12
Mara Nichols’s father mailed her a gift every year on her birthday, two hundred dollars every Christmas, and child support payments every month—on time. (The child support payments were for her mom, of course, but he always addressed the envelope to his daughters.)
But the last thing he ever sent her was a text message. One word, no punctuation, certainly no gifs or emojis or any of that silliness. Just one word wrapped in green because he never did like Apple phones, he was an Android man through and through, said there was more freedom in the Android platform and that society was constricting enough, he didn’t need chains wrapped around his goddamn phone, too. The message just said happy , of all words, of every choice he could’ve made. This in response to the series of messages she’d sent him twelve hours earlier, asking where he was, saying Dad, please respond, please, the police are searching for you, finally saying, At least tell me you’re okay, Dad, at least that. Twelve hours later, he sent the word happy , and, as far as they knew, that was the last thing he said to anybody. Police found his Jeep Cherokee parked down near the Mississippi River, his body stiff in the back seat from the smack.
Police told her he looked peaceful, but they probably told everyone that.
She was twenty-two when her dad was found, still in nursing school, recently fired from her job at the UPS Store because she refused to charge people two dollars a page for faxes. Dan asked her, when she finally opened up to him about her father, if he mailed all those gifts because he was never around. She laughed and said, “No, that’s not it,” she saw her dad plenty. He just liked the United States Postal Service and always looked for excuses to use it. Said in over two hundred years, the postal service was the only thing the United States government got right. Less than fifty cents, and you can mail a letter straight through to Alaska, by God, and someone up there’ll be reading your handwriting in a few days. Ain’t that something. Yet they can’t cut me my disability check when I’m standing across the counter at the VA, right there in front of ’em.
No, he was around. A weekend parent, Mara’s mom called him. She’d won custody of the kids, but after a few years, on particularly hard days, she wondered aloud over the kitchen sink if she’d won anything at all. She was the week day parent, and the weekday parent is the homework parent, and the dinner-after-a-long-day-at-work parent, the clothing-and-water-and-basic-needs and bad-dream and mean-girl parent, the parent who snaps more than they should because it’s just easier to snap on a Tuesday than it is on a Saturday.
Mara’s love for rare steaks came from the weekend parent. More than rare, actually, the restaurant called them blue steaks, a category of ultra-rare some places won’t even do. I want you to take a New York strip, he’d say to the waitress, and walk it past the grill so it simply grasps the concept of heat, and then plate it next to some potatoes. I’ll take an Old Fashioned too, but don’t put a cherry in there, please, Sarah. Thank you. He also taught her the joys of camping, and how to skip rocks, how to help someone who needed it even if their pride wouldn’t let them accept it. How to befriend strangers. Rob—that was his name, Rob—was better with strangers than he was with folks he knew. Mara thought it was because he liked the concept of people more than he liked actual people. People disappointed him. She could see the disinterest in his eyes rise like floodwaters the more someone spoke to him, the more he learned about what was actually going on inside their heads.
It’s what led to her mom kicking him out. She said it was the alcohol, and the fact that he didn’t want to work anymore, content to live off his meager disability checks and worn-down credit cards. Mara’s grandmother said it was because he was white—that their mixed marriage was doomed from the start.
But Mara told Dan it was those eyes. The way they stared straight through her mom when she talked about work, about her family back home in India, about moving to the other side of town someday, to a neighborhood where the city still filled potholes. Those weren’t the eyes of the man she met at the Memphis State football game all those years ago. Those weren’t the eyes she wanted to fall asleep beside for the rest of her life. So she sent them to go look through someone else.
A few years later he was prescribed those pain pills for his back, and—well, everyone knows that story. It ends in the back seat near the Mississippi.
But why the word happy ? From what Dan ascertained, Rob was far from it. Maybe it was autocorrect. Help begins with H . So does hopeless . And high and habit and hurry and heroin .
But he’d sent happy , and now that was tattooed on the inside of Mara’s left wrist in Helvetica, and it was the first thing she read every morning because she slept on her right with her arms wrapped around the pillow. Then, when she stared through it, she saw Dan. Shirtless and doughy and scratching himself, groaning because he woke up grumpy again.
