Authors: Andrew Porter
Well, whatever
, he’d said.
There’s got to be some type of local industry, right?
But the thought of this then, of Raja working in a field or picking up some random job at a factory, depressed her. Only three months before, he had been a straight-A chemistry major, on his way to a lucrative job in chemical engineering, and though he’d never truly embraced this path, at least it was a path, right? At least it had a future. At least it made sense. And the fact that he was so willing to give that all up so easily confused her.
I’ve never thought that the happiness in my life would come from my job
, he’d explained.
And so, you see, it doesn’t really matter
.
But she hadn’t really believed him when he’d said this, or perhaps hadn’t wanted to believe him. All she knew now was that the closer they got to the border, the worse this whole idea seemed to be. At one point Raja had even talked about the fact that they might have to change their names once they got there, once they arrived in Mexico, and what those names would be. Chloe had said she’d always wanted a Russian name,
something like Anya or Natasha, something sexy, but Raja had said he’d actually go the other direction, something plain and inconspicuous, something like John or Doug.
“No offense”—Chloe had laughed—“but you don’t really look like a Doug.”
“And you think you look like a Natasha?”
She’d laughed.
It had been fun playing this game, thinking about the idea of reinventing themselves, and in some ways, she was kind of looking forward to the idea of switching her identity, of becoming someone else. It would be almost like acting, like playing a role, just as she’d done back in high school, and she felt certain she’d be good at it, that they both would. But on the other hand it also seemed somewhat strange, even frightening. After all, if she was no longer Chloe Harding, then who would she be? And would she begin to forget after a while who she truly was and who Raja truly was? Would their false identities, their make-believe lives, begin to blur with their real ones, and what would this mean in the end? She thought of the way that Simone had completely transformed herself into somebody else, the way she’d completely eviscerated any trace of who she’d once been. Was it really as simple as that? Could a person really erase who they were? And if they could, was that something she even wanted?
She wants to ask Raja about this now, wants to beg him to change his mind, but somehow in the dim light of this room, as he sits across from her smoking his cigarette casually, she can see that any mention of going back now would be pointless.
“And what about Teo?” she says finally. “Do you still have a bad feeling about him?”
He looks at her and shrugs. “Not really,” he says and draws on his cigarette. “Not anymore.” He smiles at her. “We talked.”
“You talked? When?”
“Earlier, when you were in the bathroom at the icehouse.”
“I didn’t see you talking to him.”
“Well, I did,” he says, and winks. “And I think it’s okay. I mean, I think it’s all going to be fine.”
And suddenly all of the nervousness in his face is gone, almost like he has resigned himself to something that even she doesn’t yet understand.
“So you and Teo are tight now?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Well, what did you guys talk about then?”
He looks at her, shrugs. “Nothing really,” he says, and then he smiles at her again.
Earlier she had gotten a funny feeling about Teo. When Raja was up at the bar, getting them another round, she had caught him staring at her from across the street, looking right at her, just as he had when they’d first arrived in San Antonio and he’d let them out of the van. And later, when he’d led them down the street toward the bar, she’d felt his eyes on the back of her legs and twice caught him staring at her breasts. Beneath the finely pressed suit that he wore, beneath his polished exterior, she could sense a muscled physicality about him, an animal nature, as if his suit were just a façade, a secret skin.
“Look, let’s talk about something else, okay? I want tonight to be a nice night, okay? Our last night in the States, right?”
And the sound of those words, the finality of them, unsettles her. She thinks about the ride down again, about the darkness of the cargo space in the back of the truck and how frightening it had been, how uncomfortable, how she’d used the clock on her cell phone to chart their course, imagining in her mind the various towns they were passing through, and how for a long time they had just sat there in silence, holding each other, calming each other’s nerves. When they arrived in San Antonio, she could tell by the way the truck slowed down, the sound of cars honking outside the narrow walls. She had tried to explain to Raja how she had come here all the time in grade school, and then later in middle school and high school, how every other class trip she had ever taken seemed to involve a stop at the Alamo. And Raja had laughed then and nodded, saying that he had only ever seen the Alamo in films.
