After school or in the summer, Kira sometimes took the bus to Sausalito to spend the afternoon on Bridgeway. Charlie didn’t mind, so long as she got her schoolwork done. Though he was never quite sure with Kira, who could be an extraordinarily adept liar. Bridgeway was a circus, the shops and sidewalks crowded with tourists, especially now in summer, so you couldn’t drive through town in under an hour. Colorful hippies, leisure-suited Midwesterners, Japanese in their blue suits and white shirts, waterfront people, street people, anything you wanted. Kira and a lot of other kids hung out on the steps or bummed change from the tourists, which Charlie tried to forbid. Kira looked at him with her big dark eyes and said she wouldn’t, but she was always spending money Charlie hadn’t given her. She was tall for her age, and had been having her periods since she was ten, so Charlie also had to worry about Sausalito street philosophy, which suggested that if you were old enough to bleed, you were old enough to butcher. At twelve Kira was tall, skinny, and incredibly beautiful, at least from her father’s point of view, and could pass for fourteen. Plenty of runaway hippies that age came through Sausalito, and might tempt his daughter into a life of empty leisure.
Exactly the life he led himself, if you stopped and considered it. Working behind the bar at the no name wasn’t exactly leisure, unless you compared it to the life he should have been leading. Working as a bartender, Charlie didn’t have to exert himself, didn’t have to think, didn’t have to face any hard conclusions. He stood on the plank and grinned and gave people what they wanted. He arbitrated disputes, gave advice to the lovelorn, guided destinies, and never had to take responsibility for the results. He was a bartender, what did you expect?
He often saw Kira afternoons. He hoped to today. To see her was to experience five minutes of relief, to know she was okay at least for the moment. Then she’d vanish. Jaime didn’t worry about Kira nearly as much as Charlie, but then when Jaime was home Kira didn’t come down to Bridgeway. She stayed home with her mother. They’d whisper together or go off in the car, and when Jaime was in residence there’d be kids over at the house, bunches of squealing girls, from whose activities Charlie was naturally excluded. His daughter was getting as normal a life as they could provide, given the circumstances. Kira did miss her mother, they both missed Jaime, but the advantage went to Kira, who spoke with Jaime on the telephone every day. And Jaime sometimes took Kira for a weekend in the city, and Charlie would be left alone. Not that he minded. Working afternoons took it out of him, and sometimes he’d just come home, wolf dinner, and go straight to bed. Of course usually by that time he’d be full of drugs, his head buzzing, his body in a pleasant state of nonexistence, or apparent nonexistence.
Kira’s face appeared in the open window at the front of the bar. She rested her arms on the windowsill and her chin on her hands. “Hi, Dad.”
“Hold on,” Charlie said. The bar wasn’t busy, so he wiped his hands and went outside, blinking into the brightness. Kira leaned against the building, her arms crossed. She wore jeans and her red blouse, and looked about eight to Charlie. “You okay?” he asked her.
“I’m fine. Can I have five dollars?”
“No.”
“Okay,” she said, which worried him.
“What do you want the money for?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
He reached into his pocket and gave her two dollars. “Make that do,” he said.
She smiled, took the money, and turned and ran down Bridgeway, slipping in amongst the people. Charlie’s heart nearly broke. So delicate, so beautiful, in a life that was so dangerous. He’d wanted to tell her about his call from Ratto, but she hadn’t allowed him the opening. Both his daughter and his wife were smarter than he was, at least about practical matters. Well, fine, maybe Kira would take care of him in his old age. Don’t plan for the future, his heart warned him. Children die. He returned to the bar.
When he got home that night Kira was there, sitting in the living room watching television. Mrs. Hawkins was in the kitchen making dinner, which smelled like pork chops. Mrs. Hawkins was only a few years older than Charlie, perhaps forty-five, and came over every day to clean and cook, going home to Marin if she wasn’t needed after dinner, or staying on as babysitter until either Charlie or Jaime came home. She was from Lacoumbe, Louisiana. She had mahogany skin and a cheerful singsong voice. Kira loved her, and Charlie almost did. Mrs. Hawkins was their anchor. Charlie yelled hello and went into the bathroom. When he came out he sat on the couch behind Kira, who was on the rug.
“Have you talked to your mother?”
Kira turned and lay on the rug looking up. “Yes,” she said.
“She still working?”
“I don’t think so,” Kira said. “She was pretty drunk.” She rolled back over to watch the news.
Charlie laughed and said, “I’ll give her a call.” But there was no answer when he did. He wondered if she was down at Enrico’s drinking. Or maybe at the corner store, talking to Old Rose, the Chinese woman who ran the place. Or she could be at the Caffe Sport, wining it up with the junior Mafia. Or just asleep, unable to answer the phone. Or in bed with somebody. He wished Kira didn’t know Jaime was drunk so much of the time, but what hypocrisy to keep it hidden. Even if they could keep it hidden.
“I think I’ll go into town,” he said aloud, and Kira turned and faced him again. “I wanna go with you.”
“I’m sorry, I won’t be home until late.”
Kira got up and sat beside him. Her warmth made him almost tearful. She was so fragile. She gave him her most innocent look and said, “Are you going to rescue Mother?”
He laughed and put his arm around her, pulling her warmth to him, as if he could keep her alive with his own life. Why was he worried about her mortality? He tried to remember what drugs he’d taken that day. None, unless you counted marijuana. “Kira,” he said, reaching for his deepest, most confident voice. “Your mother is just fine.”
No point trying to fool her. He gave her a big hug and kissed her on top of her head. The three ate at the dining room table, Mrs. Hawkins keeping her eyes to her plate as always. After dinner Charlie very deliberately showered and shaved, dressed in fresh jeans and a fresh blue work shirt. Mill Valley was warm tonight, but San Francisco might be foggy. He put on the old black leather jacket Jaime had given him. He looked at himself in their full length mirror. A big man, tall and thick, with a bushy dark red beard streaked with white. He looked into his own big brown eyes. Was anybody in there? He didn’t know.