Lunch was served cafeteria-style at the restaurant on the ground floor of Building B, Tlaloc. Before the sun exploded, Tlaloc offered American and Southwestern comfort food—burgers, popcorn shrimp, cheese quesadillas. Dan and Mara ate there on their first day, too drunk and giddy to notice if it was any good. They were sober now, depressingly so, and the food at Tlaloc was terrible. Fellow guests—like the know-it-all-guy who shared fun sun facts while they ran for their lives days ago—worked the line. Dan handed him his ration card, a repurposed postcard from the gift shop: WISH YOU WERE HERE! The man plopped a spoonful of what seemed to be beans on Dan’s tray, and they were runny and got all over his chicken sandwich. Dan hated when his food touched. He thought to say something, but he was already on thin ice with Mara, her eyes hadn’t met his since the blowup earlier, so he let it go. They found an empty round table near the back of the place, next to a replica totem pole, and crumpled into some seats.
Dan seized Mara’s hand and did his best Pete Collins impression. “Lord, Heavenly Father, big papa in the sky, ya know what? We just ask that You bless this shitty-looking food to the nourishment of our bodies. We also ask that—”
Mara yanked her hand away. The silent treatment. That’s perfect. Fine—two could play silent treatment. Just call him Charlie Chaplin, honey, because Dan Foster could be silent-er than anyone. Yeah. He’d just eat this amorphous mound of food in front of him and think about nothing. His favorite.
The chicken had the consistency of a bike tire, and the beans slipped through the slots in his fork before he could shove them into his mouth. The water tasted like it came from the toilet. After sampling everything, Dan shoved his tray into the center of the table. He wasn’t hungry enough to choke down this shit.
“’Ey, look who it is, my fellow escapee.” No doubt who that voice belonged to. Lenny Fava plopped into a seat across the table, followed closely by a woman Dan assumed was his wife. She had either absorbed the power of the extinguished sun or spent far too long in the tanning bed. The bags under her eyes were paper, not plastic, and her dirty blond hair fell to her shoulders in tight ringlets like Arby’s fries. Oh, man. To have some curly fries right now.
“Yous don’t mind if we sit, do you?” Lenny asked, already sitting. “Our lunches never line up like this. Gloria, this is the Dan I told you about. The one who stood—”
“Stood up to Rico,” Gloria said, awkwardly reaching across the table to shake his hand. She had the voice of a smoker and the grip of a sailor. “The one with the megaphone a few days ago. Nice to meet you, handsome.”
“This is Mara,” Dan said, resulting in more awkward handshakes.
“Get a look at you, doll,” Gloria said. “Va va voom. Who’s she look like, Len? She looks like—who’s that girl on the show we watch?”
“I dunno,” Lenny said.
“You know, you know! The girl. I think she’s Colombian. The one with the annoying voice but who you like ’cause of those shirts she wears.”
“I dunno.” He was embarrassed.
Gloria leaned in. “He knows. He definitely knows. Well, she’s beautiful, and so are you, honey. What’re you? Indian?”
“Half.”
“Hear that, Len? Half!”
There was something disarming about Gloria. Like she didn’t know any better, like she came from another planet where it was customary to inquire about someone’s ethnicity seconds after shaking their hand. There was a light in her eye, too, that said, We’re just having fun here, sweetie, lighten up, we’re all gonna be dead soon.
Gloria sighed. “Look at you, gonna die young and beautiful, all frozen in time like that. Christ, I’m jealous. They’re gonna dig me up a thousand years from now and say, Woo, boy, cover that one back up. Fright night.”
Mara opened her mouth to respond, but Gloria hardly took a breath.
“So this fuckin’ blows, right? Well, the sun exploding, yeah, obviously, but what is this place now? North Korea? They got me working with the housekeeping, mopping floors in Building A. And you should see these rooms. Hot tubs right in front of the beds, rose petals, balconies overlooking the ocean. I’m collecting silver platters with caviar on ’em. They ain’t eatin’ this shit. And my husband”—she placed a toasted hand on Lenny’s shoulder—“they got him chopping down woods at his age. He has a heart murmur. They’re gonna kill him.”
Lenny patted her hand, like, I’m fine, I’m fine, but he was a shell of the man Dan had met in the parking lot behind Building C. His cheeks were sunken, his shoulders narrower.
