Chapter 59
Larry’s is a little smokehouse/bar only about ten minutes from the duplex, a dump from the looks of it, but they always say you get the best ribs in the dumpiest places. Dad’s obviously a real regular. There are probably fifteen people in there and they all seem to know him. They’re amazed and delighted to meet his boy too. Texas women sure do like to pinch you on the cheek.
His lady friend isn’t so happy, though. She comes out of the bathroom just as we get finished passing through the smorgasbord of well-wishers, and she launches into how she’s already been there for thirty minutes and is sick of how he treats her. This looks like it could turn grim, but I should know better. Dad just clicks on his broadband smile, and tells her he got held up a little by a visitor.
“I’d like you to meet my son, the amazing Sutter Keely.” He makes an exaggerated gesture in my direction. “And, Sutter, this is Mrs. Gates.”
As quick as that Mrs. Gates goes all radiant. “Your son? Why didn’t you tell me he was coming to town?”
She teeters forward, folds a sloppy hug around me, and kisses me on the cheek. Looks like she’s a little tanked already. I think I might like her.
She’s not the prettiest forty-five-year-old lady in the world by any means, but she is quite the fabulous specimen in her own way—magnificent fake eyelashes, a full kilo of eyeliner, and best of all, the oversize Texas hair, dyed black with a splotch of white in front where her bangs part. She’s statuesque in a way, not tall but like maybe at one time she had the body of a Miss Universe. Only now the statue is turning back into its original block of marble. I mean, she’s substantial. I’d hate to run into her with the Mitsubishi.
We gather at a round table near the back wall, and Dad orders up barbecue and a couple of pitchers of beer. The food’s delicious, big portions with plenty of sauce, hot and sweet like I like it. But best of all, no one seems to mind that Aimee and I are helping ourselves to the brew. It’s frosty cold as Christmas morning—beers with the old man at last!
He cocks back in his chair, lights a cigarette, and goes into his jokes and stories, igniting laughter from everybody, including the antique country-and-western hippies at the next table. The story I like most is about the time we went to some little lake back when things were still okay between him and Mom. It had this beach layout with a small pier and a waterslide, a couple of diving boards, and a lifeguard. After trying to teach me how to swim for a while, Dad decided to do a little showing off on the high dive, so he told me to sit right where I was and not to move. Well, of course, me being me, as soon as he turned his back, off I went running around trying to get into any kind of fun I could find.
So Dad did his dive and then came back to find me missing. Immediately, he panicked, thinking his fabulous boy had slid off the pier into the deep water. He rushed to the lifeguard, but all he did was wade around in the shallow water with his whistle poked in his mouth and his stupid-looking pith helmet glinting in the sun.
It’s hilarious the way Dad tells it. He does all the voices and faces, even gets up and imitates the faux heroics of the doofus lifeguard, and then me reappearing, tying up the drawstring on my bathing suit after a visit to the Porta Potti, looking all bug-eyed innocent. Everyone’s about to explode from laughter, except Mrs. Gates.
She’s all sentimental over the whole thing, sitting there with her eyes welling up and one of the fake eyelashes dangling crooked. She has a large blob of barbecue sauce on her chin that no one tells her to wipe off, and she’s muttering, “You got bootiful chidren. You sure do, just bootiful.” Apparently, she thinks Aimee’s my sister.
Me, I feel all glorious and beaming because I remember when the whole deal really happened. Dad doesn’t tell the best part, though—the part when he grabbed me and squeezed me and told me not to go running off like that ever again because what if I did drown? What would he do without his amazing, amazing boy? I’ve carried that memory with me like a lucky coin ever since.
More stories from the past go around, all of them panoramic and warm as the Pacific Ocean. When I remind Dad of how we used to listen to Jimmy Buffett songs in the backyard on summer evenings, his smile takes on a wistful curve. “Those were great, great times, Sutter,” he says, and I wonder if there’s not just a little regret in his voice. But then his smile goes back into overdrive. “You know what? They have Jimmy on the jukebox right here. We can listen to the whole CD.”
After he plugs the jukebox, he shuffles back toward the table with his hands stretched out toward Mrs. Gates. “You got your dancing shoes on?” he says, all sly-eyed, and Mrs. Gates is like, “Hoo-boy, you better believe it.”
“Come on, Sutter,” Dad tells me. “Let’s see if you and Aimee can keep up with us old folks.”
Now, to the right music, I’m not a shabby dancer, but Dad and Mrs. Gates are all about Texas swing dancing, which is not my specialty, and doesn’t exactly fit the music all that well. That won’t stop me for a second, though. I’m up for anything. And surprisingly enough, so is Aimee. I’m like, Who is this chick? What happened to the girl I practically had to crowbar out of her seat to get her to dance at the prom? Seems like just the fact that I actually took her suggestion to find my dad shot her confidence full of steroids.
