Dr. Klein doesn’t make him wait this time. He’s shown into the doctor’s office as soon as he arrives, and walks down the wood-paneled hallway without being told where to go. It’s been a week of the new medicine, and he’s been feeling better on it. Not better as in cured, but better as in not as bad. Better as in it takes twenty minutes to leave the house instead of sixty. That’s all he’s looking for right now.
“Any side effects?” asks the doctor.
Roy shrugs. “Mouth’s been a little dry.”
“That’s common. You may want to drink more fruit juice, it might cut that down a little.”
Roy nods. He doesn’t drink much but soda right now. “But it’s been pretty good. Different from when I had the pills from Doc Mancuso. I don’t feel so … slow. You know? I mean, don’t get me wrong, the Anafranil was good stuff, but—”
“But sometimes it dulled the edges. Right?”
“Right.”
“It’s an older class of SSCI compounds, the Anafranil,” says Klein. “The one I’ve got you on has a stronger inhibitor, but doesn’t get in the way.…” He trails off. Leans back, glasses perched on the edge of his nose. “But that’s not why you’re here, to talk about chemistry.”
“Hope not.” Roy laughs.
“So let’s talk.”
“Talk …” Roy says, trying out the word. “What about?”
“About anything. Whatever you like. Is there anything that’s been weighing on you?”
“Like how?”
Klein puts down Roy’s file and crosses his hands. “Something you want to get off your chest, something you’d like to tell somebody, anybody. That’s what I’m here for. Tell me stories.”
For a moment, Roy wants to tell him about the woman at the laundromat. He wants to tell Klein what he does for a living, how he makes his money. He wants to lay it all on the line, get it all out and start over. He wants to describe the laundromat woman. Examine her in every detail. The crappy rings, the crappy car, the crappy life. The bleached hair, the bad skin, the look in her eyes. The six thousand dollars he took from her, every cent of it. Three grand of it sitting in his house, topping off his ceramic statue. Half a drop in his bucket. He wants to tell him about the grift, about every game he knows and every game he wants to know. He wants to tell Klein everything he knows about everything he does.
“Nothing I can think of,” Roy says. The carpet, he notices, is still very dark.
Klein pauses. Waits. Roy shrugs. “Well, let’s see …” the doctor finally says. “Last time, we were talking a little about your ex-wife.”
“I was, mostly. You weren’t that interested, if I recall, but I thought today, since you’re feeling … a little better … I thought perhaps we could explore it a little.”
“I dunno,” Roy says. “I was hoping we could just shoot the shit, you know? Sports, whatever, and then you’d give me another bottle.”
“We could do that. We could. Same thing, though. Couple guys, sitting around, hey, how ’bout them Mets, them Dodgers, them Cubs, how’s your life, how’s things, how’s that ex-wife of yours …”
Roy can’t help but grin; Klein has an easy way about him. He almost likes the guy. “You wanna know about Heather?” Roy says.
“If you’re ready to talk about it.”
“Sure I can talk about it, but it ain’t that interesting.”
“Boring stories are my specialty,” says Klein.
“Okay,” Roy says. “I’ll tell you about Heather.”
She Was nineteen when they met, nineteen and well aware of her body. She moved like a belly dancer when she walked, and like a gymnast when she made love. There was nothing inflexible about Heather. She was open for anything, for fun and excitement and danger. She wasn’t there when you needed her and usually there if you didn’t. Heather was always on the fringe, always looking in. Never getting caught.
Roy caught her. He was eight months out of a failed army stint, discharge papers in his back pocket. Angry at nobody and everybody all at the same time. He fought a lot those days. Drank a lot, too. Forgot most of the fights. The club that night was known for its brawls. Roy had never been. He would never go back, either.
She was dancing in the middle of a crowd of men, her long, waist-length hair shaking to the music. Ass wrapped up tight in leather pants. Halter top cupping the small, firm breasts. Center of attention on the lower left quad of the dance floor, and she knew it. Flaunted it. Later, once they were dating, Roy found out that she’d rub her nipples before stepping out onto any dance floor. She wanted them out like that. Needed them to announce her presence. That was Heather.
