I
On the drive into Meridan, Oregon, Stone seems quieter, more pensive. We round a hilltop of drier, thinner pine trees and descend into the city valley. Though from above it looks like a small city, once we reach the flats the highway turns into a suburban street. We drive beneath traffic lights and alongside us strip malls quickly pass. There is no traffic on this Fourth of July weekend, the parking lots standing empty, and we progress rapidly towards the downtown without seeing an open service station.
The man does not say anything, though he must be wondering where I am going to leave my car. In Los Angeles you would find someplace open on any day of the year except maybe Christmas, but this is not LA and as we drive onto the downtown’s wide one-way street we no longer see even the closed service stations of the suburbs with their shuttered garage doors. I do not know what to do. He must be waiting for me to say something about where to leave the car so he can get back home. Now that we are inside the city limits it feels like every inch this man drives is an act of charity for me.
Don’t look so pale, he says.
Do I look pale?
Maybe.
He grins and taps at the steering wheel, clicking it. His fingernails are black with dirt crescents at the ends.
You could drop me off anywhere, I say.
You mean on one of these empty streets? he asks, as if I have said something ridiculous.
Sure.
Don’t be crazy.
We drive on. The sun has lowered into the nest of pine trees on the valley’s far ridge top. Yellow light comes through in broken rays.
So it looks like all the stations are closed, he says.
I guess so.
You had any place in mind where you wanted to put the car?
I shake my head.
He nods to himself. I see.
If you pulled over at a pay phone I could take a look at a phone book, I say, trying to keep my voice from breaking. Maybe I could get an idea that way.
He purses his lips and ponders over this. Problem is they stopped putting phone books in pay phones because people kept ripping them out.
Really?
Sure.
For a moment I take this in.
You mean even here? I say weakly.
Even here.
The truck jerks over a pothole, clattering something against the cab back, a thump behind my seat, then lifts me for a moment off the vinyl and then we round a corner and my weight shifts against the door and the plastic handle presses into my arm.
He seems to be waiting for me to say something. The sky has gone from afternoon blue to early evening orange, as if a fire burned on the far side of the west bordering mountains. A scent reaches my nostrils that smells like ash but it is probably my imagination and only pollen or pine or city soot.
He comes to the suburbs and loops back towards downtown. He says nothing. It is as if this were a normal action. We pass some car dealers, their cars in ordered and abandoned rows. All places I have seen before, nowhere to put my car.
I look out the window, scrunching my eyes so they will not tear.
From the corner of my vision I feel his measured glance. Familiar storefronts pass on either side.
I tell him: Do you think if I left the car in front of a station somebody might steal it?
For a moment he seems to ponder this, then finally shakes his head.
Let’s just pick one then.
We pass one and another and another, but none feel right. He does not press me to make a choice.
None of them feel right, I say.
I know what you mean.
We near another one with dirty windows and a crowd of old cars stuffed haphazardly into the lot before it. Maybe they would be too busy on Monday and would not appreciate finding a stranger’s car there unannounced. Or maybe they would love it, and charge me whatever they wanted to. I can imagine myself walking up to them in the morning with my car parked like that, looking like an idiot. But that is tomorrow.
What about this place? I say.
Could be.
But do you think it would be okay with them to leave it here?
Are you kidding? Of course. They’d be thrilled to find a car here tomorrow morning because then they could charge you all they wanted to.
To this I am quiet.
I tell you what, he says. Why don’t you let me leave you in a motel with your car there and then you can call around for quotes in the morning and have it towed someplace courtesy of the auto club.
Sure.
Immediately he turns onto a side road and we ride past some old clapboard houses with lawns and shade and faded yellow grass. He turns into an alley, coming behind some low buildings, barely missing a rusted gutter pipe. He seems confident now of where we are going. We cross three more side streets and then veer into the parking lot of a motel from the rear and it occurs to me that he knows this place well and probably planned to bring me here all along.
You coming in? he says, halfway out the truck door and fingering shut the lock.
He leads me into the office.
After he rings the bell a door opens. A man comes out from a room flickering with television light that illuminates an old plaid couch deep inside. He closes the door behind him and steps beneath the fluorescent lights. The light gives his hand a ghostly color as he gets out a registration card.
