Louder Than Love (26 page)

Pop Goes the Weasel

“Hey.” I pushed the screen door open for him. He had stripped himself of his suit jacket again, and his shirtsleeves were shoved up. The dichromatic uniform of white and gray let his eyes steal the show; their hue in the sunlight had an almost lapis lazuli–like quality. Under his tousled blond-gray locks, his cheeks were blotched with red, and it occurred to me how utterly English he looked. “How was breakfast?”

“Breakfast was good.” He saluted me with a large construction paper card. I recognized Abbey’s scrawl on the front, and one of her better renditions of Maxwell was grinning on what appeared to be a paper necktie. It flapped open to reveal an acrostic poem of his name:

A
wesome

D
ude

R
ocks

I
like him!

A
dad

N
ice

“She made me this, too. A pencil holder.” He held up a soup can decorated with colorful magazine decoupage. “For the desk in my cubicle at work.” He smirked, shaking it.

“Adrian, you’re bleeding.” Three knuckles on his right hand had rivers of red in their creases. “What the hell happened? Where have you been?”

“Nowhere. Just . . . driving.” His tone was agitated, and I watched as his eyes dropped a shade of deeper blue, their gold pyrites flecking as he squinted back out into the sunlight. “That pathetic prick . . .”
Oh, God. Grant.
“He isn’t worthy of talking about you.” He wouldn’t look at me.

“Did you
hit
him?” I pictured Adrian decking Grant as the other parents and teachers looked on in horror. I could hear the squeals of the children and the miniature chairs raking across the floor as my boyfriend, Abbey’s escort, pounded her classmate’s dad.

“Yeah, I hit him! So clever with his little barbs, the cunt. I should’ve pummeled his bleedin’ boat race the first time I laid eyes on him. Shut him up proper.” The grimace on his face was circa 1985, shock rocker–worthy and full of malice. I had never seen him so incensed. “Mark my words, his son will be the spitting image,” he growled. “Give him a couple of years.”

I grabbed his hand. It felt swollen, and blood was smeared down his pinky as well. “Jesus, Adrian. Did the kids see?”

He shook his head. “It was afterward, outside. Behind the building.” He winced under my touch and pulled away. Something in me snapped.

“You can’t just go around punching people who look at you wrong or say stupid shit to you! This isn’t some heroic paparazzi scuffle! What if he had called the cops? Another arrest on your record could get you deported!” I heard a raking, screechy voice and had a hard time reconciling the fact it was mine. “And then you go
driving
all around, and you don’t even call . . .” One of the many grandfather clocks in the living room chimed. School dismissed in ten minutes, and I really needed about twelve to get there on time. I grabbed the car keys from the porch ledge where he had banged them down along with Abbey’s gifts. “I worried myself sick.”

“I was so bloody angry, Kat. I couldn’t come back right away!”

I pushed past him. “It was thoughtless and irresponsible! You
know
that—” I stopped myself. But no, he didn’t know. I never told him the sickening reality of what “couldn’t come back” meant in my world. Pain and shame coursed through me as I stood in the driveway, chest heaving and heavy.

Adrian’s palm banged the screen door open, and the rest of him came tripping down the steps after me. “Go on, Kat . . . unfit! And inappropriate. Lacking the moral fiber necessary to supervise a child! Shall I provide you with more colorful adjectives the family court solicitor assigned to me when I lost my parental rights? Thanks, Kat.” He strode past me into the road, palms up and outstretched. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

“Adr—”

“Just go get Abbey.”

Turning over the ignition flooded the car with hammering drums and the distorted guitar strut of Adrian’s playlist from his drive back. Drowning Pool. I didn’t flinch or turn it down as I peeled out of the drive to the whisper-turned-growl of the chorus of “Let the Bodies Hit the Floor.” I saw Adrian’s back receding in the rearview mirror. He was headed toward the lake.

I breathed deeply along with the music. I could absolutely understand the anger building up and the power of letting that anger loose.
Something’s got to give.
Adrian’s suit jacket was riding shotgun like a smoky specter, peppered with his scent. I rolled down both windows and gave Lauder Lake a taste of metal for possibly the second time in one hour.