Roy was out that night with a buddy, a kid from the old neighborhood. He’d just been dumped, needed a trip out. But the guy was morose. Cried in his beer and wanted to leave. But Roy saw Heather at the bar and ordered her a drink. They had a cocktail together, they talked, they laughed. He put his hand on her ass, and she didn’t move it. After a bit, another man, a man she knew, came to the bar and dragged her onto the dance floor. Roy didn’t mind. Roy could wait.
He sat at the bar for an hour. Waiting patiently for the crowd to disperse, for the songs to end. For Heather to leave the circle of men, to come back to the bar. But the next song came on, and the dancing went on. More men joined the group. Heather and five guys. Surrounding her. Pressing against her. Groping her. Roy began to feel that pressure under his head, the one that made his neck hot and his vision blurry. It was the same feeling he got right before … right before he got his discharge papers.
He hit the dance floor. Tapped one of the men on the shoulder. “Cut in?” he shouted over the music. The guy didn’t even turn around. “Cut in?” Roy yelled again. This time, a hand appeared in front of his face, palm pressing into his nose. Pushing away, pushing at him.
The feeling grew stronger, that terrible pressure under his hairline, like something was trying to get out. Something roaring inside. He tried again, tried to muscle into the circle, but the writhing bodies bounced him out. In the middle, he could see the girl dancing. Her hair, her breasts, her laughing lips.
When he tried to cut in again, one of the men—a boy, really, a skinny redhead no older than Roy—stepped out and pushed him hard across the chest. “Why don’t you leave it alone?” he yelled. “She’s ours now.”
Roy still doesn’t remember exactly what happened, but every time he tells the story, he can recall a little bit more. Like a collage, adding parts each time.
He caught that boy’s wrist, snapped it back, bent it, broke it in two. Bone poking through skin. Screams pierced the nightclub air, fighting with the music. The pressure increasing, his head expanding. An arm, caught up in his, a shoulder beneath his palms. Roy, dropping to one knee, exerting pressure, pulling back, and a pop. A squishy pop. And another man down and screaming. In the military, Roy had excelled in his hand-to-hand training sessions.
Two minutes later, and the circle was clear. Heather and Roy stood on the dance floor, Roy’s vision clearing, the club coming back into view. Five men on the ground, howling in pain.
Heather didn’t know what hit her, but she was in love.
They moved in together two weeks later, and got married a month after that. Five-minute ceremony by a notary who worked at a shipping shop. Roy didn’t have a job, and when he found one, he usually lost it quick. Heather didn’t care. She loved the sex and she loved having her own place to come home to. They lived in a rented room inside a broken-down farmhouse, but it was theirs. She could scream if she wanted. She could wear what she wanted. Roy loved her for all of it. She was still nineteen.
Twenty when she got pregnant. Didn’t tell Roy for two months, but by then it had all gone away. Heather didn’t come home some nights, and Roy would spend the evenings in his car, driving the streets. Finding girls who looked like Heather. Beating up their boyfriends. Vision blurred. Finding bars nearby. Going through the motions. Roy hit Heather when she told him about the pregnancy. Hit her when she said she’d been hiding it. He’d never beaten a woman before, never would again. He hit her on the shoulders, on the legs, in the face. Stayed away from her stomach, even with his vision blurred and the pressure straining his head. She had bruises for weeks, she moaned for weeks, and then she was gone.
She was four months pregnant when she left. She was just beginning to show, a small belly on that supple body. Roy didn’t try to find her. He knew there was no point. She didn’t leave because of the beatings. She didn’t leave because of the baby. She left because she was Heather and he was Roy, and they never should have been Heather and Roy. The papers came in the mail a month later, and Roy signed them without reading. Like his signature could erase the memory. He stayed in the house for three straight weeks, and when he came out, the air was clear. It had rained, and it was over.
“And do you think about her?” Klein asks when Roy’s done with his story.
“Not really,” he says.
“What could have been, what might have been?”
“What’s the point? I got things to do in my life, I can’t be thinking about ancient history all the time.”
The doctor scratches his chin. “And the baby?”
“If there’s a baby …”
“If there’s a baby,” Klein echoes. “Do you think about that?”
Roy is silent for a moment. “I have. Sometimes. Just ’cause—it’s not for Heather, you know, it’s … You put something out there, part of yourself. So is there a Roy Junior running around? He look like me? That sorta thing.”
Klein nods. “He’d be, what … fifteen?”
“Fourteen, fifteen, yeah.”
“Ready to become a man.”
