Daphne_A Novel Page 7

  Outside, my car service was waiting. Russell leaned against the wall of the church, scowling and scratching at his red raw arm. “Waiting for someone?” I said.

  “My buddy’s coming for me. Running late, I guess.”

  Russell was, what, nineteen, twenty? I remembered how angry, how wronged I felt back then, to have these absurd limitations clamping down just when I should’ve been breaking out into my own. There was so little I could say that would reach him. I didn’t look like any kind of role model. “Want to share this ride? On me.”

  “Nah,” he said, annoyed, “I’m good.” He kept scratching, looked away. And I felt pathetic for pretending this thing wasn’t going to crush him in its gears.

  After that meeting, he never came back, and, really, I didn’t blame him.

  BY THE TIME I got home, I was in a mood. I’d gone to group hoping to share a nice little story about my date. Now all of their suffering and recrimination was thudding around inside me, pushing and shoving to get out. I got myself snug on the couch, propped up by cushions and pillows, a couple on the floor, in case I spilled out.

  I cued up my video mix. A lot of it was just internet stuff, cute videos of kittens and other baby animals playing, finding their legs, tumbling adorably, heart-meltingly down. But that was just a warm-up. I moved on to old clips of Sally Struthers, saving the children with her quavering voice, starving kids with xylophone ribs, close-ups of them shyly, weakly smiling. Often, at this point, my slurred little yelps of cat-video joy would have dissolved into sloppy tears and headbobbing. But I’d seen these videos too many times. The effect had worn off.

  Time for the harder stuff: the clips, so common over the last few years, of people in impossibly remote parts of Pakistan and Yemen and Somalia. Their bombed or burning villages, their dead all around them, they wailed and keened and stumbled into one another with the gale force of their grief. Their weathered faces contorted, they threw back their heads and screamed. And still I felt nothing, or only the faintest tremors. I kept clicking through the clips, rewinding, skipping ahead, trying to get the worst all at once. And I knew it was coming, the one that always pushed me over the edge: a blurred cell phone video, Tunisia, the fruit vendor who lit himself on fire, the thought of his sizzling hair and charring flesh, as if his rage and longing had caught fire from within, even before he doused himself in gasoline and struck a match—I shored up the pillows under me, prepared myself to click on it.

  An alert sounded through my laptop speakers. Evening! Get my package?

  Whtfucik??!scardshit!!! I got my fingers back before I hit ENTER. Yeah got it mom thanks as always. It arrived once a month: Easy Mac, powdered laundry detergent, toothpaste, homemade brownies or cookies, condoms. My mother had been sending these parcels since I went away to college. “In case you don’t feel like going out.” Eventually I gave up my protests. I now had an entire cupboard of one-load boxes of Tide.

  Honey, sit down for a second if you’re not already.

  This takes on a fairly literal meaning for people like me.

  Um I’m on the couch what’s the big surprise?

  Well, it’s nothing, really . . . Okay, look, I just got home from a date.

  My only response, and not just because my fingers weren’t quite working: ?????????????????????????????

  Oh, you think your mom’s not an eligible bachelorette?

  I think dating in your late fifties is like learning to drive in Venice couldn’t you have tried this twenty years ago so my childhood wasn’t like walking on eggshells? Mom of course not you’re a stone fox I’m just surprised is all

  I don’t want to get my hopes up. But Alden’s wonderful! He took me to that wonderful Italian place in Carmel. Such a gentleman. And he runs his own business!

  Alden what a name he sounds like he runs the elks lodge or hangs out with militia men where you’d meet him grocery store or something?

  He took out that old stump the mailman keeps backing into. He was very charming and gave me half price.

  Hey wow a stump guy que romantique

  All right, Daph, enough of your sass.

  No mom really it’s great news glad for you god I hope he doesn’t break your heart going to see him again?

  Wednesday. He’s taking me to the opera down in Indy. We’re having such a blast.

  Wait hold on which date is this?

  Number four! Sorry, it’s been hard keeping it to myself. I know how much you’ve been thinking about your dad lately.

  I didn’t know what was weirder, her treating me like a girlfriend, or that I almost reciprocated and told her about Ollie. But that would’ve been more emotional mileage than I could log in a day. It was easier to evade. Thanks thanks I really miss him

  Just remember that I’m here and I love you.

  Through my laptop, peasant women in Waziristan were still wailing. I signed off with my own love you, got up, and paced the apartment, straightening, cleaning, trying to make some space and light and order.