“It’s bullshit,” Gloria said. Then louder, so tables nearby could hear. “It’s bull shit. I told Lenny, I said to him, ‘We gotta do something about Building A and this Lilyanna twat.’” She waved her hands and leaned in. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, we’re eating, you seem like nice people. I don’t mean to offend, but my God. We paid to be here like everyone else. I mean it was a discounted rate through that ad we got in the mail, but still.”
Discounted rate? Dan had paid full rate. Who discounts their grand opening?
Lenny looked at Dan. He tapped the pocket of his cargo shorts and whispered. “You remember what I said to you? ’Bout taking our food back? I been studying those plans we found in the hangar.”
The underground plans. Dan forgot about those. Wait—those hadn’t been seized when they were caught?
Lenny grinned. “They never think to check the interior pockets of cargo shorts.”
Gloria rolled her eyes under her purple eyeshadow. “Again with the cargo shorts.”
“There’s a way in, Danny boy. We crawl right up their asses, bro. I been talking to some of the guys in C, they’re coming around to the idea. They’re pissed, man. Hungry. Everyone not wrapped up in this BeachBod cult is fucking pissed.”
Mara glanced over her shoulder and then leaned in. “What about the guards?”
“Half these guards never fired a gun in their lives,” Lenny said. “Alan took down one with a single punch. Boom. One shot, goodbye. We just need a diversion. Something big. I’m workin’ on that part.”
Gloria nudged Lenny’s ribs with her elbow. “Get a load of this guy with the plans. Haven’t seen him this fired up since the eighties. Back in the Heights? You rememba?”
Lenny sheepishly grinned, shrugged.
“They called him Leonard Layout back in the day, you know that? He always had a plan. Come here, hon.” And now they were kissing. Dan and Mara feigned interest in the ceiling, stared at it until the sound of mixed macaroni subsided. Thankfully, another tray soon rattled atop the table.
“Well, I saw him.” It was Charles, a frantic mess. He waved his hand, poked Gloria’s shoulder so she’d detach from her husband’s mouth. “Yoohoo. Stop that, people are dining. You hear me? I saw Alan.”
Mara’s arm was instantly around Charles. “How is he?”
Dan’s chest tightened. “Did he say how the plane’s coming?”
“Y’all, he looked…so exhausted.” The corners of Charles’s eyes glistened. “They let him come back to the room to rest for a few hours, gave me a quick break to go see him. Rico stayed in the room, like it was some sort of…some sort of conjugal visit! Alan could hardly say anything to me with that ugly man breathing down our necks. I hate him so much.”
Dan rubbed the side of his face. “Join the club.”
“He’s horrible,” Gloria said. “One of the girls on janitorial accidentally knocked something over in the lobby of Building A. So on the next water break, Rico made her drink from the mop bucket.”
“He’s awful,” Charles said. “So he’s following me around the room, making sure Alan doesn’t say anything to me, I suppose, or try anything tricky. Alan tells me he just needs sleep more than anything, and that we should keep doing what we’re doing. Keep our heads down and work. How am I supposed to work when they have my husband like Tim Robbins in Shawshank ?” He buried his face in his hands. Mara rubbed his back.
Lenny huffed. “’Ey, Charles, Alan’s a tough son of a bitch, alright? You shoulda seen him the other night. He’s gonna be fine.”
“He is,” Mara said. “Did he say anything else, Charles? They’re feeding him, right?”
“If you call this food.” Charles took a quick bite of his sandwich, threw his hands in the air, and spit it into a napkin. “Good Lord, y’all. I’m so hungry. I’ve got to eat it. But—”
“It feels intentionally bad,” Dan mumbled.
Charles’s head whipped to Dan. He rummaged through his pocket and slid out a scrap of paper. “I cannot believe I almost forgot. Rico graciously allowed Alan and me a quick hug before he escorted me back to laundry. And my man must always be thinking, because later I found this slipped into my pocket.”
Dan unfolded it:
Have Dan meet me at the hangar after dark (ha ha).
Dan, wide-eyed, looked up. “Why didn’t you lead with this?”
Charles rubbed his face in his hands as the note made its way around the table.
Lenny said, “Oh, man, he’s cookin’ up something.”
Gloria said, “Ya gotta go. Maybe he got it fixed.”