“I guess.” The chair cushions have become uncomfortable. Roy squirms. “There a point to all this?”
“We’re just talking, remember? No points unless you say there’s a point.”
“No,” says Roy after a time. “Unless …”
“Yes?”
“I dunno. Sometimes I think it might be good to know if there is a kid. Not to see ’em or anything or interfere, but just so I know. That make sense?”
“Certainly. Certainly. You know, Roy, there’s nothing wrong with a man calling his ex-wife to say hello. Even with the … problems you two had. It’s done all the time.”
Roy can’t think of it. He tries to picture himself calling Heather, picking up the phone. But the bile wells in his throat. Climbing up, burning. He shakes his head. “Nah, I’d—better off the way it is. Don’t need that. Got no use with a kid.”
“Not everybody has to have a use,” says Klein.
“You’re a good guy, doc.”
Dr. Klein stands and walks behind his desk, opens a file cabinet. “We’ll talk about it more next time, if you like,” he says, and pulls out a bottle of Roy’s pills. Tosses it across the room. Roy snatches it from the air, pockets the bottle. “This is a month’s supply, but I’d still like you to come back every week. Will you do that?”
“Just to shoot the shit?”
“Like today.”
“Sure,” says Roy. “Sure, I’ll come back.”
Three weeks later, and Roy is watching Frankie set up a blow-off on a Spanish Prisoner game they’re working three towns over. The stiff is some Joe from a dry-cleaning convention and he’s about to put down three big in the hopes that his money will allow Frankie’s younger sister over in Romania to bring the family fortune back to America. It’s a gag with gray hairs, but it still runs nice at the conventions.
Roy’s not involved in this one; he helped to steer the guy in, but he’s been staying out of it ever since. Time to rest. The last few weeks have been productive, maybe the most productive in the last year. Nothing big, nothing too long-con, just short games run at breakneck speed. He’s got energy these days, and he can feel it. Yesterday, he pulled on an old pair of pants, and they almost fit. Waistband didn’t compress his stomach.
And Frankie’s been on the ball, filling in where he used to slack off. Sharpened up his cue under Roy’s instruction. Good to see. Good partner, that Frankie. Getting better every day.
When it’s all done, when the mark’s been blown off and Frankie’s back in the car with the three grand, he and Roy whoop it up. Get drive-through burgers ’cause the diner is too far away. Roy takes a pill with his meal, burger in one hand, drink in the other, knees on the steering wheel.
“You still taking them things?” Frankie asks.
“Every day.”
Frankie nods, sips his drink. “That’s good, that’s good. Told you that doc was a good guy.”
“Good judgment.”
“You say that now …”
“What?” asks Roy. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means I can give you fucking medical advice but I can’t steer a hot item our way, that’s what it means.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Saif,” Frankie yelps. “I’m talking about Saif.”
“The Arab.”
“The Turk. Or Afghan, whatever—yeah, him. I been trying to set up a meeting for months. I’m telling you he’s a good guy, he’s ready to do business, and every time I bring it up, all you do is crap over it.”
“I do not.”
“You do, you take a massive dump over the whole thing.”
Roy maintains, “I don’t see where we need it.”
“I need it. Trust me on that one, okay? I need it. I got guys.”
“Yeah, I heard about your guys.”
Frankie finishes off his burger. He’s not letting up this time. “I’m telling you, there’s some real money in this thing, and all I’m asking for is a meeting. One little meeting, and that’s it.”
Roy doesn’t understand why Frankie’s so agitated, but it doesn’t matter. He’s got his quirks, his little tweaks, but he’s been a good partner for years. He’s more on top of things than he ever was before. These fights, they don’t help anyone. Throw him a bone. “One meeting,” Roy says. “You set it up, time, place. And if I don’t like the guy—”
“We split. No problem.”
“I’m saying even if I don’t like his goddamned hair—”
“Then we’re out,” Frankie says quickly. He’s excited. Like a kid, Roy thinks. A kid with his first after-school job. “It’s all your call, Roy.”
“Bet your ass it is.”
“You won’t be sorry. We’re gonna be swimming in cash, I promise you.”
He’s barely inside the door when the phone starts to ring. He locks the door, fights the urge to unlock and lock it again, and heads into the kitchen. The carpet is looking good. Helps not to look down. Helps to imagine it looking good, and take it from there.
“Speak,” Roy says into the phone.
“Roy?”