Before I can reach for it, the tow truck man begins filling the card out. This seems strange, but I just stand quietly as he finishes. I am nervous because although I have the cash from selling Buster, I have no credit card, and in these places they usually want some sort of an imprint for a deposit. My hand slips into my pocket and fingers the lump of bills and I try to think of what to say. But Stone finishes the card and slips it back to the motel man, who clatters a key onto the table and slides it over to Stone, who then turns from the desk. The hotel man does not ask for any money and remains there watching us.
Okay, buddy, Stone says.
I do not move. He hesitates, looking at me.
Don’t look so pale, buddy.
What about a deposit? I say.
Don’t worry about that.
But I think the hotel guy forgot about it, I tell him.
A twitch of concern passes over his face, and he eases between me and the man, obscuring the man’s face with a shoulder.
It’s okay, Stone says.
The man’s expression is hidden, and I step sideways to see him. He has started towards the doorway to his living room or whatever it is, but in turning catches my eyes. He pauses. He calls out to me. Stone stands there wanting me to be quiet but the man’s head is turned now and I manage to say that he forgot to ask me for a deposit. My hands ease into my pockets to keep from trembling.
The man stares at me. No, you already paid, he says.
No I didn’t.
He laughs. You did too, though if you want to pay twice I won’t object.
But I didn’t.
Come on, Stone says. Let’s go.
The hotel guy gestures towards Stone. He paid, son.
Stone looks at me shyly. There is something nervous in his eyes.
Why did you pay for me?
No reason.
No, you paid for lunch. I can’t let you pay for my room too. My voice trembles from upset just getting the words out.
Don’t worry about it, buddy. My treat.
By now the hotel guy is looking at Stone and you can sense that Stone feels this and wants me to be quiet and can we get out of here and so I keep quiet, even though the words want to burst out.
You folks father and son? the man says to me, stepping forward.
He’s my nephew, Stone says.
The man regards him suspiciously, but I nod and he watches us as we push open the glass door. We stand beneath the arch of the covered drive and the hotel guy watches us through the window, making Stone uncomfortable, but I stay here anyway. Instead of going back into the inner room, the hotel man takes a seat behind the front counter, facing us as he opens a ledger and goes over it with a pen.
Stone seems impatient to go.
So why’d you pay for my hotel room? I ask him.
Do I have to have a reason? he says, trying to make himself angry but failing.
He tries to pat my shoulder, but only manages an awkward slap, and I do not respond.
Let’s just get some of your bags from your car into your room, he says. After a moment he adds: Come on, buddy, don’t look at me like that. What the hell do you think this is about?
This makes me blush and look down. We walk to the truck and climb up the platform and open the car door, slanted as it sits, and grab two duffel bags and lug them across the parking lot towards my room. Stone holds the key in his hand, clattering against his leg. But before we get within ten yards of the door, I set down my bag and stop. I cross my arms.
He sighs. Okay listen, buddy, he says. I’m not paying for your room.
The first chilly gust of evening wind blows behind me, parting my hair above the back of my neck, like icy fingers against my scalp.
What do you mean?
I wanted to surprise you.
His meaning does not make itself clear to me. I look at him and wait for more.
Your mother’s paying for it, he says.
The sun beats against the white walls of the motel and against the stark plaster of the stairway. In my temples a steady pulse throbs. In the middle of the parking lot the fenced pool is empty but the sound of a lawn chair leg scraping concrete comes to my ears, and I catch sight of a young couple pulling lawn chairs beside it and removing from a paper grocery bag some beers.
What do you mean? I say.
She’s here.
You mean my mom?
He nods.
This makes me very still. My muscles stiffen in my arms and in my back and the twitching returns to my hand. The boy says something that makes the girl giggle and it echoes in the parking lot, among the motel buildings which surround us.
You’ve met my mom? I say.
He fingers the shirt cloth at his chest, looking unsure.
He shakes his head.
My temples throb. My mother’s brother Betino looks white—they both have Spanish blood—but my mother appears really dark—very Filipino—even though she avoids the sun. I can’t imagine Stone meeting her and mistaking her for being white.
Why would she be here? I manage to mumble.
I called your house at the gas station and she was going to fly up, he says. I’m sorry, buddy, but you just didn’t look old enough to be out on your own like that. I got your number through your Triple A card. I hope you don’t mind. I thought you probably ran away from home.