There was no sign of Grant as I pulled into the drive. No blood sprayed on the asphalt out back, only some colorful kid graffiti and the remnants of a hopscotch game. I imagined Adrian staring down silently at the chalky numbers before decking Grant on the count of five.

I was the last parent for pick-up, but everyone was all smiles when they greeted me. Miss Carly gushed at how wonderful it was to have Adrian join in the day’s celebration. She didn’t seem to know of the altercation that happened an hour before on school property.

“So kiddo, tell me about your day,” I prompted, killing the car radio.

Abbey proceeded to go into great detail about the breakfast: the circumference of the pancakes, the thickness of the syrup, the height and width of various father figures. On and on. I tried to stay focused on all of her details, throwing in a
wow
or
cool
here and there. Her enthusiasm heartened me, but my mind was still somewhere between the coffee and the blood spills. “And Adrian let me try his coffee, even though he said I would probably like yours better because it’s sweeter.” Her pocketbook swung between her two hands. “Sweeter like you-u!” she trilled.

That got me to laugh. “Did Adrian say that?”

“Yes. Adrian said a lot of nice things. But Jake was mean today.”

Ah, so here it was.
“What did Jake say?”

Abbey fiddled with the clasp on her purse. “He said, ‘Why is
he
here, he’s not your dad!’ So I told him Adrian
is
a dad . . . he just lives far away from his real daughter, so I’m pretending to be his daughter today so he won’t feel like a daddy with no kids.”

“Well, that’s a nice thing for you to say.”

Abbey began pulling items out of her purse and placing them neatly across her lap. I glanced in the rearview mirror as she brought out a Pez dispenser of a kitty cat and a sparkly green guitar pick Adrian had given her. Next came a pair of glow-in-the-dark vampire fangs waiting for her mouth to grow into. She carefully stuffed them between her lips and did a chomp test; no, still too big. She placed them on her lap as well.

“Then Jake said, ‘My dad says
your
dad is six feet under.’”

I jerked my head up, but she wasn’t watching me. She had pulled a photograph of Pete out of her bag. It had wrinkles from overhandling, but was still a great shot of him. We had gone to a marathon party at a friend’s apartment that overlooked First Avenue. Pete was in need of a haircut and shave, but looked positively radiant in the picture, wolfy teeth and all.

“And what did you tell him?”

“I told him my dad is in the stars and had two feet, not six!
Then
I said, ‘Your dad must be crazy.’” The way she drawled out her last word made me long to leap over the seat and hug her.

“Good answer, Abb. You know . . . Dad was smiling right at you in that picture.” She was holding the photo with both hands, quite close to her face. I leaned my chest on the steering wheel as we coasted down our street, trying to hold my heart together in one piece. “Yep,” I managed. “Everyone at the party was looking out the window watching the marathon runners race up the street, but you began cooing . . . you weren’t even two months old, riding in the pouch carrier on my chest. And he turned and smiled at you and I snapped the picture.”

“Hi,” Abbey said, as if she were cooing at a baby herself. “Hi, Dad.” She neatly tucked the photo into her pocketbook, replaced her other treasures, and smiled.

“How about we get you lunch and then finish packing for Aunt Miso’s tonight?” Adrian was nowhere in sight. I wondered if he was still at the lake. Or perhaps he had ventured up to his metal memory lane only to find I had littered it with the tourist trappings from my own walk of life.

“Pancakes were my breakfast
and
lunch!” Abbey moaned, rubbing her tummy. “I want to stay out here and dance.”

“Suit yourself.”

I found a calmer Adrian, sitting on the back steps with what looked and smelled like a double Jack on the rocks. His knuckles were cleaned up, but a Marlboro was burning down to the filter between them. He hadn’t been smoking much as of late, and never in front of Abbey. “She all right?” he inquired, stubbing the butt out against the thin sole of his dress shoe.