“Yeah?” Suspicious. It’s not a voice he knows.
“It’s Dr. Klein.”
Roy relaxes. “Hey, doc. We gotta reschedule?”
“No, no, not at all.” The doctor sounds excited. Excited and nervous. Roy pulls out a chair from the breakfast bar and sits down. “I’ve got some news.”
“About Heather?”
“Yes and no. Yes.”
Over the last few sessions, Roy had opened up. About Heather, about their relationship. The few good times, the many bad. And Dr. Klein had gotten him wondering. Mostly about her, but a little about the kid. About the possibility of a kid. And though Roy wanted to know, he couldn’t bring himself to call. To talk to her. Every time he thought about it, played out the conversation in his mind, the bile rose up, choked him off. Once, he had to run to the doctor’s bathroom, kneel by the toilet. Dry heaves. Spittle drenching the floor.
But the doctor said he’d do it. It was unorthodox, it was unusual, but he would do it. Call Heather on Roy’s behalf. See if she wanted to talk. If so, it would be a step. Maybe then Roy could put words together. Couldn’t hurt to try.
“I found her,” says Klein. “I found her across the state.”
“Where?” asks Roy, and then a second later, “Wait—don’t tell me. Go on.”
“I found her, and I called her, and we had a … a nice conversation.”
Roy swallows. No bile yet. “Does she want to talk to me?”
A deep breath from the other side. A sigh. “No,” Klein says eventually. “She doesn’t.”
“I see.”
“She didn’t understand that it might help you with your therapy.”
“You told her I was in therapy?”
“I told her I was a psychiatrist, yes. I can’t lie, Roy.”
He slumps lower in the chair. “So she doesn’t want to see me.”
“No. No. But there’s good news, Roy. Very good news.”
Roy laughs bitterly. “She’s got cancer?”
The doctor is silent for a moment. The phone line hums. “Was that … a wish, Roy?” he says quietly. “That’s a lot of rage we should work out—”
“It’s a fucking joke, doc. Wake up. C’mon, what’s the other news?”
He waits a second, just to build it up. Roy holds his breath. “You have a child.”
Exhale. Roy knew it was coming, felt it as soon as he picked up the phone. This was why Klein called him at home. Heather could have waited until the next session. But a kid … “What’s his name?” asks Roy.
“Angela.”
“He’s a—it’s a girl?”
“Funny name for a boy, huh? Yes, Roy. You have a fourteen-year-old daughter named Angela.”
“Jesus. Angela, huh? Nice name, I guess.”
“And she wants to meet you.”
Roy takes a deep breath. Holds it. This wasn’t something he expected. The doctor was supposed to talk to Heather. Talk to her. Meetings weren’t until the future, that’s what they had agreed upon. But a kid. A daughter.
“When?” he asks.
“Whenever we can arrange a time and place. She’s got school, but there are weekends, there are evenings.”
“I can, but you should really be the—”
“Do it,” Roy says. “You set it up, and I’ll see her.”
There’s a park two miles away from Roy’s house. It’s got swings, it’s got benches, it’s got a castle up on a hill. A nice park, a good place to meet. This is where Dr. Klein decided to have the meeting. This is where he’s going to bring Angela.
She’s coming in by train, Roy knows, but he didn’t want to pick her up. That was an option the doc gave him. Pick up your long-lost daughter at the train station. Something about it didn’t work for Roy. Made him feel odd. Lots of people at a train station, no room to move. To maneuver. He prefers this meeting in the park. It’s open. There are bushes here, places to go if he gets sick.
Roy arrives early. He didn’t tell Frankie about the meeting. It didn’t seem right, but he didn’t tell him. Maybe once it’s over, Roy figures. Maybe then, when he’s already met his daughter—Angela—when he’s already met Angela, then he can tell his partner about her. That he’s got a kid. Until then, Frankie thinks he’s at a regular appointment with the shrink. That kind of thing he understands. Frankie’s mom was a good lady, a real nice lady who made them eat until they burst and never said a bad word about anybody. Then, five years ago, she started seeing things, screaming at the walls. Yelling at Roy when he’d come over, cursing at him. Calling him names. Talking filthy. So Frankie understands about shrinks. About pills. He just might not understand Roy having a daughter, that’s all. It can wait.