He waits for me to say something. On the eastern rim of the valley a golden glow bathes the mountaintops, like a fragile crown floating above shadowy foothills. Beyond it a crescent moon is beginning to come out, grinning in the still blue sky.
So are you going to meet her? I say, realizing immediately how strange this question sounds but wanting him to get into his truck and leave. He looks at me strangely.
I don’t even know if she’s here yet, he says. Hey, why don’t we get inside, all right?
He peers down at my bag, then picks it up. Finally I grip the other one and follow him to the door. The curtain in the front window is partially opened and no movement is apparent inside, although she could be in the bathroom or on the edge of the bed closest to the television set, blocked from view. At this point I expect him to knock but he pauses, then turns my way. He asks if I am worried she will be mad at me, and I say no and he nods.
He steps aside and gestures for me to knock. It is understood that she must be inside. He does not know what she looks like, that is clear now, and there must be some way to get him to get back into his truck and leave, but the method does not reveal itself to me.
The wood feels hard against my knuckles. We get no answer.
Stepping up, he fits the key into the doorknob. If I am lucky their flight will be delayed and we will have some time and maybe this man will get into his truck and leave. But the door opens and he steps inside, and even before he turns on the light I smell her scent—then the lamp is on and there is her black suitcase on the bed, opened.
The room is empty.
While the man splashes water on his face over the bathroom sink, I hover by the doorway trying to think of a way to get rid of him before Mom gets back. Hopefully when he gets freshened up he will decide to drive home. Maybe I could even suggest it. It is getting late, after all. But when he comes out I am too embarrassed to say anything and he makes no effort to leave. Maybe he even feels responsible for me.
He calls the front desk and tells me she walked to Denny’s to eat. He tells me to pull a jacket out of my suitcase because we are going to walk over and meet them.
II
Now in addition to everything else, as if to make matters worse, I begin to feel embarrassed about the things I thought about him and that he knows I thought them, and so I am shy and keep a few feet back as I follow this man across the parking lot. The sky has faded from evening blue to purple night, and a cool brittle breeze teases my hair.
The Denny’s stands across the parking lot, brightly lit from within. As we near I can see in a booth inside the wall-high windows my mother eating with my aunt. Even beneath the light Mom’s face appears dark as a shadow—worse than I remembered—and she wears the enormous glasses I hate. Aunt Jessica’s presence surprises me. She is my father’s half sister, a very pale woman of correct posture who has more to do with us than my father, and who refuses to speak to him on our account, and who seems to have taken Mom under her wing. They are a strange pair to spend time together: Mom, who is Catholic, and Aunt Jessica, who calls herself a feminist and who runs a small chain of lingerie boutiques on the Westside for rich people and celebrities.
As we get closer, the man asks me if I see my mother. I have no choice but to point out their booth.
He nods approvingly, focusing his gaze on Aunt Jessica with her silk blue scarf wrapped stylishly about her neck.
That is some lady, he says, and turns to Mom. But who is that with her?
We stand not fifteen yards away, although neither of them sees us. The room’s crowded with old people and a couple of families and a booth of smoking teenagers and a long counter behind which you can see the kitchen. It is a clean room, brightly lit, and my aunt fingers her scarf at her neck. It shines an orchid blue against her pale complexion. My mother nods at something she says and it occurs to me that she is a short woman and that my aunt does all the talking. Mom nods at whatever she says. In response to Aunt Jessica’s questioning, she prepares to make an answer, but a waitress comes and Mom sits quietly while the woman takes away their plates.
That’s our maid, I say, gesturing towards Mom.
He puckers his lips and whistles in admiration. Somewhere in the empty city a semi roars as if on an open highway, its sound coming to me distantly and echoing through the treeless buildings and crossing the empty highway. He starts towards the door and makes it twenty feet away from me before he realizes I am not following him and he turns and appears exasperated by my behavior and he asks me what is the matter.
My brain scrambles for something to say and finds nothing, but fortunately Mom rises from her booth, clutching her purse cautiously as she begins making her way towards the bathroom. Without a word I follow him.
He shakes his head in bewilderment but opens the door for me without a word and then we enter the warm interior.
Light floods everything. It is a room of bright carpet and no shadow and the sound of clattering trays. Aunt Jessica brightens at our approach. Being formal and stiff from her mother’s German side of the family, she does not rise to embrace me, but you can tell she is glad to see me and her rebuke is only mild and teasing.