  TEN

  WORK THAT FRIDAY WAS A MESS. AS THE MEDEVAL shuttle crawled through the main entrance, a crowd of black hoodies, black bandanas, and camouflage pants jeered and cursed us. Animal Liberation Front. Half of them were waving big bolt cutters around. A few wore shirts with a design of an upraised fist next to an upraised paw. “Murderers!” they screamed as we pushed through the gates. “Butchers!” They were hanging a huge banner over the fence as security simultaneously pulled it down—blown-up photos of chimps and pigs with bleeding, festering sores, swastikas printed over the images.

  When the driver let me out in front of the lab, I felt the morning damp. “If it rains,” I told him, “that’ll quiet them down.”

  “Hey, they don’t get it,” he said. “Keep up the good fight, Doc.” I only had my MA and a CMAR certificate, but I didn’t correct him. He called everyone “Doc.”

  My email was full of the usual security reminders. Lock all entrances, report lost or stolen IDs, do not engage with unauthorized visitors. I skimmed and deleted, got on with my day. An hour later, I looked up and realized only Hidalgo was in with the dogs.

  “Where’s Staci?”

  “Just using the bathroom,” Pin said.

  “How long has she been in there?”

  “Hmm, only a little while maybe.”

  Byron squinted at us both. “She’s been in there all morning.” He made a pitter-pat gesture over his chest. “My, oh, my, here we are the experts, but can we truly—I mean, truly—do anything for this frail little organ?”

  FROM THE LAST STALL in the row, I heard sobbing, hard, gulping, and loud enough to echo off the peach-colored tiles of the women’s room. I stood a few steps away, cleared my throat. Cattails, willows, drifting smoke. “Staci, how we doing in there?”

  “I’m sorry, I just needed to . . . take a minute to . . .” Her voice went vibrato, broke up. This was far from the first time Staci had disappeared into the bathroom.

  “Maybe you should take the rest of the day.”

  “But there’s no one to cover me.”

  Yes, but I would’ve rather cleaned out the pens myself than dealt with her breakdown. “We’ll figure it out.”

  Her voice steadied, turned brave, wondering at herself: “I’m never like this. Never. It’s just . . . I’ve been all over the place lately. Then those animal rights people screamed at me, and I got to thinking about our dogs, and, and—”

  Another racking sob. Sun-bleached picnic tables, the river. “Staci, is another twenty minutes in here really going to help? Take the day. We’ll see you Monday.”

  “Oh, God, you’re going to fire me.”

  “Just come in on Monday. We’ll talk through everything then.”

  Staci came out of the stall, red-eyed, pale-lipped. She splashed water on her face, tried to shore up her slack, cried-out expression. “I’m okay,” she said. “Really, I am. I’m serious about this job. Please, you know I am.”

  OVER LUNCH at the company café, Pin stuck up fo
r her. We had an almost parental relationship over Staci. Pin played the indulgent one. I wasn’t thrilled about having to be the disciplinarian.

  “A smart girl,” Pin said. “She will get there. She doesn’t like being queen of drama.” Six years ago, Pin had come over from one of our Taiwanese partners. She still had a little idiom hiccup now and then.

  “Well, when is she going to toughen up? I know how important the tuition program is for her, how expensive vet school is. But how will she even get through if she can’t handle a dead animal or two?”

  “Yes, but better she begin with compassion. Not everyone has it.”

  I poked at my salad without comment.

  “Some people, when they don’t know something is right, they put even more passion in. How they decide. Same for Staci, same for activists. Still, I think it’s better.”

  I shrugged. “Sounds exhausting.” Sometimes I felt like I was the only one not allowed to break, and if I did, the whole lab would fall apart.

  For the rest of the afternoon, Staci kept wafting apologetic smiles my way. With everyone else, everyone not her boss, she was upbeat, frisky even. Some people enjoyed these wild swings. They crested and troughed, thrilled and wallowed, and came out strangely purified. I probably would have to fire Staci for her sensitivity, her excess. After all, she might go on like this her whole life. Or maybe, with all of her yawning lows and staggering highs, she’d finally just get worn down. Maybe. As I watched her, I kept sipping my coffee, trying to get the bitter tannin of envy off my tongue.

  I STOOD OVER Biscuit’s pen. A sour musk filled the room—fear, stifled adrenaline. Biscuit was buried in the corner, out of the glare of the overhead fluorescents. I opened his pen. “Come on, boy, time for a walk.” He looked at me with rheumy eyes, then followed slowly behind as I led him to the outdoor play area. It was a mellow, golden afternoon. The sun raked through the dust billowing over the foothills. On a ridge, I spotted two figures in windbreakers looking down at me. I waved to them. They didn’t wave back.

  “Oh, well, I’ve got you to keep me company.”