Charles said, “I’ll give you some clothes to take.”
Mara slid the note away, sat back, and crossed her arms. She idly tapped a finger. Then: “Lenny. What kind of diversion are you thinking?”
Dan flashed her daggers. Why was she encouraging him? That wasn’t—
“A fire, maybe.” Leonard Layout whispered as much as a loudmouth can whisper. “Propane tank explosion. Something. Just to throw things off a bit, scatter the—”
“What about during entertainment?” Mara asked. “It’s so loud.”
“See, I thought of that too. But my buddy who’s working food service says they start preppin’ for breakfast the night before, so the tunnels are—”
“ Guys. ” Dan slapped the table harder than he meant to. A few nearby guests, understandably on edge, spun their heads. Dan took a deep breath and waited for them to look away. “We’re losing focus here. You heard Charles. Alan says we should keep our heads down. He’s working on the plane. Now is not the time to orchestrate a heist. If we just—”
Lenny’s head was shaking. “People are hurtin’, bro, they’re hurtin’ right now. And—”
“We’re not even positive Alan’s gonna get the plane fixed ,” Mara said. “We might be waiting on nothing. Meanwhile—”
“He’ll fix it,” Charles said.
“ He’ll fix it ,” Dan snapped, his tone and eyes very much conveying that Mara should stop speaking. If there was one thing Mara didn’t like, it was any suggestion that she stop speaking, ever. The corner of her mouth twitched. Dan softened his voice. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I just—I don’t want to blow my best chance of getting you out of here.” He pleaded with the table. “Of getting us all out of here.”
Lenny grinned at Dan like he appreciated the concern, but he was clearly unconvinced. “You know. People are looking at you, kid. Talking about you. You might not know it, but people are talking.”
Dan scoffed. “What? No, they’re not.”
“I’ve heard it too,” Gloria said. “I couldn’t wait to meet megaphone boy.”
Lenny counted his meaty fingers. “The megaphone thing, the funeral, getting dragged back to the room in handcuffs, the black eye. Oh, big-time. You’re like Moses or something.”
“I didn’t ask for that.”
“Ask for it, don’t ask for it, you’re it. People are watching your next move, bro.”
Dan scanned the restaurant, felt other guests’ eyes dart back to their plates. He wanted to stand on top of another table—this one—and tell them they got the wrong guy, that he was flattered, really, that’s nice, but that he worked in digital marketing at Marvel Maids in Memphis, Tennessee, and even there he was a mediocre employee at best. That he wasn’t their Moses, he couldn’t be their Moses, and he wasn’t even totally sure what Moses did. Build an ark? Wait, no, that was Noah. See?
But instead he just sat there, hands in his lap.
Lenny choked down his final bite of chicken. “Come on, Mara. Tell him.”
She stood, stacking Dan’s uneaten tray of food atop hers. “He doesn’t listen.” She stormed away. Before exiting the restaurant, she slid Dan’s food to a frail woman seated near the door.
“She’s upset,” Charles said. He popped up from his seat and walked after her.
“Okay,” Gloria said, gathering her things. “Yeah. Girl time. Here we go.” Then she was gone too.
Lenny came around the table and sat next to Dan.
“What was that, kid? Trouble in paradise?”
Dan folded into himself. His stomach ached. This whole vacation was trouble in paradise.
“Let me tell you somethin’. Can I tell you something? You don’t let a girl like that walk away, man. You go after her. Go.”
Dan shook his head. Mara needed space, she needed to cool down. She’d understand eventually. He loved her compassion, really, it was one of his favorite things about her. But Dan didn’t have the luxury of compassion. He was a man, and that meant he had a job to do.
Lenny nudged him. “What’s a matter with you? Make nice. You can’t be mad at each other with the sun gone. Don’t make sense. Listen, if I had a girl like that, I’d—”
Dan lost his cool. Again. “Lenny, I’m not really after life advice from a Building C Jersey City deli owner. Thanks.”
Lenny face froze in a twisted expression of betrayal.
Fuck. Dan didn’t mean it. It just spewed out of him. Why’d he do that?
Lenny shook it off and stood, leaving Dan alone with the collective eyes of the restaurant. “You ain’t Moses,” he said. “You’re a fucking prick, ’s what you are.”