Well if it isn’t the bad boy himself, she says. I’d spank you if you weren’t so old. It seems like nobody else in this family has the spine to.
She blows cigarette smoke over her shoulder. A year ago she might have reached over and pinched my cheek, an alarming habit to witness in an upright lady like her, and although now she keeps back you can tell she feels the impulse. She blames my mother’s softheartedness for Tomas’s behavior, and now mine, and has decided to latch herself onto my mother to get us better disciplined, though she complains that since she is not our mother it is nearly impossible and anyway she sees me as a different and more delicate case than Tomas.
So go ahead and sit down, she says, patting the seat beside her.
Her gesture must seem strangely formal to Stone, who has been standing aside, not sure where he fits in this conversation.
She notices him for the first time, and they exchange greetings. Then she invites him to sit opposite us.
If only he would leave. Sometimes if you will a thought hard enough it will happen; but not now. She thanks him for showing such concern for me. My heart sinks when she offers to buy him dinner, waving a waitress over for a menu before he can either accept or decline.
My head crumbles into my shoulders and I peer into my folded hands.
It’s late, I say. Maybe he has to get home soon.
This sounds rude, I can tell, and both of them stare at me. With my eyes closed now I can feel the room’s noise vibrating in the table—the people talking and laughing and the plates and silverware and even distinct clattering from the open kitchen.
Don’t talk silly, Gabe, she says dismissively. The man has to eat. Besides he’s going to get a nice tip. She looks away to blow a curl of smoke that glows in the fluorescent light.
Stone looks down at his fingers, blushing, and he fumbles a few weak words of protest. Despite her refinement, my aunt was trained as a lawyer and she can be impatient with social niceties and sometimes speaks very bluntly. My cheeks burn.
At any time Mom could be back. I look over my shoulder once or twice, towards the hall that leads to the phones and rest rooms, but she is not in sight.
Don’t worry, my aunt says, assuming I am impatient for Mom to return. She’ll be back soon.
Stone listens to this and it must seem strange to him that I would be so restless to see a maid, but he keeps quiet. His elbows rest on the table and he does not seem to know what to do with his hands.
Fine, I say abruptly. Maybe now we can order dessert.
Dessert? she says.
I begin signaling for the waitress. I’ll get her to bring apple pie, I say. What about you, Stone?
Don’t be ridiculous, Aunt Jessica says. You haven’t even eaten a proper meal yet.
We didn’t eat that long ago, I tell her.
She looks embarrassedly towards Stone, a gesture meant for me, to tell me to stop. You should only speak for yourself, Gabe.
It’s okay. He’s not hungry.
Stone regards me quizzically and the tendons on the backs of his fingers tense and loosen but he says nothing.
Gabe! Don’t be rude. How could you know what he wants to eat anyway?
My hand has been down, but the waitress already saw me gesture for her and she comes over now. She brings out a pad of paper. My aunt gives her an annoyed look.
The waitress asks what we want.
I’ll have the apple pie, I tell her.
Aunt Jessica tells her to cross it out and she does and then my aunt tells her to write down a hamburger for me and the waitress takes Stone’s order and goes off. My aunt studies me.
What’s gotten into you, Gabe?
I shrug, keeping my eyes focused below her chin where she has knotted her delicate scarf, green and blue, around her neck.
We keep quiet for some time. A long hard moment of clattering dishes and a roomful of crowded chatter and the families and old people talking and the booth with the teenage couple. They hold hands.
Mom must be on the pay phone or dealing with her period or something, she’s taking so long. My palms push against the table and I start to get up.
Where are you going? Aunt Jessica says.
Nowhere.
I sit. My hands fold on the tabletop but its surface feels hard against my wrist and hand bones and I turn them on their backs but they look funny to me and I put them palms down. They are pale. Finally Aunt Jessica tells me to stop fidgeting. I stop. We sit quietly for a minute and you can feel her annoyance and the awkward nervousness and Stone feels it but probably does not know what it is about, and finally my aunt turns to him and tries to make polite conversation.
He does not tell her about Mexicans or Asians, thank God. It seems to be something he knows not to talk about around a person like her and it occurs to me for the first time that he must have sensed something about me to bring these things up to a stranger. I wonder what it is, this difference: between my aunt and me. Now he is telling her about his tow truck business and our drive, though he leaves out the part about the cook and the dishwasher.