Well, it’s a lot smaller than you’d think
, she’d told him.
And like so many other things you hear about, kind of disappointing, you know
. And then the truck had stopped, and there had been the sound of Teo opening up the back door, unlocking it, and then yanking it up, and there was a moment when the lights from the streetlamps were so bright that they had had to close their eyes and squint against them, and then there was the sound of Teo stepping up into the cargo space and moving around the boxes and crates. Like something from a dream, he had stood there, a looming silhouette.
Time to get out
, he’d finally muttered and then he’d smiled at them and winked.
• • •
Later, lying with Raja on the mattress in the corner, she kisses his eyelids and tells him to sleep. They are lying side by side, his arms wrapped tightly around her.
“You look exhausted,” she says.
But he shakes his head. “I’m not sleeping,” he says, “but you should.”
Up above them, the lone lightbulb dangles from the ceiling, casting shadows against the wall, and in the distance, outside the window, she can hear the sound of police sirens and people shouting, the fight at the icehouse breaking up, people heading home to their houses along the dark empty streets. Raja places his hand on her hip and squeezes it, then brushes her hair with his fingertips, and a moment later, everything is silent, and she feels herself relaxing, listening to the lilt of his voice, she feels her eyelids growing heavy, and then, just as she’s about to drift off, she hears a rapping at the door, a violent knock, and then Raja is up and walking over there, standing in the open doorway and talking to Teo. She can’t hear what they’re saying, but she can see the top of Teo’s head bobbing, and then a moment later the door slams shut and Raja is coming back to her.
“Let’s go,” he says. “Come on.” His eyes are suddenly wild with excitement. “She’s here.”
“Who?”
“The girl,” he says, smiling now. “She’s here.”
OUTSIDE THE KITCHEN WINDOW
, Elson can see the first rays of dawn lightening the horizon, the sky above him overcast and dark, a few random lights going on in the neighboring houses. He is bracing himself for the long day ahead, the long day of interviews and meetings with the police, the second round of interrogations, but for now he feels strangely at peace. He is standing in the kitchen of the first and only house he’d ever bought, and he is no longer a stranger here. He is not an unwanted guest. He is here because his wife has asked him to be here and because she needs him at this moment, because she’s opened her arms to him once again, and the thought of this now, the thought of Cadence asleep in their room while he is down here in the kitchen, about to make breakfast, the thought of this is so comforting to him at this moment that he almost has to smile. Despite all of the chaos in their lives, despite all of the uncertainty surrounding his daughter’s absence, despite the profound fear that he now feels for her well-being, despite all of that, there is still a momentary glimmer of hope in the air, a possibility that they might all come out on the other side of this okay.
He places the skillet on the stove and cracks two eggs, then pulls out a carton of orange juice from the refrigerator and begins to grind the beans for their coffee. He hasn’t made breakfast for himself or anyone else in several months. When Lorna used to stay over, they’d always go out to eat, and when he was on his own, he’d typically skip breakfast or sometimes grab a bagel with his coffee on the way to work. The ritual of breakfast, however, was something he’d reserved solely for his family, for his wife and kids, and it was a ritual, he now realized, he’d dearly missed. He could still remember, when Chloe was young, the way she’d wake up early on Sunday mornings and grab the newspaper and then begin to
check off the important football games of the day, the games that might have serious playoff implications for the Oilers, back when the Oilers were still in Houston, or later, when she was in high school, the Texans. Football had always been a thing they’d shared, a father-daughter thing, a subject that Richard had little interest in. She would always sit there, reading off the latest injury reports or casting her own projections while he would stand at the stove, making them omelets or pancakes or sometimes, when Chloe begged, his famous French toast. Meanwhile, Cadence and Richard would come down a little later, usually a little groggy, and lie on the couches in the family room doing
The New York Times
crossword puzzle together. Later, when the kids were older, they seemed to do this less and less, but for a while there it had been a ritual of theirs, a thing that defined them as a family, and it occurs to Elson now that if they had simply kept this up, if he had maybe made it mandatory, just like their weekly meals, it might have been enough to save them.
