Contact (13 page)

T
he house seems unusually quiet
when I enter, but then I hear the telltale sounds of Helen in the kitchen: the clang of metal pots, running water, and a half-muttered
bugger
. I push through the swinging door and find her chopping vegetables with a rather intimidating chef’s knife. The smells of onion and celery fill the air.

“There you are,” she says, tossing a carrot top into the garbage. “I was wondering if I should bother with dinner tonight. Haven’t seen hide nor hair of you or your father all day.”

“Papa won’t be here,” I tell her dutifully. “But I’m famished.”

“Very well, then. How does a nice steaming pot of Arroz con Pollo sound?”

Chicken and rice has always been a family favorite, and Helen relishes making it for us.

“Can I help?” I ask her.

“Oh no, I’ve got it under control. It’ll be ready within the hour. How about you find something to keep yourself busy until then? You know, I wouldn’t mind listening to that French music you had on yesterday.”

“You heard that?”

“Your father’s office is right down the hall. Couldn’t help but hear it. Hope you don’t mind.” She tears a stalk of celery from the bunch on the counter and rinses it in the sink. “Here,” she says, handing it to me. “That should hold you over until dinner.”

“Thanks.” I take the celery and fetch a small tub of whipped cream cheese from the fridge before heading down the hall to Papa’s office.

The record player still sits open on Papa’s desk. I hadn’t bothered putting it away, knowing I’d probably want to use it again soon. I slip the LP out of the Les Mis cover and turn on the music, loud enough so that Helen can hear it in the kitchen. I settle into Papa’s overstuffed leather office chair and prop my feet up on his desk.

When I lean back, the chair bumps into the filing cabinet behind me. Too close. I sit back up in order to shift the chair away from the cabinet and notice that the bottom drawer has popped open. I thought Papa kept these drawers locked, but maybe the
bump jostled the lock free. The music thumps along in a heavy, persistent rhythm. I should just shut the drawer. I could easily push it closed with the heel of my foot. That’s what I should do. But instead I’m frozen there, staring at the one-inch opening.

Papa isn’t here, I tell myself. He won’t be home for hours. What would I find anyway? Tax records most likely, or nothing at all. But then I think of the Rawley scandal, all the things the media says about him. Papa, of course, claims none of it is true, and I believe him. But what if…?

I turn the chair so that I’m facing the cabinet and slide my fingers into the drawer, but I can’t open it more than a few inches because the chair is in the way. I’d have to move it to be able to open the drawer completely. And for some reason, I’m afraid to do it. What if Papa comes home, walks in, and finds me on my knees searching through his private things? With the music blaring I wouldn’t hear him coming, wouldn’t have time to put the chair back in its place. No, it’s better to leave things as they are. But curiosity finally gets the better of me.

Slipping off the chair and onto my knees, I peer into the drawer, but it’s too dark to see much. The smells of old paper and stale air leak through the opening. I stick my hand in and feel around. My fingers touch paper and cardstock, file folders and loose documents. I remove a few, pulling them out through the narrow gap, and flip through them. Just as I suspected. Photocopies of old tax records from years ago, and a nest of sales receipts, mostly from office supply stores and gas stations. I set them on the floor beside me and go fishing again.

I pull out two more files just like the first and set those aside as well. On my third try, I find only the cold metal bottom of the cabinet. Empty. What was I expecting to find anyway? I’ll just put the folders back and shut the drawer. I feel stupid now thinking there’d be anything interesting in there. But then again…

One last time, I plunge my hand into the dark recesses of the cabinet drawer. This time my arm sinks up past my elbow. I feel around the bottom again. Nothing. Then I reach back further. My fingers trace the line where the bottom and cabinet back meet. As I near one corner, I stop. There’s something there, something not quite as stiff as cardstock.

