He sucks in, raises his eyebrows, nods slowly.
“Bush-league, Van Buren. Bush-league.”
I’ve never been more pleased with the outcome of a conversation, nor have I been more confident in my ability to rule the mother-effing world.
Our discussion hasn’t deterred Walt’s sleep. If anything, his snores are louder than ever.
Beck smiles down at him. “We totally just took Walt to the vet.”
“Yeaaaah, to be fair, he is kind of our pet, though.”
We laugh because we love, and for the next half hour, I discover all sorts of little nuggets about Beck: he likes the smell of books more than babies; he thinks Bill Pullman sucks, but Bill Paxton is great; he likes roasted red peppers on everything except pizza; he hates the Rolling Stones, casseroles, and lakes; he loves the Beatles, Thai food, and oceans. And he’s a great driver. In fact, his focus might rank up there with the likes of Carl L. Jackson, which is really saying something.
The conversation comes to a lull. I leaf through the Reds program, shifting my thoughts from the fantasies to the difficult realities. Walt’s photograph is burned in my mind, and while I know Beck is right (we have to help him), I have no idea how.
“She was kind of sexy,” mumbles Beck.
Every ounce of blood in my body races to my face. “Who?”
“Michelle.”
I flip a page. “Yep.”
I feel him glance at me, but don’t say anything. I flip another page.
“You don’t think so?” he says.
“Sure.” I flip another page, wait a beat. “Probably closer in age.”
Between the rain and the snores, it’s not quiet, but it suddenly feels that way. It’s heavy, uncomfortable, both of us buried under the weight of words. I toss the Reds program on the dashboard. “So. Out with it.”
“Out with . . .”
“What did Claire promise you?”
I’m not sure who is surprised more by this question, Beck or me. After quite the internal debate this afternoon, I’d decided not to ask. But somebody had to say something just now, or we were likely to suffocate.
“I knew you were out there.” Beck stares into the savage rain, slowly shaking his head. “I saw that open window, and I just knew.”
“Yeah, yeah, you’re brilliant and know everything. So what did she promise you?”
“Nothing,” he whispers, his voice cracking. “I made a promise to her, though.”
I don’t say a word. I don’t need to. Just like Mom taught me—tip the barrel; let the apples do the rest.
“About a year after Claire moved in, we got notice that her father had been released from prison. She was beyond happy. Started talking differently. Like, if we all went out to eat, she’d say, ‘I’ll sure miss this place.’ Or we’d go to a movie, and if it was good, she’d say, ‘I’m definitely bringing Dad to this one.’ Everything revolved around her moving back in with her dad. So a few days go by, and we don’t hear anything. Then weeks, then a month . . . nothing. Claire was living out of her suitcase at this point—wanted to be ready at a moment’s notice. Then one morning, there was a spread in the local section of the newspaper. Her dad had been stabbed to death in a drug deal.”
“Shit.”
“Claire shut herself in the upstairs bathroom. We could hear her sobbing all through the house. I kicked down the door, found her in the tub. She’d slit her wrists.”
“Shit, Beck.”
“It didn’t take, obviously. But things were different after that. She ran off. Then, like three months later, my parents split up.”
From behind the safety of my sunglasses, I stare into the rain with my good eye and try to put myself in Beck’s shoes. He’d wasted years on a regret that, when confronted, hadn’t wasted one second on him. I picture Frowny Claire, sitting alone in that apathetic townhouse—cigarette, therapy, lemonade, rinse, repeat . . . If her habit is king, it’s tyrannical.
“You ever have the feeling you lost something important, only to discover it was never there to begin with?” asks Beck.
I don’t answer; it’s not that kind of question.
“Before Claire ran away,” he continues, “while she was still in the hospital, I looked her right in the eye and promised I’d always be there for her. But I wasn’t. And now she doesn’t even remember me.”
I recognize this tone. What if . . . what if . . . what if . . . I play the What If? game all the time. But it’s rigged, is the thing. Impossible to win. Asking What If? can only lead to Maybe Things Could Have Been Different, via Was It My Fault?
On February fifteenth, Dad and I went to a movie. I remember the exact date because the theater was running a post–Valentine’s Day two-for-one special. After the movie, Dad insisted on a late-night breakfast. He knew I couldn’t say no. (Breakfast is a primary strand in the Malone gene, and like it or not, you put bacon and eggs in front of me, I’m as Malone as they come.) He suggested Friendly’s. I sighed, ever the tragic teenager, and said I preferred Denny’s.
Denny’s it was.
Our waitress was a struggling romance novelist; a chatty, happy-go-lucky gal, new to the food service industry. Dad ordered a Grand Slam (the metaphor of metaphors) and had three refills of coffee. As Dad rarely drank coffee at night, I found this odd, but said nothing. We ate, left, and that was that.
Only later, after all the pieces fell into place, did I begin playing the What If? game. What if I hadn’t mentioned Denny’s? Was it all my fault he met Kathy? Maybe things could have been different . . .