So there the four of us are, on the little, patio-size dance floor, Aimee and I bouncing off each other in this spastic display of bad coordination, while Dad and Mrs. Gates, drunk as she is, whirl around like clockwork.
Taking pity on us, they decide to give us some quick lessons. We switch partners for the second song, and the next thing I know, Dad has Aimee twirling like she just graduated from the Grand Ole Opry or something. On the other hand, I nearly throw Mrs. Gates into the lap of a dude with a belt buckle the size of a cheese platter. She doesn’t care, though. “You are a fabalus dancer,” she tells me. “Just fabalus.”
Next thing I know, a slow song is playing and Mrs. Gates squeezes me to her substantial bosom and plants her hands in my back pockets. It would’ve taken a Molotov cocktail to blow me out of her grasp. Across the way, Dad has Aimee pressed close and scoots her smoothly around the edges of the dance floor. We smile embarrassed smiles at each other, but I can tell she really likes the old man.
You know what? I tell myself. I’m not even going to ask him about what happened with Mom. Better just to ride the smooth breeze and see where that takes us instead. No need to force anything. Tonight’s about reconnection, not solving mysteries.
But when we get back to the table to relax with some more brews, Aimee has to go and ask the question that turns our party time completely inside out. You can’t blame her for what happens, though. It’s a reasonable question. She has no way of knowing that she’s setting off a string of firecrackers right in the middle of Larry’s Bar and Grill.
Chapter 60
“So, Mr. Keely,” Aimee says, still glowing from our dance-floor heroics, “what have you been up to all this time since you left Oklahoma?”
See? It’s perfectly innocent and well intentioned.
Dad starts off vague. “A lot of traveling,” he says. “Here and there, up and down. I was always restless, I guess.” Then the glint sparks in his eye and you know he’s conjured a good memory. “One of my favorite places was Key West, Florida. Oh, man, you should see the sunsets. Like a big butterscotch sundae with swirls of strawberry mixed in, melting into the ocean. Time’s different down there, slower, more relaxed. I bet if I’d stayed there I’d still be five years younger.” He laughs, but I think, in a way, he believes it.
“Why did you leave?” Aimee asks. All evening, she’s listened so hard to every word he said, you’d think she expected him to accidentally reveal the meaning of life at any moment.
“Why did I leave?” He takes a pull on his beer. “Man, that’s a good question. You know, I guess it boils down to that great old American dilemma—the paycheck. Or the lack thereof. The powers that be expect you to get one if you want to eat, drink, and find lodging. That’s the eleventh commandment, man. Thou shalt pay thy debts in a timely manner.”
He finishes his beer and pours another. “But I’ll bet Sutter’s not so interested in why I left Key West as in why I left Oklahoma. Am I right?” He looks at me, one eyebrow raised.
I have to admit the question has crossed my mind.
“And it’s a fair question,” he says. “No doubt about it. Let me start with this—I did want to be there for you and Holly. Man, did I ever want that. I mean, the two of you were more important to me than anything in the world. But apparently, I wasn’t cut out to be a family man, not in the traditional sense anyway. Your mother sure didn’t think I was. And things got to be so uncool between her and me that it seemed better if I wasn’t around. At least for a while. Problem is sometimes a
while
can turn into an era before you know it.”
This answer doesn’t sit quite right with me, but I don’t get a chance to let it fester. Yet.
“So,” Mrs. Gates pipes up. “What happened between you and your wife?” This contribution surprises me. From the way she’s been staring at the tabletop, I thought she’d passed out.
“The old story,” he says. “Irreconcilable differences. Thing was, she always wanted a future, and I just didn’t have one to give her.”
“Ha!” exclaims Mrs. Gates. She throws her head back, but she’s like a bobblehead doll—her head instantly springs forward again. “In my experience irreconcyclical differences means that the husband and wife have one huge disagreement. She thinks he shouldn’t cheat and he thinks he should!”
Keeping it cool, Dad’s like, “It’s always a mystery to men what women think.”
Then, out of nowhere, these words blurt out of my mouth: “Mom told us you cheated.” The words feel weird on my tongue, but I’m in it now and have to go on. “She always tried to blame everything on you. I never really believed her, though. I figured she was just using it to get us on her side.”
For a moment, Dad rubs his finger along the top of his beer mug, contemplating.
“Well?” says Mrs. Gates. “Did you cheat?”
Without looking up, Dad’s like, “Maybe. A little.”
I guess it’s just one of those things that—when it comes right down to it—he can’t lie about. Sure, it sounds ugly, but I’m still trying to tell myself that, with the way Mom treated him, he had to go looking for comfort somewhere.