It’s tucked securely into the metal corner. I tug it free, and bring it out into the light. I’m surprised to find a photograph in my hand. The image has a matte finish, and the edges are worn. One edge is ragged, like a piece was torn off. There are two people in the picture, a man and a woman. I recognize the man immediately as Papa, a younger version, but most definitely him. He’s smiling and has his arm around a woman with long blonde hair and bright smiling eyes. She’s resting her head against his shoulder. They wear bright pink leis, not the cheap plastic kind like you’d get at some silly office party, but real ones made of flowers. They are holding champagne glasses and, from the expressions on their faces, it looks like they are having a really good time.

There’s something familiar about the woman’s face. I’m certain I’ve never met her before. I don’t know who she is.  But Mama does. I’m sure of it.

I climb back into the office chair and examine the photo more closely. The woman is so familiar, but I have to dig deep into the part of her lodged in my mind to find the memory. And then I put a name to the face. The woman is Jackie Beitner, the temp secretary Papa told Mama he hardly remembered.

There’s a date written on the back of the photograph in pencil, but it’s hard to make out. Turning on the Tiffany desk lamp, I hold the photo beneath it. The picture was taken less than a year before I was born.

I
spend the entire weekend
obsessing over Jackie Beitner. What was she doing in that picture with my father? Why did he lie to Mama about her? The questions nag at me so much that I can hardly sleep at night.

At first I consider just putting the picture back where I found it. Maybe some things are better left unknown, but no matter what I do, my mind keeps going back to it. Finally, I decide I have to tell someone. I consider calling my friend Krista, but we haven’t spoken since before school let out. After I ignored her texts and calls for so long, she finally stopped trying. It would be beyond awkward to contact her now. It’s not like we were ever really close anyway. The only one I really want to talk to is David, but calling him is impossible since I’ve got his cell, which is dead, so he can’t even call to track it down. I need to return it, but after seeing us together at the hospital, Papa and Jordan have been watching me like proverbial hawks.

Saturday Papa insists we take that drive up the coast. It’s a beautiful day and the sky is blue and clear, but he and I hardly speak a word to each other the entire time. At one point, I actually pull out the photo of him and Jackie Beitner. I want to ask him about it, but I just can’t bring myself to do it. He lied about Jackie, that much I know for certain. What else might he be lying about?

I slip the photo back into my pocket and leave it there. After stopping for some ice cream, we turn around and come home. I hope he’ll go out somewhere, anywhere, but he stays home all weekend. But when Monday rolls around he tells me that he’ll be in court most of the day, and then he’s jetting up to Sacramento to deal with some campaign issues at the Capitol office. He won’t be back until tomorrow morning.

Though he seems disappointed about this, I couldn’t be happier. The moment Papa drives away I head for the garage. Mama’s car keys still hang on their hook by the door. Technically, I’m not supposed to drive on my own since I’ve only got a permit, but David doesn’t live far. Just a few minutes down the freeway. If I hurry, I can be there and back in half an hour, long before Helen comes in for the day.

I pull the cover off Mama’s VW Bug. No one’s driven it since she’s been sick. It would make Mama cry to see it sitting here collecting dust like this. She would want someone to take it out, let it stretch its wheels.

I ease into the driver’s seat, touching two fingers to the dashboard and then my lips, just the way Mama would if she were here. Before long I’m heading west on the freeway with the radio up full blast, singing along with the familiar putter of the engine.

I take the Lowell Drive exit and follow the road through the mountains into North Hollywood. David was right about not being able to miss his house. It’s smaller than my garage, but the front of it is completely welcoming. Painted a warm shade of brown with red trim, it stands in stark contrast to the peeling exteriors of its neighbors. And just like David said, there are plants—lots of plants, covering nearly every spare inch of the front porch. I’m not exactly sure what kind they are, but they are all lush and green, obviously given meticulous care by someone who loves them.

I rap at the front door. I hear footsteps inside and the dull
clack
of a lock being unlatched. The door opens, and David is there, staring at me.

