Trail of Echoes (15 page)

Martin, Mom's boyfriend, was dragging a green trash can from the side of the house to the street. Even by the way he lined up that green can with the blue and black ones, I could tell that the large man in the wet tracksuit and sopping house shoes had retired from the U.S. Marines. A major, he'd seen action in Vietnam, Iran, Iraq, and Afghanistan. But he hadn't yet conquered Georgia Starr.

“Lou!” he boomed now. “How's it goin', girl?”

We hugged.

At seventy-two years old, Martin was still solid muscle. Tonight, he smelled of wet grass and beer. “I just stopped by to help your mom…” He waved a beefy hand at the trash bins.

Guess we were still pretending that he didn't live here most of the time, even though I had spotted his slippers—the very ones on his feet now—on the left side of her bed more than once.

He tapped my shoulder. “Thanks for that gift certificate. Nice resort.”

“You get in some golfing?”

“Oh yeah.” He ran his palm over his wet and wavy silver hair. “Not used to being pampered. I've been to Palm Springs before, but not
that
part of Palm Springs. Your mom loved it. Wants to go back.”

I faked a sneer and pointed at him. “And you
will
take her back.”

He stooped to snatch a wet newspaper from the sidewalk. “Stopping over for dinner?”

“Nope,” I said, walking to the front door. “Just bringing the queen some entertainment.” I held up a gift bag filled with puzzle books. “Is everything okay?”

He gave me a strange look, then rubbed his neck. “Oh, you know.”

A very real sneer found its way to my face, and white-hot rage swept over me.

Victor Starr.

Since his return, that son of a bitch was upending everything, including this long-awaited, loving relationship Mom had found after denying herself happiness for so long.

The television in the living room was on and turned to the Arizona State–Texas game. Mom sat in the sunroom, pink-framed glasses perched on her nose, short gray hair wrapped in a silk scarf. A small lamp on a tiny table burned brightly and illuminated the tomato and basil plants, as well as the crossword puzzle she was now working.

“What's an eight-letter word for ‘neighborhood'?” she asked without looking up.

I brushed dried tomato leaves from the other chair and sat. “Vicinity.”

She narrowed her eyes, then shook her head. “Another word.”

“Umm … Environs.”

She wrote the word, then smiled at me. “Hello, dear daughter.”

I held out the gift bag of books. “
Pour toi
.”

She leaned over and kissed my cheek. “Just in time.”

“You've run out?”

“Umhmm.” She pointed to the curled-page puzzle books near the succulent garden.

“Guess where I was today?”

She opened a new book. “Standing in a dark alley, blood everywhere?”

“Close.” I plopped into a chair. “Back in the Jungle, at our old apartment building. Miss Alberta's unit, to be exact.”

Mom sucked her teeth. “She
still
there?”

“Yep. She says hi.”

“One of the sons finally turn up dead?”

“No, but her granddaughter did. Nothing like you'd expect. In the gifted program at Madison. A talented photographer…”

“That's too bad.” Mom leveled a gaze at me. “Maybe now Alberta knows how it feels. If she had a husband, maybe I'd go over and try and sleep with him.”

“Whoa,” I said, holding up a hand. “What the hell, Mom?”

Her eyes went hot. “That woman was always chasing after your father. I wouldn't be surprised if…” She shook her head, then stared out at the dark, wet yard.

“Hello?”

She sighed. “Will you call that man, please? You being stubborn is drawing this out, making it longer and more torturous than it has to be.”

I stared at her coolly, not threatened, not at all.

“He calls me like we're still married.” She closed the crossword book and tossed it on the footstool. “Twice a day, morning and evening.”

“Does he
know
you're divorced?”

She frowned. “Are you seriously asking me that, Elouise?”

“I just don't remember you two going down to the divorce court and having it out over who's the rightful owner of our grocery-store set of encyclopedias.”

Mom stood from her chair and stomped out of the sunroom. “Let me show you.”