She is very good at talking, my aunt, and he relaxes and smiles boyishly now and this makes me nervous. Sometimes, it seems, moments like this are when people speak more freely. They get careless. He leans forward, arms gently on the table, voice animated. I look to the doorway—towards the cool outside—and notice a white paper cup tumbling ghostly across the lot.
Now I contemplate rising, but then get the idea that if I do Aunt Jessica will tell me not to because my mother will be back soon. But it has been some time now and she will be back soon, telephone or not.
I wait for them to become more engaged in their conversation, studying them carefully. When it seems they have forgotten me, I slide quickly off the seat and begin making my way through the booths. Unfortunately, some people get ahead of me and I have to slow down as my aunt calls after me.
I get to the door.
Outside it is cool now as a dry wind comes off the snow-capped mountains and simple footlights illuminate the manicured plants and cast little yellow halos. Inside the restaurant Aunt Jessica is coming quickly after me.
She enters the glass doorway, silhouetted.
Get in here, she says.
Her tone is so cold and with the way she holds open the door I do not run across the lot but bow my head and walk obediently inside. She closes the door after me.
We stand by the waiting-area seats. Looking towards the table, I can see that Mom has sat down again. Her purse strap is hooked cautiously about her elbow.
Gabe, are you going in now, or am I going to have to ask you again? my aunt says.
I look at her but do not move.
She is really angry now, clutching her elbows the way she does when she gets mad, but then something in my face seems to make her own expression soften.
What is it, Gabe? she says.
Nothing.
Come on, Gabe.
I told you. Nothing.
Is there something you’re afraid of telling your mother?
If I told her now, she could handle things and Mom would never know. My mother sits at the table talking with the tow truck guy. I study her eyes to see if anything is the matter, but she seems to be enjoying the conversation. When my father left she cried, and when Tomas was arrested she did not eat for five days.
No, I say.
I start towards the door, but my aunt does not move.
Are you sure?
I nod.
She puts a hand out, catching my chest and blocking me. Her fingers are thin—almost bony—and through my shirt I can feel her sharp, manicured nails.
What’s happened to you, Gabrielito? she says. I thought you’d put all that nonsense with your brother behind you. You seemed to be changing so much for the better.
I shrug.
I’m really disappointed, you know.
Maybe she is waiting for a reaction, but she does not get one. Her lips are hard and pressed and her gaze fixes steadily on me.
She sighs, then opens the inner glass door. All right then, she says coldly. Go inside.
The indifference of her voice surprises me, but I enter and start towards the booth. Mom’s back is to me but the tow truck man’s eyes widen, as if concerned that I have been scolded to an unfair degree. His face appears all sympathy.
Mom turns and, in her excitement to stand, knocks over a glass of water. An awkward moment elapses as she senses the man’s impulse to reach over and upright it. Then—no doubt remembering that she is a maid—he sits back down. My mother looks flustered as water begins sliding off the table. She fumbles to pry some napkins from the dispenser and tosses them on the mess. Stone blushes as he watches.
Mom’s fingers tremble—she wants to turn to me—and finally she stops the flow and steps into the aisle.
She tries to hug me, but seeing Stone’s confused face over her shoulder, I stand stiffly.
She seems to feel this and her body hardens, pulling back. As her coarse black hair pulls away from my face I smell her scent, the same shampoo she has always used, and her favorite makeup.
Hi, I say.
Withdrawn now, she acknowledges my name simply and coolly and begins to sit again, but suddenly rushes back to me and pinches my cheek and grabs my ears. I blush.
No questions, she says. Okay?
She must be afraid that I will bolt off and run away again. I nod quickly, and she senses my desire for her to sit, and we do.
For some reason Aunt Jessica does not introduce Mom to the driver, and as we eat our food I feel them observing me. My mother sits next to the tow truck man, and although I saw him chatting with her earlier, his body instinctively turns away from her as his attention focuses on me and Aunt Jessica, the proper family members. I fumble the hamburger in my fingers, forcing myself to take little nibbles that make me feel sick.
Finally Stone tries to break the silence, turning to Aunt Jessica.
So your flight got in on time, Mrs. Sullivan? he says.
Her knife halts in the air, confused.
