Bo's Café (3 page)

“I’ve called three times today at your office and twice on your cell phone.” She blurts it out with her back to me, like she’s
hoping the suddenness will cause me to confess something.

“Steven, you were going to pick her up from school today. You and her. You were going to have some time with your daughter.
Remember?”

“Crap!” I start for the stairs. “I totally spaced it.”

She lets me get halfway up before she says, “She’s asleep. Come back down the stairs. You’ll wake her up.”

She turns fully toward me and lets me see her disdain.

“Steven, she stood at the loading zone for over an hour after school. Parents picking up kids circled around, concerned about
her. ‘Are you okay? Do you need a ride?’ ‘No,’ she had to say over and over. ‘My dad will be here soon.’ ”

“Enough. I get it.” If I don’t stop her, she’ll just keep at me.

“She’s eleven once,” she continues. “This is it; this is that time. When you promise something, you can’t just—”

“Don’t start this,” I say. “I made a mistake. I forgot. I screwed up, okay? I’ll talk to her later.”

“Oh, ‘later.’ ” She nods sarcastically. “Which ‘later’ would that be, Steven?”

“Don’t patronize me, Lindsey. You know what I mean.”

“No, I don’t. I really don’t,” she says as she paces into the living room, straightening magazines that are already straight.
“Is this the ‘later’ like those other commitments you make and don’t keep? Or is this a different one? I’m curious.”

“Knock it off,” I say, raising my voice. “I don’t need this right now.”

“Shhh! You’re going to wake her up. She doesn’t need to hear this.”

“Oh, that’s great,” I say even louder, throwing my briefcase down. “Yeah, that’s good. Take a few jabs and then tell me to
be quiet. Great!”

She turns away and almost under her breath says, “I can’t keep doing this.”

“Doing what?”

“This.” She swipes her arm across the entire room. “All of it.” She holds her gesture, then slumps her shoulders and sighs.
“I can’t keep covering for you, Steven. Jennifer loves you. You’re her dad. But she’s starting to not trust you, to no longer
count on you. I don’t want that. I don’t want my daughter to grow up that way. She deserves more, Steven.”

“Don’t start the drama, Lindsey.”

“You don’t get it, do you, Steven? The pattern doesn’t change. You’re upset with your life and you take it out on me, on us.
I am continually walking on eggshells around you. I’ve never walked on eggshells with anyone. Didn’t even know what it meant.
And now, for Jennifer’s sake, it feels like all I do when you’re around.”

She stops for a moment, as though she’s counting the cost of what’s coming next.

“You know what? I’m not unhappy—not until you come in with your resentment.”

“Here we go,” I mumble.

“You’re so dissatisfied with your own life,” she says, back to straightening things, “that you can’t bear the thought of anyone
being dissatisfied with theirs. You can’t tolerate the notion that it could possibly have anything to do with you. So you
tear into everyone and everything and can’t understand why everything is all torn up around you.”

“That’s not fair,” I shoot back.

“You’re right. It’s not fair. Here’s how it goes.”

She runs up to the front door, acting out what she is saying. “You walk in with something you’re unhappy about.” She runs
back to the couch. “Then I try to reason with you. And you get louder and louder and meaner and meaner.” She takes a step
toward the kitchen. “Then, when I can’t stand it, or you scare me enough, I leave the room.” She then walks back into the
middle of the living room with her arms stretched out. “And somehow you imagine that you won.”

I try to respond, but she stops me, raising her hand.

“You know what?” She slowly shakes her head, a forced smile on her face that is more of a grimace. “I used to be able to stay
in the ring with you. But something inside me has gone away. I’ve lost my confidence. I’ve lost who I used to be. I don’t
even recognize me anymore. So, Steven, you win. You’ve beaten me down to where I can’t help you anymore.”

“Look,” I say, trying to calm myself down. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I screwed up. Okay?” I walk into the living
room. “Is that what you need to hear? I screwed up. I’ll make it up to her. I can find some time later this week. I’m sorry,
all right?”

She slowly walks over to stand right in front of me. “No, see, that’s not going to work this time, Steven. I’m done. I sat
here tonight, as I waited and waited… again. And somewhere around eight thirty I found myself thinking something’s wrong with
you. And I don’t know what it is. I don’t know if you’re having an affair or if the man I thought I knew has turned out to
be a phony. So I’m done. I mean, really done.”