He takes a seat on a bench, wiping off the bird shit with a handkerchief. Roy put on one of his best suits for this day, black with a yellow tie. The shirt is loose on him, bunching up at the waist where more of his stomach used to be. The collar is loose, too. Usually it pinches his neck, cuts off his air. Today, there’s an inch of space up there. Roy needs some new shirts, he knows, but he likes the feel of these big ones. Likes to feel the space.
Families running through the park. Kids running from their dads, laughing, screaming. Roy wonders if he missed that. Doesn’t feel like he did, but he knows he should. Maybe once she gets here, Angela will want to be chased around. What if she asks him to carry her piggyback? Roy doesn’t know what he’ll do.
As he waits, Roy takes stock of the other people in the park. A few singles, like him, walking along by themselves, jogging, bird-watching. For each one, he instantly comes up with the perfect con. Can’t help himself. The lady over by the duck pond would be an easy touch for the covered-message scheme. Young man under the tree, a perfect setup for the Spanish Prisoner. Run the twenties on any of ’em. Roy thinks Klein would fall for nearly any con he ran. Shrinks play analytical, but they’re the easiest touch of all. Roy wonders what Angela’s hook will be. Is she the kind of girl who’d fall for long-con? Is she the kind of girl who’ll take off on short? Would she rat? Would she fold? Until he knows these things about her, he won’t understand her. After he knows these things about her, there’s no need to understand her. He feels good today.
A sedan pulls into the parking area fifty feet away, and Roy knows without looking that it’s Klein’s car. It’s the kind of thing he would drive, the kind of thing a man in his situation wants to drive. Not too flashy, but comfortable. Proper.
Dr. Klein steps out of his car, sees Roy, and waves. Roy waves back. The windows on the car are tinted, but Roy can see a wash of hair inside the passenger seat. Heather’s hair. Long, thick. For a moment, Roy thinks Klein’s brought his ex-wife along, and suddenly he’s off the bench, on his feet, looking for a tree, a bush, as the vomit rises in his throat—
A girl. Not Heather, just a girl. She steps out of the car, long auburn hair pulled into a ponytail. Shorter than Heather, better posture. Delicate features, pert nose, eyebrows arched in confidence. Slim figure, long legs for her height, budding breasts, and Roy thinks how beautiful she’ll be when she’s all grown-up, that she’ll be just the kind of girl that he likes. He stops. Closes his eyes, shuts it out. Daughter. She’s his daughter.
When he looks up again, they’re closing in. Angela walks next to Klein, not shy, not overly anxious, just walking. She catches Roy’s eye and smiles, her lips turning up, dimples poking in. Roy tries to find something of himself in her. The ears, maybe. The lips. He’s not sure. He doesn’t know his own face that well.
“The traffic,” Dr. Klein begins, looking at his watch, “it was … there was a mess down at the station.”
“No matter,” says Roy. “Don’t worry about it.”
“You haven’t been waiting long?”
“No, no, forget about it.”
Klein steps back, puts a hand on Angela’s shoulder. “We’ve been having some good discussions on the way over,” he says. “Roy, this is Angela.”
The girl sticks out her arm, thrusts it right out there, and Roy grabs and shakes. Her hand is small inside his, a plum in his fist, and he wonders if it was even smaller once. What that would have felt like.
“Good to meetcha,” says Angela. Her voice is high. Perky. Roy thought it might be this way. Heather spoke this way.
“Yeah, yeah, good here, too. You sound—you sound a little like your ma.”
“Yeah?” says Angela. “Everybody says I sound like Lisa McPherson.”
“I dunno,” Roy says. “Who’s that?”
“Girl who went to my school a while back. She does the news now on Channel Nine.”
“And you sound like her?”
“Guess so. That’s what people say, anyway.”
Dr. Klein steps between them. “I’ve got a three o’clock back at the office—I’m sorry to take off like this—”
“It’s fine,” Roy says. “We’ve got it from here.”
Klein smiles, pats Roy on the back. Most people don’t pat Roy on the back. Not more than once. But Roy doesn’t say anything. Klein didn’t mean anything by it. “She’s got a train back home at eight o’clock. If you need me to—”
“I can get her there,” Roy says. “I can take her. If that’s okay …”
“Sure,” Angela squeaks. “That’s great.”
Dr. Klein shakes Roy’s hand, shakes Angela’s hand. Waves and walks away. Back to the car, guns it up. Roy watches as the sedan pulls out of the parking lot. Watches it go down the street. Easier to look away than to start the conversation.
