go on,” and he says “And who because I was so young when he died you could say I almost never saw, or actually as a result of injuries from it a year later—they say he blanked out at the wheel of his car because of being shell-shocked in battle, or something like that—it's funny how you forget—I do, when at the time it's the biggest thing existing—but anyway, being I was the only child I knew it's what my mother would have wanted—it pleased her till she died that you were named Margo after him,” and she says “Well what can I say?—with each of ours we took the ten best names we found in the most complete namebook, considered Glen's surname in relation to it, and narrowed it down to two or three—” and he says “Excuse me but by surname do you mean last name?” and she says yes and he says “What is it?” and she says “I still go by my maiden name, even if it's yours, meaning a man's, but at least I didn't continue the custom I wasn't so keen on, adopting my husband's patronym,” and he says “It's not a bad one, our last name—one syllable, confusing to spell if you think it's the spat or shred Fray rather than an
e
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But anyway, my sweetheart, I am suddenly in the thick of work with two customers, and hungry ones, judging by their faces—in fact, not wanting to be a fibber either, they came in more than five minutes ago and have been good about it but they got to get back to work too and business hasn't been that hot, so we need them, so give me your number where you are and I'll call back soon,” and she says “I can call you at home later—when would be the best time?” and he says “No, please, I don't want to miss you, long as you're here—to be straight open, you might change your mind or have a memory lapse for your entire time here, only kidding, or even lose my phone numbers—that could happen, people lose things—and not remember how to get them—place I work at is called the Corner Cafe, but no ‘the' before it, just Corner Cafe, so listed in the directory under C, for Corner, then ‘Cafe' after it, and on Abbott Street, like Bud Abbott and Lou Costello—Abbott and Costello they were called, but you wouldn't remember them, an old-time comedian team,” and she says “Sure, I once saw a movie with them on TV, or maybe it was a video with my kids—something with a ghost, the humor grossly dated and somewhat trite, but they didn't like it much either—you have to understand I'm not that young and you're not that old, you might have had me when you were past thirty but now I'm getting to be thirty,” and he says “Not possible,” and she says “I'm telling you, I'll even show you my driver's license,” and he says “You mean you're old enough to drive?—only kidding, and I want to see it, you show it when you see me, and listen, Margo, if you don't call I'll only go from hotel to hotel looking for you and there has to be a couple of dozen of them by the harbor now, so wouldn't that be a waste of time? and I'd also be putting my job on the line or my bosses in a tough spot because I wouldn't go in when I'm supposed to and they need me, as I'd be out searching for you,” and she says “I swear I'll call, or just meet us for lunch tomorrow,” and he says “Lunch is so short—I know, fellas,” he says to the customers at the counter, “I'll be right there—my daughter,” pointing to the mouthpiece, then the ear part, “after I can't tell you how many years,” and the men nod, say with their hands “Take your time,” and he says into the phone “Excuse me, I had to pause for work stuff, anyway, lunch is too short and I don't think I could get off, so what about dinner tonight, out, my treat, all of you?” and she says “Dinner? tonight?—just a moment, Dad,” and she starts talking away from the phone—“He wants to take us all out for dinner tonight”—and another voice talks, but all garbled, and then he hears nothing, her hand must be muzzling the receiver, and one of the men says “Long as you're just standing there, Nat, start my regular,” and he says “Hold it, she might suddenly come back on, and when it's over I'll be extra fast, making up for what time you lost,” and another man says “At least our coffee, or mine, heck with him,” and he puts his hand up for them to wait and she says “All right…Dad?” and he says yeah and she says “Tonight, but our treat, Glen didn't think he could get away from a cocktail party-dinner his company's throwing, but this comes first,” and he says “Great, but my treat, I insist on it,” and she says “We'll meet only if you abide by this one condition—it's on us,” and he says “I'll abide, I'll abide, I can't wait to abide,” and she gives him the name of a restaurant near their hotel that she heard was good—“You still like seafood, or rather, did you ever?” and he says “Anything, pizza, even, Crackerjacks—just seeing you all is all I want, food's no consequence but I'll eat if that's your second condition,” and what time to meet and they meet at the front of the restaurant, he's there fifteen minutes before, thinking maybe they'll get there early, can't believe it's her when she comes in, knows though immediately it is, very slim but not skinny, taller, even, and she was tall then, filled out on top or maybe it's what she's wearing, no, she was still developing when he last saw her, old as she was, hips, longer legs, the fashionable clothes it seems, anyway, well dressed, pretty as ever, prettier, beautiful and not just because she's his daughter, any man would fall for her, a decent honest intelligent man but he bets the horns also can't take their eyes off her when she walks down the street, a kid before, woman now, nice-looking son, tall, like him and her but not his father who's a couple inches shorter than her and she's not wearing heels, kid a little scared of him or just shy, almost no smile, fish handshake but he's still very young, he likes the way they dress him for the restaurant or the occasion he could say, jacket and tie, husband seems nice, dignified, polite, bright, comes from money or made it on his own ethically, somewhat square or so it seems at first meeting, clothes, haircut, company man looks like, she hurries over to him second she sees him and kisses his cheek, “I know you, you must be my dad and practically unchanged,” smiling, stepping back, “Absolutely none, you're amazing,” introduces her husband and son, he's dressed up too, his one tie with his one suit he got married in almost thirty years ago and wore day after day in court and it still looks good, wore it into prison just to have it when he got out, they only allowed one outfit to bring in and for them to store, dry-cleaned it soon after his release but hasn't worn it once till now, didn't need a pressing though, kept its shape, wood hanger instead of wire and the plastic bag never off it, heavy wool on this warm June day, trouser legs might be a bit baggy but his weight's the same, maybe differently distributed but he can't see, as it was some fifteen years ago and he doesn't seem to have shrunk any, shirt is one of the two he wears at work and last night washed and hung-dried, tie he used for a few of his job interviews years before, shaved though he'd shaved at six this morning before going to work, said to himself in the bathroom mirror while shaving “Feel like I'm going to meet this love-of-my-life girlfriend of ten years ago who I'm still crazy about and she's just split up with her husband and I think there's a chance between us—look at yourself, that's how nervous and scared you are,” lots of questions while they sit at their table and all have drinks, kid a Shirley Temple but he says, after Glen gives the waitress their drink order, “For a boy it's a Jackie Coogan, I think,” and all three of them and the waitress say “Who's he?” or “What's that?” and he says “Abbott and Costello's roommate and sidekick,” and Margo laughs and Glen says “What gives—old family joke?” and the waitress says “But same thing as a Shirley Temple, correct—no alcohol, dash of grenadine, a bar cherry?” and goes and he says “Could be I'm wrong and for all I know a Coogan gets club soda instead of ginger ale and maybe even a couple of drops of rye—what do I know about heavy drinking? and also Coogan was probably more Shirley Temple's contemporary than Bud and Lou's,” and Glen says “Pardon me again, sir, but who are they?” and he says “What kind of cloaked—what's the word, closeted, closed-off, maybe—family you grow up in that you don't know them?—mine we made sure my kids learned important things like that—only kidding,” and Saul says “You said ‘my kids,' Grandpa—you have any more children after you and Grandma Lee got a divorce? Because it'd be nice knowing I have another aunt and uncle and cousins somewhere, even if only step ones,” and he says “You would have an aunt and no doubt the rest but we don't want to go into it now—she was younger than you when she passed away—is that remarkable, Margo, can that be believed, that she was probably younger than your son here?—sweetest kid,” he says to Saul, “outside of your mother, of course—they were equals in sweetness—that was ever alive,” and starts to cry and Saul says to his parents “Did I do something?” and Margo says “