“Why do you do that?” I ask. I hate it when she pulls the “affair” card. “Why do you always have to accuse me of an affair?
You do this all the time. You know you can get me angry accusing me of an affair. All right, you got me. I’m angry.”

She spins completely around in exasperation. “You really don’t get it, do you? You’re so wrapped up in your own arrogant little
world that you can’t see what’s going on, can you?”

“
My
little world?” I yell, getting louder with each word. “Oh! Excuse me, then. Would that be the arrogant little world that
lets you spend half your day at a health club or gossiping with your little friends at fashionable little wine bars, on my
dime? Would it be that arrogant little world?”

“See, there you go. You think it’s all about the stuff. You think everyone should walk around bowing to you for what you can
do.”

She runs into the kitchen, calling out from there: “You’re so blind, Steven. Jennifer isn’t going to remember that she had
all the stuff.”

She walks purposefully back out of the kitchen, dramatically waiting a moment before she says: “She’s going to remember that
you weren’t here. And even when you were here, you weren’t here. That’s what she’ll remember.”

“That’s crap, Lindsey!” I yell.

“All we have ever wanted was you, your person. And with all your skills and magic, you have been totally incapable of providing
that for your wife and daughter.”

“Shut up, Lindsey. Shut up!”

“You’re doing it again. You get angry, then you get loud, and then you get stupid. Angry and stupid. Angry and stu-
pid.”
She pops the
p
.

“Don’t do that!” I step toward her.

“Do what?”

“Stop it! You know what I’m talking about.”

“Do you know that what you find significant means nothing to either of us? All your importance at the office, all your greatness.
Nothing. Zip. Nada.”

That’s when I snap. I yell and grab a vase of flowers off the dining room table, whacking her arm with my shoulder as I reach
for it. I swing the vase like a discus thrower, flowers and water flying across the room and onto her. Then the vase slips
out of my hands and explodes on the staircase. For a moment, we both look at the room, covered with flowers, broken glass,
and dripping water. I’m breathing hard, my fists clenched at my sides.

“Sometimes,” I growl through my teeth, “I really, really do not like you, Lindsey!”

She swallows. “You’re acting like a crazy man, Steven.” Her voice is forced calm.

I step right in front of her and yell at the top of my lungs, “Just shut up! Shut your stinking, stupid, fat mouth!”

She tries to move away from me. Almost involuntarily I block her path.

“Get away from me,” she says quietly.

“No! I hate this!” My entire body is screaming. I can’t calm down. “Do you hear me? I hate you! Do you hear me?”

Lindsey runs up the stairs. I run up after her, not knowing why. She’s standing in front of the closet when I get to the bedroom.

“Get away!” she screams. “Get away from me, Steven! I’ll call the police!”

“Stop it!” I yell. “Just talk to me. I’m not doing anything. I’m not going to do anything.”

She runs toward the bathroom.

“Don’t go in there, Lindsey!” I scream out. “I’m warning you. Don’t close—”

Before she can close the door, I run toward it and slam my full weight into it. The door flies open, knocking her down on
the other side.

She shrieks, “Oh, God! You broke my nose! I think my nose is broken! Get away from this door. Get away from me!”

I let go of the door. She slams and locks it. She’s crying, moaning, and screaming all at the same time.

What am I doing?

“Okay. Lindsey, calm down. I want us to talk.”

She’s sobbing on the other side of the door. “I’m scared, Steven. I just need you to leave me alone.”

“I didn’t do anything.”

“You hurt me! I’m bleeding.”

I rest my forehead on the door. She’s still sobbing. “Come on, Lin. That was an accident. I’m sorry. Open the door.”

After a few moments she says quietly, “Steven?” She has stopped crying.

“What?”

She waits several more seconds before slowly saying, “I need to take Jennifer and leave right now.”

“What do you mean? Leave where? Where are you going to go?”

“To my mom’s. I need you to get away from the door and go downstairs. Will you do that?”

I hate everything about this. If she leaves, everything is going to go nuts. But I can’t stop her. She’s already scared.

“Are you really bleeding, Lindsey? Are you all right?”

“I’ll be all right if you just get away from the door.”

“All right, Lindsey. I’ll go downstairs. I’m going downstairs right now.”