“So,” Angela says. “You’re my dad.”
“Guess so,” says Roy. “That’s what—that’s what Doc Klein found out.”
“Cool. Thought I didn’t have one, you know.”
“Your mom didn’t tell you about me?”
Angela shakes her head. “She told me you were dead.”
Roy swallows. “Oh. I see.”
“I mean, I saw pictures and all, but I didn’t know.… I figured that was that, and so I didn’t think about it much.” She looks up at Roy, who is having trouble looking back. “Hey, you wanna go on the swings?”
Roy doesn’t fit too well in the swing seat, but he grabs tight onto the metal chain and pushes off. Angela’s already flying back and forth, legs whipping through the wind. “That doctor guy was nice.”
“Doc Klein?” Roy says. “Yeah, he’s a good egg.”
“We talked on the drive over. After the train.”
“ ’Bout what?” asks Roy.
“ ’Bout stuff. His wife.”
“He’s got a wife?” Roy asks.
“Uh-huh. You didn’t know that?”
Roy shrugs. “We mostly talk about me. When I see him. What’s her name?”
“His wife? Lily,” says Angela. “He showed me a picture. She’s pretty. And we talked about how things are going, what my mom’s like, what she says to me, what she does. I asked him some about you, that sorta thing.”
“What’d he tell you about me?”
Angela swings higher, legs kicking longer. “That you were all by yourself, that you were anxious to see me. Not to scare you off, that sorta thing.”
“Scare me off?”
“I dunno. I said he was nice, not smart.” She slows down again, coming even with Roy’s lethargic swinging. “You got fatter,” she says plainly.
“Yeah. From those pictures I saw, at least.”
Roy shrugs. “People get older. They get bigger.”
“Some guys get skinnier when they get old. All skin and bones, all wrinkly. Little old guys on the street, they weigh like twenty pounds.”
“Little old guys, huh?”
“It’s okay, though—you being fat and all,” she says, coming to a halt. Her feet drag in the dirt. “I think you look nice. And it looks like a healthy fat, you know. Like you played football or something and now you just don’t play anymore. You’re not rolling around or wheezing or anything.”
“So your mom had pictures of me around?”
“Sorta. Found ’em under a bunch of old junk in the closet when I was looking for some shoes. After that, she had to tell me who you were.”
“In the closet …”
“At least she didn’t cut your face out,” says Angela. “My friend Margaret, her mom got a divorce, and she cut out every picture of her dad. Just the face, though, so like, when you’re looking at the picture, there’s Margaret, and there’s her mom, and there’s some guy standing next to them only it’s empty where his face is supposed to be. It’s weird, it’s like Freddy Krueger got to ’em.”
“Freddy who?”
Angela laughs and jumps off the swing. Her ponytail bounces past Roy’s nose, hair tickling his forehead. She bends down, legs apart, hands on her knees, staring Roy in the eyes. Her irises are bright blue, sparkling, like Roy saw in the mirror this morning. Maybe that’s what she got from him. Maybe she got his eyes.
“Yeah, I got a car.”
“Then let’s go for a ride.”
The waitress at the diner isn’t surprised to see Roy, but she didn’t expect him without Frankie. Certainly didn’t expect him with a girl, not a little girl like that. She thinks about calling the cops. Decides against it. Maybe he’s got a niece or something. Maybe he’s doing the kid a favor.
“Tables open, Sandi?” asks Roy, and the waitress spreads her arms wide.
“Place is yours. Take your pick.”
They find a booth off to one corner and sit. Roy doesn’t want to be too close to any other patrons. Maybe someone’s seen him in here, running a game. He and Frankie don’t usually play the short in their own hangouts, but sometimes, when they’re bored … Like those college kids and the card trick. Doesn’t want a scene.
“What’s good here?” Angela asks.
“Everything. I guess everything. Mostly, I have the turkey.”
“On rye?”
“On rye, yeah.”
Angela beams. “That’s how I like it.”
“No shit?” says Roy, quickly clamping his lips. “No kidding.”
She laughs, a high, lovely sound. A giggle, still, but almost a laugh. Right on the edge. “I’m fourteen,” she tells him. “I’ve heard the word shit before.”
“Better not to use it.”