Oh I’m not Mrs. Sullivan, she says. I’m married. My name’s Jacobson.
I see, he says, looking confused but pretending to understand.
They look down at their plates. We eat quietly. Forks click and scrape ceramic. A wrinkle of frustration passes above my aunt’s blue eyes.
Wait, she says. That doesn’t make sense.
What doesn’t? says the man.
That you should think my name’s Sullivan just because I’m her sister-in-law.
He stares at her. Why not?
Well because I told you I’m married, Mr. Garret. It’s obvious. I’d have a different name from the boy.
The man glances my way.
Of course I know you’re married, he says. I mean—unless you were divorced.
A moment of silence passes.
But I don’t see how that means you wouldn’t be called Mrs. Sullivan, he adds with rising frustration.
My aunt seems to sense that maybe he feels she was questioning his intelligence and she bites her lip. After a time, the man suddenly looks up.
Whose sister are we talking about, anyway?
No, Mr. Garret—sister-in-law.
Okay, sure, whatever you say, he says, throwing up his hands in frustration.
My mother gives Aunt Jessica a hard look—mortified that she would give this man who was so nice to me such a hard time. Aunt Jessica returns to her food, rebuked.
The waitress comes and takes away our plates and returns with the desserts, which clatter onto the table.
Aunt Jessica looks up. I’m sorry, Mr. Garret.
Her hands lie flat on the table.
No problem, he says, relaxing now. I sense Mom relaxing too. Outside a car moves into a parking space and its headlights illuminate the window dust, creating a filmy sheet, and light and shadow shifts faintly across our faces, even in this brightly lit room.
But you know, he adds, I still don’t know who you’re talking about when you say sister.
My aunt wrinkles her brow.
She didn’t put whipped cream on my chocolate, I interrupt.
What? Aunt Jessica turns to me in annoyance.
My sundae. It sucks without whipped cream.
She ignores me, turning back to him. I’m afraid I’m not getting you.
Waitress! I say.
Will you just sit, Gabe, she says.
I sit. She starts to say something to the man, but the waitress comes. My aunt holds her words—flustered—and starts to wave the woman off, then sensing my mother watching her, she changes her mind and sends my sundae off for the whipped cream.
What do you say, Gabe? Mom says.
What?
What do you tell your Aunt Jessica?
Thank you.
I look down at my hands. Across the table Stone keeps very quiet. My mother smiles to herself, pleased.
Aunt Jessica seems to forget what she had to say, and we all wait for the waitress to return. About five minutes later she comes back and sets down my sundae. A mound of whipped cream has dropped off to one side, and you can see the ice cream has melted.
Take this back, Mom says.
The waitress turns to her.
What?
It’s melted.
It’s okay, I say.
No, take it back.
The waitress makes a face but picks the sundae up and leaves. Her pocket rag whips across her thighs as she steps around a corner, finger flicking a strand of hair over her shoulder.
Stone turns to Aunt Jessica.
I’m sorry, he says, but I don’t think I’m understanding. You’re not the boy’s mother?
A silence.
She looks at him. Well—no.
But—
I’m his mother’s sister-in-law.
I see, he says, looking down at his hands.
The table is quiet.
After a moment of brooding he abruptly laughs. Oh, I see. I guess she couldn’t make it then.
Who?
His mother.
Aunt Jessica reddens. Mom nervously fingers her earring. It has happened before that people assumed I was white and that Mom was not my mother.
I can tell that both Mom and Aunt Jessica would like to not have to say anything to this man, but Aunt Jessica feels an obligation to in front of my mother, and forces herself to speak. It is obvious she knows Mom would rather she keep quiet, so it is a mystery to me why she would feel a necessity to talk.
Well no, Mr. Garret, she has made it here.
He pauses. I don’t understand, he says.
My mother’s head is lowered. She looks into her hands.
Well she’s Gabe’s mother—she’s Mrs. Sullivan.
Stone turns to my mother and regards her and his expression betrays the fact that this possibility had not occurred to him before.
But—
What, Mr. Garret?
Never mind.
No, what?
He stares at me and I look down. Mom sits there beside him. Suddenly his neck and cheeks turn red.
What? Aunt Jessica says.
I can tell he wants to say that I told him Mom was our maid, but is too embarrassed. He shakes his head. My eyes fix on my knuckles. Getting no answer from him, Aunt Jessica turns to her food and we finish in silence.