I turn and in a blur somehow find my way down the stairs and to a chair at the far end of the living room. I sit there stunned,
my entire body shaking. My mind is racing.
How did this happen? I’ve got to fix this and I don’t know how. What is Jennifer going through? She had to hear most of that.
What is Lindsey saying to her?

In a few minutes both Lindsey and Jennifer descend the stairs, each carrying an overnight bag.

“Call me when you get to your mom’s house, will you?”

Lindsey doesn’t answer. Jennifer looks back at me, confusion in her eyes. She walks a step toward me and tries to say something,
but nothing comes. Then she notices the broken vase and scattered flowers, evidence of what she just heard from her room.
She turns back to me with a look of fear.

“It’s all right, honey. Your mom and dad are just working through some things right now. Everything’s—everything’s going to
be fine. I’ll see you tomorrow. We all just need to get some sleep. We’re gonna be fine.”

There are no responses. Only the sound of the front door closing behind them.

(Thursday Morning, March 12)

Next time I check, my watch reads 3:00 a.m. I’ve spent the last few hours staring at the ceiling, rehearsing everything Lindsey
and I said, replaying the scene of my wife and daughter walking out the door. I’m spent. I cleaned up the mess. Now I can’t
go to sleep, but I can’t think clearly either. Lindsey never called from her mom’s. I can’t call her this late, so I have
to wait a few hours to make sense of anything.

Everything’s too quiet here in the dark. My head is buzzing. And for the last hour all I’ve been able to hear is Andy’s voice
from earlier in the evening:
“You could go back to what you’ve been doing… . But you’ll be back… . And until you let someone shine a light into your room,
nothing’s gonna change. Life’s gonna get more painful, more confusing and darker.”

Last night at Fenton’s seems like a month ago now. Was Andy legit? Does the guy know my dad or is he just some spooky old
stalker guy?

I grab my wallet to find his card.

Let’s just see what Google has to say about you, Mr. Andy Monroe.

I sit down at the computer and type in “Andy Monroe.” There’s a songwriter named Andy Monroe. He dominates most of the first
few pages. I’m pretty sure that’s not him. There’s also a playwright… an expedition diver… and a bull rider.

On page eight I find an article. “Langston Group: Andy Monroe Leaves Position as Financial Head.” It’s from 2003 and describes
an apparently hugely successful forty-eight-year-old stepping away from his position at the request of the corporation for
reasons of “personal indiscretion.”

Well, well, well. Is that you, Andy boy?

He had said something that night about once being on the fast track. Tracks don’t get much faster than the Langston Group.
Those guys had dominated the South Coast financial scene since I was a boy. So maybe our flip-flop-wearing friend was somebody
at one time, until “personal indiscretion” got the better of him.

Still, how does a guy like this know my dad?

I think about calling him, but quickly realize I’d rather not have him asking questions. Best not to mention it.

Instead, I nose around some more and start picking up repeat articles with the occasional grainy photo of a younger-looking
Andy Monroe. Various entries detail Andy’s exploits in the financial world, but everything just sort of stops with that “indiscretion”
back in 2003. It’s as if the Andy Monroe of the financial world ceased to exist after that. And I can’t find a thing that
ties him to Culver City or my dad.

I decide to pull down some boxes of family pictures from the garage. If this guy’s for real, there has to be some evidence
of it somewhere in my life. Besides, I got nothing else to do. Where am I going?

I make a pot of coffee, and within minutes I’m sitting at the kitchen table with pictures spread out in front of me. I almost
forget what I’m looking for. It’s been so long since I’ve seen pictures of my childhood. I’m actually almost enjoying myself.
But there’s nothing of Andy. Forty-five minutes later I begin refilling shoeboxes with pictures.

That’s when I notice it—a picture of my dad and me on a fishing trip. I can’t be more than eight years old. Dad used to take
me on those half-day chartered fishing trips off San Pedro. We’d go with his buddies—three or four guys who show up in a lot
of our pictures. We really didn’t know their families that well. They were just normal guys who grew up together in the neighborhood
and never left. They all did guy stuff together: bowling, fishing, sitting around playing cards at Petrazello’s. There was
a heavyset bearded guy; Stan, I think. He was a machinist or something like that. I just remember his big, beefy hands always
had grease in the cracks. There was Mr. Ketchum. He was a salesman of something or other. He and his wife did a lot of stuff
with my parents. I really couldn’t remember much about the others.