“Sure, but sometimes it’s all that works. Shit happens, shit hit the fan—sometimes you’ve got no choice.”
Roy opens his menu, stares down at the words he’s seen over a thousand lunches. “Still, better to—there’s no need for it, that’s all I’m saying.” He doesn’t want to lecture the girl. Doesn’t want to give her rules. Just met her, after all. His fault for using the word in the first place. “Forget it,” he says.
Angela shrugs. “Whatever.” She looks down at the menu, runs her finger along the edge. Roy can’t help but watch as she pores over the choices. Sticks her tongue out of the side of her mouth while she thinks. Heather used to do that. Roy smiles.
The girl looks up, catches him. Smiles back. “Know whatcha want?” she asks.
“Turkey on rye.”
“Me too.”
Sandi takes their orders, brings them drinks. Sodas on both sides. They sit silently. Roy looks away most of the time, but glances back and forth at his daughter. Trying to find more features, more similarities. Her shoulders, maybe. The chin, perhaps.
“So, what do you … for fun, what do you do?”
“Hang out, mostly,” she says. “With friends. Movies, run to the mall. Play video games.”
Roy nods, as if he does the same things. “That’s fun.”
“Yeah, it’s okay.”
Silence again. Roy clears his throat, begins to speak, but Angela cuts him off. “Look, we can just sit quiet until the weird part passes, if that’s okay with you.”
Roy is grateful. He chuckles a bit and nods his head. Angela sits back in the booth and looks around the diner. She takes the clips out of her hair and rearranges her ponytail, fixes her bangs.
The food comes quickly. Roy picks at his food, tearing at the turkey with small bites. Angela packs it in.
“You’re gonna get a bellyache like that,” Roy warns.
“Nah. I ate a whole pizza once from Pizza Hut, and I’m not talking about one of those personal pan pizzas. I’m talking about a large pizza, like eight slices, and it was deep dish. I can eat anything—well, almost anything. Mom ever make you that chicken and mushroom sauce thing?”
“Don’t remember.”
“You’d remember if she had. Now that’d give you a bellyache.”
Roy grins. Thinks back. “Your mom and I, we didn’t eat in a lot. Mostly dinner out, mostly fast food or places like this. Or clubs. Olives on the go.”
“I can’t get into clubs. There’s one club, it’s for under eighteen, but it’s a drag. Wednesday nights it’s twenty-one and older, but they card. There was this guy at school who could drop your picture into PhotoShop and screw with it so you’d get a kicking fake ID, but Robyn Markson got caught and now she can’t drive until she’s like thirty or something.”
Roy doesn’t even know where to begin. “Wednesday night’s a school night.”
Angela rolls her eyes. “I didn’t say I go there, I just said they card.”
“Oh.”
“Mom doesn’t care about school nights.”
“She doesn’t, huh? You’re in … what?”
“Ninth.”
“You do good?”
“I do okay. I do good in Computers. And Social Studies.”
“Yeah? What’s that, like geography?”
“And history and government. All that stuff. Mrs. Capistrano, the teacher, she’s cool, she lets me hang out in her room during other classes.” Angela’s food is all gone; she starts in on the garnishes.
“Ain’t they important, too? The other classes?”
“Sure, but—”
“Listen up,” says Roy. “Real important. You gotta go to all the classes.”
Angela leans into the booth. A smirk on her face. Roy knows that smirk. That’s his smirk. “School’s real important, huh? You like it?”
“I didn’t.”
“Didn’t what? Didn’t like school?”
“Didn’t go. Past the second grade, I didn’t go.”
Angela sits back. “Hm. That why you ended up a criminal?”
Roy blinks his eyes. Why did she say that? Why would she use that word? “Your mom been telling you stories?”
Angela starts in on the lettuce again. Between bites, she says, “She didn’t come right out and say it or nothing, but I kind of got the idea.”
“Wrong idea.”
“So what kind are you?” she asks, ignoring him. “You don’t look like a bank robber—”
“You done with that food?”
“—or a murderer. Definitely not a murderer. I’d see that, you know? My class took a trip once down to the county prison. They said it was so we could see justice in action, but I know they just wanted to scare us outta our heads. Anyway, while we were down there, this one prisoner was being taken back to his cell, and he was all chained up, and the guards walked him past us, and I stopped and looked in his eyes. He looked back at me, too—he did, right at me—and I knew that he’d killed someone. Didn’t know who, but it was someone. That’s what murderer’s eyes look like. You don’t have murderer’s eyes.”