I squeezed onto the stoop next to him. “Yeah,” I answered softly. “She had a lot of fun with you.” We bumped shoulders and sat quietly for a few moments. Birds relayed their afternoon chatter through the treetops. I could hear the faint rattle and hum of Abbey’s music and subsequent dance steps. “I didn’t mean to make you feel . . .” I paused as he took a slug of whiskey. “I’m sorry,” I whispered.

“You and Abbey mean the world to me. But you deserve better—”

“Stop, don’t—”

“No, let me say this. You make me want to be a better man. I need to remember that before going off half-cocked next time. To think of you and Abbey. If I’m going to throw stones, I need to pay mind to the ripples in the pool.”

“Listen, Grant’s the type of guy who loves to get under people’s skin. He hasn’t matured since—”

“Since you slept with him?” Adrian said around a mouthful of ice cubes.

“Is that what he was going on about? At a preschool breakfast? See, that just goes to show you he’s obviously living in some sort of warped past.”

“Aren’t we all?” he asked, sharp and sudden.

“All what?”

“Dealing . . . or not dealing . . . with our past? Kat. You’ve got to talk about Pete.” Stunned, I couldn’t pull my thoughts together fast enough to respond. “If not to me, then at least to Abbey.”

“We talk,” I mumbled lamely. “I won’t ever deprive Abbey of him.”

The phone began to ring, but neither of us made a move. Adrian’s cheeks were still flushed, from drink or sun or perhaps heated from the confrontation. This was far from how I had expected the day to go. I certainly didn’t think I would go ballistic over spilled coffee, and I’m sure Adrian didn’t wake up that morning determined to punch someone. Or fight with me. “You know, I wish someone would write a bloody book about
you
. I can’t crack you, Kat. Hard as I try, I can’t crack you.”

“Mom . . . Aunt Miso’s on the phone.” Abbey was pressing her nose flat against the metal screen. “Adrian, want to see me climb the tree?”

I hitched my hand under the door from where I was sitting and pulled it toward me. Abbey came hopping down the steps, handing me the phone.

“Initiating Operation Dupioni Silk.”

It took me a moment to realize what or whom Marissa was referring to. “Leanna?”

“Major meltdown. At the mall.”

“Crap.” Meltdowns in your midthirties should not take place at the Lauder Lake Mall. Especially not for Leanna, whose favorite escape was thrifty shopping.

“My mom’s here. Bring Abbey.”

Abbey was wedged in the crotch of the crabapple tree; Adrian was leaning an arm against the trunk and surveying her progress. I noticed he hadn’t loosened the grip on the antique Hawkes whiskey glass in his hand. It was a rare cut-glass tumbler from the six-piece set that normally never left its place of honor in my mother’s china cabinet. Had she been here, she’d no doubt trail behind his every move with a pillow, poised to catch it lest his grasp slip.

“There’s a crisis,” I said quietly. “With Leanna. I’m sorry . . .”

“Go.” We were still in the midst of our own crisis, but I could tell his tone was genuine. “It’s okay. Go to her.”

“Thank you. Abb, come on down. We need to go to Aunt Miso’s now. Grab your bag.” I touched his shoulder. “You’ll stay?”

He shook his head. “I’m feeling a bit . . . penned in. The house today . . . feels like it’s coming down on me.” His eyes flicked toward the garage. “I’m gonna ride.” He handed me his drink.

“You can’t ride home!” I pictured Adrian in Armani, weaving through traffic off the GW Bridge. Abbey pulled a move like a lemur and landed in his outstretched arms. His reflexes were quick, but still I worried what would become of him.

“Silly girl.” He deposited Abbey neatly on the ground, and she was off running in the direction of the house. “I’ll ride to the station, take the train back.”

“Please be careful.”

“Please be my date tonight? You’ll still come down, right? There’s something I want to show you.”

“As soon as I can,” I vowed. “I will be there. I’ve got some show-and-tell for you myself.” Only the sweet whiskey aftertaste lingered on his lips as he rested them quickly on mine before retreating to the garage.

Mall Rats

“Where do you think she could be?”