“Hot damn!” exclaims Mrs. Gates. “Isn’t that just like a man to come off with an answer like that? How can you cheat just a little?”
He puts the smile back on but it’s not so authentic now. “You know how it is,” he explains. “You go out drinking and having a good time and one thing leads to another. The girls don’t mean anything. Some of them you don’t even remember their faces.”
I’m like, “Some of them? How many were there?”
Dad looks like he’s actually getting ready to count them, but gives up. “It’s not like I kept a running tally,” he says.
“That’s it. I’ve heard enough.” Mrs. Gates slams her palm onto the table. “I didn’t know I was getting involved with a serial rapist!”
“Oh shit.” Dad looks at me apologetically. “Here she goes, exaggerating again. I was hoping we could get through tonight without this kind of thing.”
Mrs. Gates leans forward. “I am not a
thing.
”
“That’s not what I said. It’s just that you can be like—let’s say—way overdramatic?”
“I am not overdram…overdram…overdramical. How do you expect me to react when I find out you go around having sex a mile a minute with women you don’t even love?”
“Hey, I never said I didn’t love them. I’m sure I loved them all, even if it was just for forty-five minutes.”
“Oh-ho! Forty-five minutes, is it? Tell me this, then—when are
my
forty-five minutes going to be up?”
Dad cocks his head to the side. “How am I supposed to know? I don’t even wear a watch.”
Even I can tell that’s the wrong thing to say.
Mrs. Gates’s painted-on eyebrows launch upward so fast you’d think they were getting ready to fly off her head. “Well, now I’ve heard everything! You cheating dog. Making me think you wanted me to leave my husband and two poor kids for you.”
“Your kids? Your kids are twenty-something years old. Besides, I never said I wanted you to leave anybody.”
Her face is completely red, right to the roots of her dyed hair. “So now you think you can just throw me away like some old, gnawed-on bone? Well, I’ll show you what I think of that.” She picks up a plateful of picked-over barbecue rib bones and hurls them straight into Dad’s tumbling-dice shirt.
“What the hell?” he says, looking down at the dark sauce stains.
This would be a stellar time for a grand exit, but Mrs. Gates isn’t finished. “Let’s see how much the ladies like you looking like that.” She waves her arm and knocks her full beer mug onto the floor, where it shatters on the brick-colored tiles.
Dad’s like, “Jesus Christ, cool it, will you,” and a second later, the owner of the place charges over and says, “Dammit, Tommy”—Tommy’s my dad’s first name—“I’ve told you not to have this crazy woman in here when she’s so drunk. Now get her out before she breaks anything else.”
“But my boy’s down to see me,” Dad says.
“I don’t care. People don’t come in here for this kind of crapola.”
“You couldn’t pay me to stay in here,” declares Mrs. Gates. She stands up and staggers into the table, sending my dad’s mug down to shatter among the ruins of her own.
“Hold on,” Dad tells her. He gets up and throws a twenty onto the table and goes, “Sutter, will you settle up the bill? I better help her out.”
I’m like, “Sure,” but of course, the twenty isn’t enough to pay for all the ribs and beer we’ve had, so Aimee and I have to chip in to round it out. By the time we get done with that, Dad and Mrs. Gates are already outside.
It’s sprinkling now, and under the streetlight at the far side of the parking lot, she’s yelling, “Get away from me, you sheep in wolf’s clothing.”
“Come on, man,” he says. “Settle down. You’re taking this all the wrong way.”
But obviously Mrs. Gates is in the wrong stage of the life of the buzz. Instead of settling down, she slings her bowling-ball-size purse around by the strap and pops Dad right in the face.
“Don’t you tell me what to do,” she hollers and slings the purse again.
Dad’s hunkered over now, holding up his arms in self-defense, but she’s a medieval warrior with that purse, slamming him again and again.
“And don’t you ever dare ask me for any more loans,” she says, and whap—the purse zings into Dad’s shoulder. “You’re gonna pay me back every last cent of what you already owe me. Don’t you think you aren’t. You’re not gonna use me up and then skip out with my money.” Whap, whap, whap.
Finally, Dad gets hold of her arms and pins her against the trunk of her car. She’s breathing hard and muttering, “You’re a worfless sonvabish. You know that? Worfless.”
I suggest that maybe we should pack her into the Mitsubishi and drive her home, but Dad’s like, “Thanks, Sutter, but I think I better drive her over there myself. I think I’d better talk to her alone.”
“You want us to follow you?”
“No, that’s all right. You go on back to my place. I’ll meet you there in thirty minutes.”
“Are you just going to leave her car here?”
“It’ll be all right.” He smiles like everything’s going great.
“You’ll be at your place in thirty minutes?”
“Thirty minutes on the dot.”