Roy can’t believe where this conversation has ended up. “Are you finished?”
“I still haven’t guessed what kind of criminal you are.”
“I’m not a—”
“It’s okay, you know. Everyone’s done something bad in their lives. Everyone. If you make it a career, it’s just a lot of somethings strung together.”
“I’m not a criminal,” Roy insists. “I’m an antiques dealer.”
“No, you’re not.”
“Yes, I am. I deal in antiques. I buy them and sell them, period.”
“Oh,” says Angela. Her tone lowers a notch. “But when you were with my mom, were you—”
“I was a stupid kid when I was with your mom. I did a lot of stupid things, and I regret them all. That’s it. It was fifteen years ago, I made mistakes.”
“Sure.” She’s far away now. Looking over his shoulder. Down at her hands. “It’s ancient history.”
Roy eats again. Angela is quiet. Roy wonders if he’s said the wrong thing, if he’s screwed something up. He hopes not. This was good, this meal. Sitting down for lunch, forgetting about the con. Just talking. Like with Dr. Klein, only it was closer. Like talking to himself. Over lunch. Pleasant, in an odd way.
“You got a Dairy Queen nearby?” Angela asks, her blue eyes shining in the fluorescent diner light. Roy nods, and his daughter smiles and claps her hands. He hopes that all is forgiven.
Roy opens Angela’s door outside the train station and helps her out of the car. A steady stream of passengers pour in and out of the revolving doors.
“You got everything?” he asks. “Your purse, your book bag—”
“I got it.”
Roy reaches into his pocket and pulls out his money clip. Slides a hundred-dollar bill off the top, hands it to the girl. Her eyes widen. “That’s for something to eat on the train.”
“Jesus.” She laughs. “What, they’re serving caviar?”
Roy laughs, too. “No, I just thought—you need cash, right? For a drink or something.”
“Hundred bucks for a Coke? You don’t get out much.” Roy grins, and Angela nods toward the station. “You wanna come inside? I got like a half hour to wait around. I was gonna do some studying, but if you wanna come talk, we can—”
“No,” says Roy. “No, you go inside. Do your work.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah, I gotta—” In an hour, he’s got to meet Frankie down at the docks. But he’s not going to tell Angela that. Strange thing is, he wants to. “I gotta meet a client for dinner.”
“An antiques client.”
“Yeah, an antiques client.”
“Uh-huh.” She folds the hundred-dollar bill into her pocket, other hand on her hip. Grabs her book bag by the strap and hauls it up and onto a delicate shoulder. From inside, she withdraws a pen and a pad of paper with cats on it. Scribbles something down.
“This is my cell phone,” she says, handing the sheet of paper to Roy. “Mom got it for me last year when I had a phone-a-thon with Becky. We were on the phone for sixteen hours straight, no breaks. Becky’s mom took away her phone privileges for a month, but I got my own mobile. Pretty cool, huh?”
“Pretty cool.”
“Anyway,” she says, “you call that, and you get me. You don’t have to worry about talking to my mom.”
“I don’t worry about it. In fact, you tell her I said hi, okay?”
“Won’t do much good.”
“I know, just tell her I said—”
“I’ll tell her, I’ll tell her.”
Roy sticks out his hand, and Angela pumps it. His arm is pulled close, and he follows the motion as Angela leans up, on her toes, stretching. She kisses his cheek. It’s small. Soft.
“See you next week?” she says.
“Next week?” He can still feel her lips on his cheek. It’s wet there. Cool in the breeze. “Sure. Sure. Next week.”
Roy watches as his daughter hikes the bag up on her shoulder and walks away, into the train station. A few young men standing on the steps watch her go, too. They watch too much. They leer. Roy’s first instinct is to smash their heads in. To break their arms so they can’t touch her. To crush their legs so they can’t follow her. To choke off their windpipes so they can’t talk to her.
But there’s no pressure there. No pain in his skull. No bile rising in his throat. Everything’s working out fine. Angela disappears into the crowd, her ponytail swishing behind her, blending in. She’s gone. Roy can’t remember what he was angry about. People walk past him on all sides, moving to and from their destinations. The revolving door spins around again. Angela’s still not there. He climbs back into his car and drives away. He’s got deals to make.