Marissa studied the mall directory in front of us with the interest and zeal of a philologist decoding Sanskrit. “She said she was between Macy’s and the Hallmark store . . . Come on, this way.” It had been years since Marissa had worked at the mall, but she navigated the various aisles and escalators with a keen homing sense.

“Do you know what prompted the meltdown?”

Marissa shook her head. “I do know she was hella ticked off the other day about something Ed did or didn’t do. I thought she was going to send a gaggle of holy crows to descend upon him.”

“Murder.”

“Oh come on, Tree. That’s a little much.”

“No, I mean it’s a murder of crows. Gaggle is reserved for geese.”

“How did I get a friend as freaky as you?”

“Just lucky, I guess.” I spied Leanna, sitting catatonic on a bench. We made a beeline toward her, dodging giggling teen girls as they swung their shopping bags and tiny Abercrombie-clad butts in exaggerated mall-walk fashion.

“I went into the card store,” Leanna sniffed, “to pick out a Father’s Day card. There were romantic ones, and funny ones, and heartfelt ones . . . Things with Ed are not romantic or funny. My heart . . . feels dead.”

Sensing the need for reinforcements, we steered her right toward the tiny café tucked between Victoria’s Secret and Pretzel Heaven. Halfway through large iced double capps, the floodgate opened. Leanna was oddly calm as she reiterated how, after reading card after card, she realized how utterly inappropriate and hopeless her and Ed’s relationship was.

“Come on, Le . . . life isn’t supposed to be summed up in a three-dollar card,” I reminded her.

“Karen’s, maybe,” Marissa joked, her cheekbones sucked slim to drain the dregs of her drink. “Can you imagine what mine would say? ‘To the love of my life, who needs to lose twenty pounds—I’m going to give you amazing head tonight and then we’ll watch Letterman. Happy freakin’ Father’s Day!’”

Leanna managed a smile. “You could have your very own line of Kiss My Lily-white Ass cards.”

“Start designing . . . we’ll make millions. Build a compound, hire some fine pool boys. Who’ll need husbands?”

“I can’t believe I was ever sold on the idea of marriage in the first place.” Leanna dipped her lips down onto her straw. I flicked my gaze over her head and met Marissa’s, who raised one carefully plucked brow. “I think I was afraid of being alone.”

“But you’re not alone . . . you’ve got all of us, and we’re not going anywhere.” I balled up my straw wrapper and flicked it at her.

“Except for Tree, who’s going to Manhattan tonight, all night.”

Leanna’s mouth made a mini lipsticked O. “That’s right, what the hell are you doing here? I’m keeping you from all the hot Central-Park-view sex, Tree!”

“And morning after tea-and-crumpets-with-the-rich-guy sex,” Marissa added.

“Forget greeting cards. You guys need to collaborate and write porn,” I joked. “There’s plenty of time to get into town. I wanted to make sure you’re okay.”

Leanna sighed. “I think . . . I’m going to be all right. But it’s time to insist he comes to joint therapy . . . and I’m going to ask around about some legal counsel, too.”

“Good girl.” Marissa nodded. “Face your fears.”

“I can’t even face the Rubbermaid storage under my bed.”

“One box at a time. Right, Tree?”

I thought of the marathon move that morning. I hadn’t faced anything; I merely hauled it out of sight. Adrian was right. What was I so afraid of? Pete was just dreams and bones, like in that folk song about the garden on
Songs for Natalie
. But if I built him up with words, would he chase Adrian away? Or was I scared the ghost would abandon me if I verbalized it?

“Take charge, Le. Like you always used to,” I heard myself say.

“And speaking of charging . . .” Marissa scraped her chair back. “I think we need to swipe the ol’ credit card a few times before we blow this joint. Tree, we’re not going to let you wear Pete’s old boxers for sexy time with Adrian.”

“Hell no. Let’s go next door and find her some crotchless panties!” Leanna was back and in her zone, surveying the stores on either side of us. “Then I want a pretzel dog.”

“Gotta love the mall!” I laughed.