“Hi,” I say with a nervous little wave. “I—um—you forgot your cell phone.”

I hold the phone out, but David doesn’t take it. Instead, he opens the door wider and leans out into the sunlight. To my relief, he’s smiling.

“Hey, Mira,” he says, his eyebrows raised curiously. He glances behind me at Mama’s car. “Did you drive here yourself?”

“Yeah.”

“I thought you couldn’t drive.”

“Oh, I can drive all right,” I tell him. “I just don’t have a license yet. But I won’t tell if you don’t.”

Laughing, he opens the door all the way. “Come in,” he says, stepping aside.

I’m still holding the phone out. He takes it as I pass by him into a room that resembles a tropical rainforest. Just like outside, there are plants all over—on the floor, on the window sills, hanging from the ceiling, sitting on the piano.

“My uncle,” explains David as though he can read my thoughts. “He loves to garden. Back in Guatemala he owned a pineapple plantation. I think he still misses it.”

Also on the piano is a glass terrarium complete with sand, heat lamps, and a lizard.

“Hey, Charlie,” I say, tapping on the glass with my index finger. “I remember you.”

Charlie blinks and waggles a little pink tongue at me.

“I was just getting ready to take my uncle to the grocery store,” David says. “I need to check on him. I’ll be back in a second, okay?”

He excuses himself and vanishes through a doorway. The plant on the piano is one I actually recognize. The deep, velvety green leaves and rich purple petals look just like the African violets Mama had in our home when I was small. I brush my fingertips across the soft leaves, and then let them skate down the glossy finish of the piano. I trace the curves of the wood and pull my thumb across a few of the keys. Four low notes release into the air.

“Do you play?” David’s voice startles me.

I turn abruptly to face him. “Uh, no. Not really.”

“Not really?”

“Well, I took lessons for a few months when I was nine, but I never practiced and my parents didn’t want to waste any more money on me, so…”

David laughs. “Ramón will be out in a minute. Needs to put himself together.”

“I’m sorry for just dropping by. I should have called first, but that would have been kind of hard, under the circumstances.”

He smiles. “I was wondering what I did with my phone. Thanks for bringing it back. Why don’t you take a seat, and I’ll get us something to drink.”

I wander across the tiny living room to the worn corduroy loveseat while David heads for the kitchen. I hear him open the refrigerator door, shift things around, and pop open two soda cans. The clink of ice against glass and the fizz of the soda being poured makes my mouth water. When David returns he hands me a glass already coated in condensation.

“What about you?” I ask. “Do you play?”

David tips his head to one side and considers me for a second. There’s a look on his face I haven’t seen before, a little bit cocky, yet a little self-conscious. Setting his glass on the coffee table, he positions himself on the piano bench. He wriggles all his fingers in the air before letting each one alight, like a bird, on the keys. Then…he plays.

The notes are staccato, vibrant and cheerful. His fingers dance up and down the keys, the melody teasing and toying with the harmony line.

“I know this song!” I call out over the music. David glances at me over his shoulder, which moves with the rhythm his hands are making. “Why can’t I remember what it’s called?”

“Maple Leaf Rag,” he replies. “Scott Joplin.”

I tap my feet to the music for a few more measures before the song comes to a rousing end. But David doesn’t stop. His hands slow, and the music transforms into something melancholy. It’s beautiful, though, like someone’s broken heart translated into a melody.

At the end of this piece, I clap my hands and call for an encore. “Where did you learn to play like that?”

“I taught him,” says a deep voice to my right. I turn to see an older man, perhaps in his seventies, standing in the doorway. David’s uncle Ramón is a small man, just a little over five feet tall, with skin that’s brown and weathered. But his eyes sparkle, and the corners of his mouth are turned up into a perpetual smile.

“Tio!” David stands and embraces him, leading him over to me. “Tio, this is my friend Mira,” he says, introducing us.

“Ah! The Governor’s daughter.”