I followed her through the living room and hallway, past walls of framed pictures of Tori and me in childhood, of me in a cadet's uniform, of Mom and her sister Savannah.

We reached her bedroom, a mecca for Laura Ashley fanatics—blue and yellow flowers everywhere. The only nonfloral objects were the bed's headboard, the dresser, and the desk set.

Arms crossed, I leaned against the bureau and spotted Martin's reading glasses and
US Veterans
magazine on the nightstand.

Mom pulled out a desk drawer stuffed with folders and grabbed a thick accordion file. She removed the bungee cord, browsed through the papers, and then pulled out a section of yellowed newspaper, which she thrust at me. “I didn't need his permission to get divorced.”

State of California District Court … in RE the marriage of: Victor Starr … Your spouse has filed a lawsuit against you for dissolution of your marriage … must serve your answer upon petitioner within thirty (30) days of the date you were served with this summons …

The date: March 26, 1990. I had just started high school.

“I remember…” The paper shook in my hands. “You wouldn't let me read the paper on my own. You'd hand me the comics or the Metro section.”

“Because I didn't want you to read
that,
” she said, pointing to the clip.

Serve by publication
. Place a legal notice in the paper where your spouse had lived last. The notice ran once a week for four weeks. After that, your spouse (in this case, Victor Starr) was considered served.

“Did he see it?” I asked.

“I don't care,” Mom said, her neck swerving just like ShaQuan's. “He saw it, he didn't see it, doesn't matter to me. Victor and I are legally divorced.”

“Maybe if you showed—”

“Why? Why do
I
have to do everything?
He
gets to leave, and now
I
have to do something?
Again
?” Her nostrils flared as spit gathered at the corners of her mouth. “I don't care if his heart is broken and bleeding. He had a choice: his wife and family—or his
dick
. I don't need to tell you which he chose.”

My face burned, and I handed her the newspaper.

He had left that Sunday morning for the newspaper and a bag of lima beans for my science project. More than twenty years had passed before he stood on my porch—and without the bag of beans. And now I wanted to ask Mom, “Who did he leave us for?” since she'd tossed sex into the kettle. But the thought of her answering made me light-headed. I wasn't ready for
that
truth—part of me still called nipples “nickels” and believed babies lived in heaven with storks wearing postal caps.

“Our last breakfast together,” I said, “did you know…?”

She clutched her neck and stared at the carpet. Then, she shrugged.

That day, Mom had stood at our picture window, tugging her earlobe, then perched on the couch to work on a big book of crossword puzzles.

“That night,” I said, “you were supposed to make lasagna.”

“But I couldn't—we had to plant your lima bean.” She inhaled and slowly released it. “He's trying to destroy what I have, Lou.” She shoved the file back into the drawer. “He's always been a jealous man who hated any attention I received. Insecure bastard. Needed me to kiss his ass every day, all day.

“I've told Martin over and over again: I don't love Victor. That part of me no longer exists. That
woman
no longer exists. But that
bastard
is trying to wreck it all.”

And now, I felt so very tired. My injured wrist throbbed, and my knees ached because now I knew my job: serve as a distraction to Victor Starr. Be a rodeo clown for the bull.

“What the hell does he want?” I asked.

“To be in our lives again.”

“As though nothing
happened
?” I asked. “And if we don't want him in our lives?”

Mom's lip curled. “He'll bully his way in. He's stubborn like that, Elouise, and he expects me to bend just like I would have bent thirty years ago.” She tried to blink back tears, but one escaped and slid down her cheek. “I'm this close”—she held up trembling, pinched fingers—“this close to taking a gun and killing that man. I swear I'll do it, and you'll end up arresting—”

“Mom,” I said, my voice weak.

“Cuz Martin is threatening to get involved, and I don't want
him
getting in trouble. That's what Vic wants.”

Great. More pressure. “Mom, this is crazy.”

“You don't understand.”

“What?” I screeched. “
I
don't under—?”

