“The news, huh,” Ray says. “Do people still watch the news?”
“I don’t,” Mom says. “Too depressing. I feel like a big salad with tons of veggies,” she says, presumably about dinner. “What about you?”
“I feel like a chump,” Ray says.
“Nina,” Mom says, not commenting on Ray’s proclamation. “Will you come by, too?”
I nod.
Mom points to the car to indicate that she’s ready to leave. As we walk away, I look over my shoulder at Dad’s plot. I can imagine him standing there looking at the obnoxious flower arrangement and smiling.
One thing I can say for your mother, when she does something—for the good or the bad—she goes all out. I see him look me straight in the eye and wink at me. Buck up, kiddo. It’s all uphill from here.
I blow a kiss to Dad and catch up with Ray and Mom’s conversation.
“I’m sure it’s not as bad as you think,” Mom is saying.
“With me, it’s usually worse,” Ray says.
We get back to the cars and Ray stops Mom from getting in. “Mom,” he says. “I get it.”
“What’s that?” she asks, fishing in her purse for the keys.
“All of it.”
Mom’s hand freezes in mid-search, and her head pops up. Her eyes lock on Ray. “Thank you,” she says.
They could be talking about anything. But they’re talking about everything. Everything that doesn’t need to be put into words that will never do it justice.
“It might be too late to fix this thing,” Ray says, “but I’m going to try to do better.”
She takes hold of both his hands and spreads his arms out. She looks at him like she’s surveying a wreck.
“Son,” she says. “If you touch a lightning bolt, it’s going to knock you off your feet. But if the shock doesn’t kill you, then you get back up and carry on. Right?”
Ray allows her to hug him.
“Your dad never stopped hoping for you,” she says. “Don’t you stop either.”
◆ ◆ ◆
Before Ray managed to end up in prison for a couple of years, he’d spent more than his fair share of weekends there. He called it his vacation spot. Once, when he’d gotten off on a technicality on an offense that should have sent him away, I pretended I didn’t know where he was when Dad asked. Dad didn’t believe me and made me drive him to Lola’s place in my car, so Ray wouldn’t suspect it was him.
Dad flattened himself against the wall beside the front door, the way the police do in the movies—waiting for the bad guy to come outside so they can catch him off guard.
“Ray already saw you and Dad in the parking lot,” Lola said, peeping through the door she’d cracked open. All I could see was one eye and the side of her mouth.
“This is ridiculous,” I said.
Dad popped out from beside the door, and Lola jumped. “Ray!” he shouted into the house. “Son, I just want to see you.”
The sound of Dad’s voice made my eyes water. Lola stepped back and let the door swing open. I could see around Dad and over Lola’s shoulder and into the hallway. At the end of the hall, Ray stepped into view. His face was fixed and ready, but when his eyes met Dad’s, there was a crack in the stone. He stepped out of view again.
“I meant what I said, son,” Dad shouted back into the house.
I didn’t know what he meant, but words weren’t a threat. They were a reminder of that night in the street, when Lola was spirited away in an ambulance and we found Ray huddled in a corner in the alley.
“That will do for now,” Dad said to us and walked back to the car.
A father’s love is unbreakable.
After that, Ray stuck around, but not for long.
Lola wanted him to come to her very first gallery show. She said he was the special guest. He tried to beg off, saying that he didn’t have anything to wear. Lola told him to come anyway—that his arms were art and he’d fit right in. He didn’t mean for the tattoos to be art. He meant for them to be a warning. The fire breathing devil down his left arm was matched by more fire and brimstone creeping up his right arm and down the middle of his back. I think, really, they were supposed to be a shield.
Ray said thanks but no thanks and wished her luck. He couldn’t stay away though. He had to be near. He tried to skulk along the edges of the gallery and not be seen. But I found him.
“What do you think?” I asked, gesturing at the paintings.
“I didn’t know she could do this.”
“She’s good.”
“It’s me, isn’t it?” he asked. “That one of the devil with the fire-breathing man for arms. I get it.”
“You’re all she thinks about,” I said. “Still.”
“I should grant her escape then.”
“You want me to believe that you don’t need her just as much?” I asked.
“It’s all too loud,” he said. “The fireworks, the tire squall, the freaking clack-clack of those braces.”
“She’s upset that you’re not here,” I said.
“Tell her I saw it,” Ray said. “Tell her I see everything. She’ll know what that means.”
Sometimes Ray seems like a bear coming out of a cave, starving and squinting into the sun, wondering how long he’s been out and if there is anything left around him.
19
My last month of work has passed, and to take my mind off my first Monday without a job, I call Carol, my grade-school friend, to meet me for lunch in Oliver’s part of town. I aggravate myself by calling it that. Oliver’s this, Oliver’s that. Delineating sections of the world that belong to another place in my life, places from which I have voluntarily shut myself out.
“You look terrible,” Carol says and opens her arms to envelop me.
“That’s too generous,” I say, falling into the