“He’s not the Governor yet,” I chuckle.

So, David’s mentioned me to his uncle?

Ramón holds out two thin, trembling hands. Mine are in my pockets, and I keep them there.

“I’m sorry,” I say sheepishly, thinking of some plausible excuse not to touch him. “I’ve got a cold.”

Ramón nods and pats me gently on the shoulder instead. “That is all right,” he says. His English is very good, despite his heavy Spanish accent. “So, you got my David to play the piano for you, eh?”

“I didn’t know he could play until just now.”

“He never told you?” Ramón casts David a look that is both critical and playful at the same time. “Ah, well, he likes to keep things to himself. I can hardly coax him to play for me anymore.” To David, he says, “I haven’t heard you play Solace in so long. It is my favorite, you know.”

“I know,” replies David. His fondness for his uncle is evident in his voice. “When I was a kid,” he continues, addressing me now, “I used to visit Tio Ramón every summer. He was a good teacher. All I had was a cheap keyboard back home, but I did the best I could. It was great moving here and being able to play on a real piano anytime I wanted.”

“You should do it more often,” says Ramón.

“I’ll try to find more time, Tio. I promise.”

“He’s busy,” Ramón tells me. “He goes to school all day. He works all night. Good things, but leaves little time for music.”

David, clearly embarrassed, empties his glass and excuses himself for a refill.

“Don’t you like to hear us talk about you?” Ramón calls out, laughing.

“No, I don’t,” says David from the kitchen.

“All right,” Ramón gives me a playful wink. “Then perhaps I will play a little myself.”

Ramón eases himself onto the piano bench and raises his hands. He holds them there for a long time, suspended just above the keys. I wait for the notes, but they don’t come. Instead, Ramón’s face tightens in frustrated confusion.

David returns carrying two glasses. He sets them down on the coffee table and comes to stand beside his uncle who looks up at him like a child, pleading and ashamed. But David only smiles and places his hands beneath Ramón’s. Together, their fingers descend onto the keys and play a slow, simple melody.

When they’re finished, Ramón lets out a delighted laugh. He pats his nephew’s arms and then turns on the piano bench to face me.

“So, David, you don’t like us to talk about you?” he says, grinning. “Let’s talk about your
friend
then.”

His emphasis on the word ‘friend’ is stronger than it should have been. I can’t help but blush a little.

“Wish there was something interesting to tell,” I begin, still in awe of the brief moment shared between them. “I like music, but just listening. I only speak a little Spanish, which drives my parents crazy, and I love all your plants.”

“Ah, yes!” says Ramón. From beside the bench, he picks up a plastic watering canister, which he uses to refresh some of the plants closest to him. “Do you have a favorite?”

“Your violets are beautiful,” I respond.

Nodding, he pours a little water beneath the leaves.

“Hey, I promised you could see Charlie,” says David. He reaches into the terrarium and lifts out the lizard. “I guess you two already know each other.”

Charlie is about a foot long from her nose to the tip of her tail. She’s mostly dark gray, with vicious looking thorns and ridges all over her.

“Hi Charlie.” I stroke the spot between her eyes. “I think she likes me.”

“Why wouldn’t she? I’ve told her all about you.”

Ramón has taken a seat at the end of the sofa. “I believe Charlie knows more about David’s life than anyone else. Perhaps because she is such a good listener.”

David places Charlie back in her tank and finishes off his drink. There’s a lull in the conversation which I take as my cue to leave.

“I’d better get going,” I tell David. Turning to Ramón, I add. “It was a pleasure to meet you.”

“I am very glad to have met you, too, Mira,” Ramón says with a smile so warm and genuine I almost want to hug him. “You know, your father is good man,” he continues, “A
héroe
to our people. I will vote for him come the election. It is one of the few things worth leaving this house for. Perhaps he could give me a bumper sticker?”

“Tio, you don’t drive anymore,” David reminds him.