Chapter 56
— Chapter 56 —
I try to make myself coffee in one of the plastic pour-over cones, but I get bored waiting for the water to drain through the grounds. I feed Lenny Juice, refill Coriolanus’s water bowl, rinse dishes, and forget to pour more hot water in the cone. When I finally have a full cup, it’s cold and bitter. Aubrey brewed coffee like it was a meditation, pouring water, watching the drip, swaying on her tiptoes, twisting her fingers through her hair. The way she moved reminded me that I used to know how to calm myself before all the fidgeting was scolded out of my body. She does it without shame.
I tried to call her, but only once, right after I left Jam’s house. The phone rang all the way to voicemail. I didn’t leave a message or call back because I’m scared Steena might pick up Aubrey’s phone. I can’t tell if I’m smart to be cautious or I’ve inherited Step’s fragile spine.
Eddie doesn’t come in for lunch. I spend the whole shift watching the door, staring at Lexi’s sweatshirt under the bar, checking my phone to see if Aubrey called. I’m so distracted that I mix up Shorty and Gus’s orders, so Shorty ends up with Gus’s charbroiled white asparagus. Gus’s plate comes out with the baked Kennebec potato he ordered but Shorty’s truffle-mashed parsnips.
“What planet are you on today?” Gus asks.
“Jupiter,” I tell him.
“Because you’re so magnetic?”
“No, because I’m so fucking cold,” I say, a little too sharply.
Gus looks worried, so I make a silly face, adding, “And full of gas,” and he erupts into his giant-man laugh.
Between lunch and dinner, I go to Shorty’s shop to work on Step’s car. I can’t sit with my own brain, and I’m worried if Sam or Carlos ask me what’s going on, I’ll confess about Eddie, even though I know I shouldn’t.
I’m upside down in the driver’s seat trying to pull a busted fuse when I hear Bee say hi to Shorty. I called her this morning while I was walking home, but she didn’t pick up. We agreed a long time ago not to leave messages about Aubrey, so all I said was “Hey, call me.”
Bee starts laughing as she gets closer. I know I must look ridiculous wearing a pair of Shorty’s coveralls over my work clothes, knees hooked on the back of the driver’s seat like I’m an acrobat hanging from a trapeze.
“Carlos told me you were here,” she says, climbing in the passenger side. “What are you doing?”
“The fuse I have to pull is corroded into the box,” I tell her. I can feel my pulse in my eyeballs.
“Which one?”
“Power locks.”
“So, not a load-bearing fuse.”
“Not really.” I pull myself upright. “Did you see her today?”
Bee shakes her head. “She wouldn’t talk to me. What’s going on?”
We close the car doors, speak quietly, even though I know Shorty would never rat me out to anyone. I tell her about the list from the realtor and Charlie coming to get Aubrey. I run through everything Steena could twist into nefarious actions.
In addition to letting her stay with me, I took money from Aubrey to pay bills, drove her across the state border to the junk shop in Danbury a bunch of times, let Shray sleep in her room whenever he wanted to. Under my watch, she smoked cigarettes, ate the head off a pot gummy bear, and drove Step’s car without a license. And I knew, I harbored, encouraged things that look bad from the outside in. Maybe they actually are bad.
“Should I be fighting harder for her to come back?” I ask, my pulse in my throat now.
Bee squints like her thoughts are painful. “I want to tell you the things you’re worried about aren’t likely to happen. But we know your sister is a nightmare. It would be dumb to pretend she isn’t.”
“I just want Aubrey to be okay,” I say.
“If Aubrey called her parents asking to come home, she basically kissed the ring. The prodigal daughter admitting she was wrong—that’s a narcissist’s dream. So, I think Aubrey will be fine at home for a while.” Bee rubs her forehead. “But I think you’re going to be the scapegoat. And we’re not innocent, so, no, unfortunately. I don’t think you can fight right now.”
Eddie comes in for dinner. Sits at the bar. Orders one of Carlos’s meatball subs. I’m so numb. I feel like a bartender-shaped robot attending to tasks. I smile and get him what he wants. Treat him like every other guy in the bar. But when he hands me money for his bill, he wraps his fingers around the side of my hand, gives the slightest squeeze, then walks out the door.
I grab Lexi’s sweatshirt and follow him to the parking lot. I know I’m too tired to be having this conversation, but I am also too broken to hold it inside myself.
“Hey,” I call, just before he gets in his truck.
Eddie turns around.
I jog over, holding out the sweatshirt, breathing hard in the cold air. “Tom left this for you.” I don’t like my voice, sharp and dense, my accent creeping back—I may as well be my sister. “Your wife’s sweatshirt.”
“Oh,” Eddie says, taking it from me, eyes wide with confusion. “Oh.” He smiles. “That’s just—we—”
“You know what? Don’t.” I back away. Hold up my hands, palms toward him, empty. “I don’t want any of it.”
“It’s not what it looks like.”
“Yeah. That would be the next line in the script, right?”
“We are getting a divorce,” he says. “Lexi’s just not ready to tell people.”
I laugh, but my eyes are filled with tears and I hate that he can see them. “Oh, come on, Eddie. How could I believe that?”
I walk toward the door. He calls my name, but when I go inside, he doesn’t follow me. I run into the bathroom, sit on the counter, and hold my breath until I feel like a robot again.
At the end of the night, Carlos asks if I want to share a cigarette. We sit at the edge of the rotting pier.
“What’s wrong?” he asks.
“Every fucking thing,” I say. If it weren’t a reservoir, I would dive into the dark water right now. The urge is consuming. And I laugh, because it’s funny that rules can still keep me from a certain kind of recklessness. Heaven forbid I mess with the water supply. I might get a ticket or a soggy ride to the station in the back of a police car.
“Oh, Freyalina,” Carlos says, wrapping his arm around my shoulder, letting me rest my head on his. “It’ll be okay. Nothing’s ever as bad as it seems.”
That’s what Enzo used to say to us when we got slammed by a table of twelve a half hour before the kitchen closed, or we ran out of prime rib by seven on a Friday. And maybe it’s true for a million little things, but there have been too many times in my life when what happened was so much worse than it seemed.