III
As we leave the restaurant he lingers by the cash register with Aunt Jessica but she seems to insist on paying. Then I am left alone with him in the waiting space before the doors. He leans without a word against some newspaper vending machines. You could cut a cloth with the thin blade of feeling between us. I look at him, his hot glance meeting mine.
Why didn’t you tell me, Gabe?
I shrug, looking down.
No, Gabe, you tell me—why?
My eyes fix on a stack of free local papers, the headlines and words a confusing blur. He studies me curiously.
Why?
He leads the way to his truck and Aunt Jessica pulls out some bills for his tip and he tries to refuse, but it is a feeble gesture, and she gives it to him and he does not look at me as he starts the engine and drives away. He had been polite to my mother and even given her a key chain with a little leather boot dangling from it, but he had no more words for me. We do not wait to watch the truck turn onto the road. We do not wave. It is ten o’clock and he will get home past midnight, but my aunt and mother do not mention this and we walk quietly back to the room.
Aunt Jessica takes the ice bucket and steps outside.
Mom sits on the unmade bed, beside her suitcase.
As I pick up her suitcase and lug it onto the dresser and begin to unpack her clothes and carefully fold her panties and blouses and pants, I try to talk to her, but she is quiet. I tell her about the towns I passed through and Navarro, California. The winged Mobil horse and boys in cowboy boots. The sands that blew in from the desert and covered the faded highway like silver sheets. In her brown palm rests the little leather boot and her wrists are limp and her shoulders drawn forward over her knees.
I ask her if she wants to watch a movie on cable.
What did you tell him about me? she suddenly says.
Tell who?
The tow truck man.
I pause. Nothing.
She shakes her head, disappointedly.
I don’t know what you’re talking about, I add.
Yes you do, Gabe. Her fingers cup each other, trying to keep still in her lap.
I guess he just assumed, I say, glancing aside.
No, Gabe. I don’t think so.
Through the walls comes the muffled sound of our neighbor’s television set. I slam shut her suitcase.
Okay, fine, don’t believe me.
Why was he ignoring me?
I don’t know. Some people can be rude, I’ve noticed.
Gabe.
What? I face her, the blood violent in my fists.
Gabe.
I already asked you—what?
Did you tell him I was your maid? she says.
I am silent. She studies my face, and the motel curtains catch the headlights of some car in the parking lot.
Of course not.
She looks down, shaking her head. That’s what he told your Aunt Jessica.
She must’ve got it wrong.
He told her you told him I was your maid.
Then he’s lying, I say. I stand in the corner now, the wall close to my back. From the muffled TV noises you can tell it is drywall and hollow. The dim lamp throws a shadow over the lower half of my body.
A maid.
I thought I told you he was lying.
Why would he lie, Gabe?
When did he supposedly tell her? He wouldn’t have gotten the chance.
He told her by the register, she says.
He didn’t have the chance.
Yes he did.
I tell her it is a lie and he was never near my aunt and did not say anything. I add that if she does not want to believe me, then I am sorry she found me. Mom sits very quietly. The more quiet she is, the quicker my words come, and they spill upon me like vomit, my jeans, my face, the walls, the floor. It is dark, this room, and I am talking and thinking and believing that maybe she believes me.
Then the words stop coming.
I am still angry at her when she begins to cry, softly.
I hesitate. I step towards her.
Mom?
She does not move. Her head is lowered and I can only see the top of her crown, the matted hair. For the first time I notice her hair roots are gray. I want to reach out but do not know how. Finally I sit timidly on the bed beside her. My arm just barely touches hers. Still, she doesn’t move.
Mom?
I lift my arm and wrap it awkwardly over her shoulder, and though she does not pull back, neither does she respond. I let it stay there for a moment, limp like a fish.
Please don’t cry.
Now she does shrug my arm off and I jerk it back as if it had been hurting her. We sit not touching and I want to do something, but she will not let me.
Then a key scrapes in the door lock and it opens, and Aunt Jessica comes into the doorway clutching the ice bucket and three cans of cold soda, and in the crook of her elbow is a Milky Way bar, my favorite. She stops, staring at me.
My mother does not look up.
Without a word Aunt Jessica sets down the ice bucket and the sodas and leaves the room, closing the door behind her.