“
You
were a child,” she shouted. “Think about how your heart broke every time Gregory stepped out on you. Now, imagine that happening and you had two children, two
girls
who were watching you and needing you to be strong. How could Victor leave me, leave
us
so
easily
? He told me that he
agonized
over leaving. Bullshit. Did he send money to help take care of you and Tori? Did he call for birthdays or graduations?”

I shook my head. “No.”

“Did he call when Tori disappeared?”

“No.”

“It took me forever to leave that apartment,” Mom said, “not only because I was waiting for Tori to come back home, but because I was waiting for
him
to come back home, too.”

We had finally left the Jungle at the end of my tenth-grade year, moving into a duplex in Leimert Park with big windows, lots of light, no laundry-room bullies, not haunted by ghosts.

Mom hugged herself as she perched on the bed. “I'm asking you to call him not because I'm scared of him. I'm not scared. I'm asking you because…” She held my gaze. “Because if you don't, I will go to jail with your father's blood on my hands. Just call him. Please?”

 

22

Mom's plea—
Just call him—
sounded so easy. Pick up the phone, say hello, and listen. Baking a chocolate soufflé on the moon, blindfolded, was easier. By the time I pulled into Syeeda's driveway, though, I knew:

I'd be Mom's rodeo clown.

Next door, Mr. Mendelbaum, dressed in yellow galoshes, a black suit, and yarmulke, was pushing a trash bin to the sidewalk. Mrs. Mendelbaum, a back-lit shadow in the doorway, pointed from the porch and shouted, “Not there! Over there!”

Syeeda had left on the porch and foyer lights, and the small stained-glass windows at the front of her Spanish-style home glowed. The
Star Wars
theme sounded from my jacket. A text from Sam.
On my way.

He lived in Echo Park, right outside downtown, and, with the rain, that gave me a little more than an hour to prepare before his arrival.

I hurried into the warm house, rushing past my full packing boxes in the foyer, passing the coffee table and couch crowded with legal pads and pens, tripping over Syeeda's Gucci loafers abandoned near the bathroom, and running down the hallway to disarm the burglar alarm.

After showering, I dabbed more hydrocortisone cream on my chest rash, then pulled on jeans and a gray cashmere sweater. I didn't have to see myself before saying, “Nope. Too corporate,” and stripping again.

Maybe sweats and flip-flops.

“No,” I whispered, “too lazy.”

What about…? Well …

What message did I
want
to send?

I stared at my reflection in the full-length mirror.
What does a thirtysomething divorcée wear that signifies, “I want something to happen, but I'm not sure how much of that happening I want … to … happen”
?

I hadn't dressed for an at-home dinner since Will Smith was the Fresh Prince and Ice Cube was Amerikkka's Most Wanted, and now …

“Screw it.” I grabbed clingy black yoga pants and a long-sleeved jersey.

Talk about mixed messages.

I popped an ancient Floetry CD into the stereo, then lit votive candles on the mantel, sideboard, and dining room table. Then, I blew out the candles, turned on the floor lamps, and replaced Floetry with Sting.

In the kitchen, two wineglasses and a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon sat on the granite island. A note had been taped to the wine label.

You WILL drink this. You WILL relax and slut it up. It's your duty as a patriot. Have fun!—Sy P.S. There are two more bottles in the sideboard.

I poured myself a glass, then grabbed a large pot and skillet from the cabinet.

On the menu: chicken with pesto made from fresh basil that came from Mom's sunroom, haricots vert with sautéed tomatoes, another gift from Mom's garden, and …

I looked in the fridge.

Another note from Syeeda had been taped to a pink pastry box.

A pineapple tart. Pineapple.
☺
You're welcome. (Yeah, I know I'm going to Hell. SEXY Hell.)

I didn't know whether to laugh or shriek. Syeeda was touting the benefits of Sam eating pineapple, and yet I couldn't even figure out handshake or hug, a hello kiss on his lips or on his cheeks or no kiss at—

The doorbell rang.

Shit.

I lit three votives, turned off one floor lamp, replaced Sting with John Legend, then ran to the foyer.