It is this that he’s thinking about when he hears the sound of Cadence’s minivan in the driveway and then, later, the sound of the laundry room door opening. Upstairs, Cadence is fast asleep, so he knows it must be Richard, and were he not so caught up in his own distant memories at this moment, were he not so distracted by the past, he might have reacted a little more quickly, might have run up to the bedroom and hidden from his son, but at this moment it doesn’t even occur to him that there is anything wrong about the fact he’s standing here in his own kitchen making eggs, and so when Richard walks in, looking strung out and dingy, his entire body reeking of booze, he doesn’t think twice about extending his hand to him and greeting him.
Richard stares at him for a moment, confused, like he’s looking at an apparition, then scrunches his nose.
“What the hell are you doing here?” he says finally, ignoring his outstretched hand.
“I’m making us some breakfast, buddy,” Elson says. “Have a seat.”
Richard studies his body, his pajama pants, his wrinkly T-shirt, putting it all together.
“You slept here?”
“I slept on the couch.”
“But you slept here?”
“Your mother didn’t want me driving.”
Richard shakes his head, and he can see he doesn’t believe him.
“What the hell?” Richard says. “What are you guys, like, together again?”
“Richard.”
“I can’t fucking believe this.”
“It’s not what you’re thinking.” Elson walks over to him now and tries to touch his shoulder, but Richard jerks away. “Just sit down a second, buddy.”
“Don’t touch me,” Richard says, and then they stand there at a stalemate, neither of them saying a word. Finally, Richard sits down at the counter. “So, what is this, like your master plan or something? To keep messing with our heads until we all go crazy? Haven’t you done enough?”
Elson stands there, motionless, his son’s words stinging him, reminding him once again of how much the boy hates him. Ever since he first came out, ever since Elson had suggested that he see a shrink to fix his problem, the boy had never forgiven him. Even when he’d come around to it, even when he’d come to accept it, even when he’d come to even admire his son’s courage for embracing a lifestyle that surely wasn’t easy, even when he’d told him these things, the boy had never forgiven him. He’d held on to that phrase,
fix your problem
, and had used it against him like a tool.
“Let me make you some breakfast,” Elson says, staring at the skillet, which is starting to fill the room with smoke, with the smell of burnt butter. “You like eggs, right?”
“I’m not hungry.”
“You need to eat something.”
“I’m not fucking hungry, Dad.”
Were the circumstances different, were Richard still in high school and were he and Cadence still together, he would have never tolerated this type of thing, this type of recalcitrance, but he is not in any position to argue these days, and Richard knows this, has been using it against him now for several months.
“Where’s Mom anyway?” Richard says finally.
“She’s upstairs sleeping.”
“I think we should wake her up.”
“I don’t think that’s such a good idea.”
“I think we need to talk about this.”
“Richard.”
“I think we need to have a little family sit-down. Isn’t that what you used to call it? A
sit-down
?”
Elson says nothing, feeling even more powerless than he had a moment before. He walks over to the stove and turns off the heat, then puts the skillet down in the sink. Finally, returning to the island counter in the middle of the room, he sits down across from his son and tries again to extend his hand to him, to touch his shoulder, which this time Richard lets him do. “Look,” he says finally. “I think we’re all just a little confused right now, buddy. Your mother’s confused, I’m confused, and I’m sure that you’re very confused, too. And when you’re confused, you sometimes do things that you shouldn’t do. And that’s all this is. I think we’re all just scared to death right now for your sister.”
Richard looks at him, and he can suddenly see something in his eyes softening, giving way, a sign of recognition perhaps, or maybe hesitation. He knows his son well enough to know when he’s scared.