I need all traces of sweetness washed away for what I have to do next.
“Leo,” I say, balling up my napkin and shoving it into the empty coffee cup, “why did you want to see Amanda?”
A guarded look kidnaps Amanda's face, like my words hold her hostage.
Damn.
“Uh, ah–I know it's been a long time. I said I was sorry, Mandy.”
No one's corrected him on her name. Mandy was her childhood nickname. I'll let it slide if she's not saying anything.
“I heard you. I can tell you are.”
A coldness washes over me, brain clicking into robot mode. Emotion has no place in me. This is a transaction. If he crosses the threshold for ending conversation, we're gone.
Otherwise, we're here, but conditionally.
“I don't...” His voice is thick, choked with emotion. “I don't know how to use words to make up for years, Mandy. All those years. I was a bad father. An absent father. You turned out so well. Your mother did real good by you.” He wipes his eyes with the back of his hand, avoiding conflict.
If this is a performance, I give him points for faking earnestness.
Suddenly, he's looking at me, red-rimmed eyes unembarrassed. “And you. Your secretary sent me the letter. I know what you're doing.”
Amanda stiffens.
“Any good man would do it, protect Mandy from someone like me. I got no right to ask for your time like this, but you're here and so am I. I'm making amends. You know what that is?” Narrowed eyes meet mine.
“You're in AA?”
“Recovery. Yeah. Working the program.” He reaches into his front pocket and pulls out a shiny round object, thrusting it at Amanda. “That's my two-year chip.”
“Two years?” she says with marvel.
“Been more like ten now, in fits and starts, but two years is the longest I've gone in one stretch. Took me this long, and getting settled after getting out, to finally dig up the courage to ask to see you.” Leo's eyes cut to me. “Hey. What's wrong?”
“I have to ask, Leo – how do you get alcohol in prison?”
He's taken off-guard by the question, but a sheepish laugh comes next. “Man, until you're inside, you'd never know. Toilet wine. Pruno.”
“Toilet wine?” Amanda asks, making a face.
Waving off the question, he scratches his nose and lets out a long sigh. “You just need sugar and something that ferments, like a moldy piece of bread. Some fruit. A bag to put it in and store it. People use toilet tanks sometimes to store it all in a plastic bag.”
“Or people smuggle it in for you,” I add, thinking it through. Leo gives me a fingershoot that says I'm right.
“Oh.” Amanda's little gasp kills me.
Then she does it again, face filled with astonishment, hand going to her lower ribs on the right. “Oh, goodness, Righty!”
“Righty?”
She laughs. “We don't have names for the babies yet, so we call them Lefty and Righty.”
Leo shakes his head. “I knew a Lefty in prison. That's no name for a kid. He could dislocate his own shoulder, elbow, and wrist to get out of handcuffs, but only on the left.”
“They'll have names soon,” I declare. Leo's staring at Amanda's belly like it's a nature show on the National Geographic channel.
“They're your grandchildren,” Amanda says softly. He looks at her, frozen. “Do you have others?” she asks.
“Others? Where would I have others?”
One shoulder goes up as she clearly tries to find a way to ask something. “I–Mom never told me much about you. Were you ever married to anyone else? Did you have other kids?”
“God, no, Mandy. You're it. My only kid.”
“Oh.” Relief fills that single syllable.
“Grandkids. Two at once. Who ever imagined old Leo would have grandkids?” He seems overwhelmed by the idea.
So much that’s unsaid fills the air, choking me.
“Why are you in Nashua, Dad?”
Her use of the word Dad almost makes me jolt, but I hold it in. I’m very accustomed to restraining emotional reactions. My guard goes down when I'm with Amanda, but Leo isn't her.
And Dad isn't a word I’ve heard her say directly to any man.
Ever, until today.
A shaky smile dissolves and he nods slowly. “I had some choices. Guys like me don't get many, so when we do, it's scary. I came to this place.” He nods in the direction of the halfway house. “It's close to home.”
I assume by home, he means Boston.
But I'm pretty sure he also means my wife.
“And me,” she says, courage coming forth.
“Yes, Mandy. And you.”
“Do you...” Her voice breaks. My heart goes along with it. “Do you think we'll just suddenly have a relationship, Dad? I tried. I tried to come to the prison to see you and you refused.”
An oh, shit look takes over his entire being. I sit up taller, leaning toward Amanda.
Not that she needs my strength. She has plenty of her own.
Leo's eyes close, his throat spasms with a thick swallow, and his nostrils flare as he inhales. The non-stop nodding is a tic, maybe learned in prison, a stalling technique for time.
The guy isn't rushing to give an answer.
And we have all the time in the world.
When he finally opens his eyes, decades of pain shine in them.
“I couldn't face you, Mandy. I was so ashamed. Didn't know how to be a dad in prison. It was easier to pretend you didn't exist than to face up to what I'd done and be human. I'm so sorry. I should have done more. I understand if you want to pretend not to have a dad.”
“I don't… I…” Amanda stammers.
Leo stands, hands flat on the table, head down, shoulders curled in. It's a stance of pain, of a wounded warrior struggling to re-center.
“I'll leave you. Grateful you came at all, Mandy. And those babies are so lucky to have a mom like you.”
“Dad, wait.” Amanda touches the back of his hand. “This isn't all or nothing.”
He flinches, then lets out an enormous sigh. He was holding his breath.
“You sound like the therapists in