  I let Biscuit nose around, get a taste of California air, all of those outdoor smells. I’d toss him a ball; he’d amble over and very slowly nose it back. I brought him a bone, and once, just once, he gave me a happy little bark. I leaned against the fence and watched him gnaw and slobber with an energy he hadn’t shown in weeks. Happy, bored, miserable, loyal—were those even the right words for these animals? Everything we did to our dogs, and still they loved us. Maybe love was just pragmatic. All of those wildfire feelings were just some ancient survival mechanism. Someone seemed willing to keep you alive, and, surprise, guess who you fell for.

  The door to the lab swung open, and Hidalgo stood there, his headphones silent around his neck, hat in hands, long hair held back with a rubber band. “Hey, Daphne, everything cool out here? Need any help?”

  “Just getting in a little play before quitting time.”

  “Okay if I ask you about something?”

  “Well, I was about to . . . No, of course. Go ahead.”

  He wanted to work overtime, doubles, nights, anything I could spare. Angela’s medical bills. His daughter, I hadn’t even known her name. He pulled out his rubber band, flustered a hand through his hair, clearly embarrassed to ask.

  The fact was we were already short-staffed. I could’ve used an extra day tech and two more at night. But the budget, always the budget. And the question of benefits. If Hidalgo worked more hours, we’d have to bump up his health coverage. For a company devoted to healing, MedEval was stingy with its coverage.

  “We might—might—have some shifts opening up,” I said, thinking about Staci, the inevitability of letting her go. “No promises, though.” I didn’t know quite where to start. “Your little girl . . .” I said, “Angela, how is her . . . swallowing?”

  He looked at me, as if unsure who exactly was speaking to him. “She’s still real skinny,” Hidalgo said. “She has to have everything through a straw. If she doesn’t get better soon, she’s going to miss a bunch of milestones. But kids, they’re resilient, right?”

  What could I say? Even if you did get through, you still got marked. Some scars barely faded, never mind disappeared. But no one wanted to hear that.

  “Whatever you can do,” Hidalgo said. “For me. For us. I appreciate it, you know?” He put his hat back on, pulled it down over his eyes. But for an instant I glimpsed such a naked look of worry that my mouth hung open. I stiffened my jaw into something like resolve, but he’d seen, too.

  If only we could all stay a mystery to one another.

  ELEVEN

  I GOT HOME AT SIX, TOOK A QUICK SHOWER, CHANGED into jeans and a warm coat. On my way to the train to meet Ollie, I nearly got past him, my now familiar half-man.

  “There she is, the tall, pretty one.”

  “How’s everything, Jeff?”

  “Got twenty dollars you can spare for a new pair of shoes?”

  “Shoes?” A pair of scuffed, child-size Nikes, still too big, were loosely laced to what he had for feet. “What happened to the surgery?”

  “A real success. Never felt better.” My eyes drifted again to the needle marks on his arms. You’d think he’d cover them. Instead he kept the sleeves of his hoodie pushed up. He saw me looking, dug in the pocket, and flicked a bright yellow keychain fob onto his lap, not unlike the ones the guys in AA were always nervously chewing on outside the church. “Clean and serene for nine months,” Jeff said.

  “How about five bucks for a burrito?”

  “Make it ten, we got a deal.”

  “Fine,” I said, looking in my wallet and finding nothing smaller anyway. “I recommend El Farolito for sheer value and grease.”

  “And you have a fine evening, pretty girl. You’d look even prettier with a smile.”

  A line men never tire of dropping on women, but it still got under my skin. By the time I saw Ollie outside the 16th Street BART, I was feeling self-conscious and shy. Ollie lit up when he saw me; he was ready to kiss me hello. I offered up an awkward half-hug.

  “Ready?” he said, trying to read my expression. We went down into the station. At the base of the long escalator, a guy played violin. His eyes bloodshot, the veins leaping out on his neck and arms, he sawed away, moaning, swaying. But there were no strings; he was bowing the bare neck, the scratching and tearing like the inside of a migraine. “It’s either madness or performance art,” I said.

  “I don’t know,” Ollie said. “I hope he’s okay.”

  Ollie had an old wool blanket stuffed in his backpack. When we got on the train, I asked about it, but he wasn’t giving up the surprise. Despite my reservations or maybe because of them, I snuggled closer to him on the musty padded seat. He wanted to know about my week. “Oh, God, my job. You don’t want to hear about my job.”

  But he did, of course. So I told him about Staci’s breakdowns and Byron always sniping at me. I told him about the dogs, the ones we had to sacrifice, but we saved lives, after all, it was worth it, God, I hoped it was worth it . . . We were across the bay by the time I’d finished. “Sorry, it’s a rare job that’s boring and horrifying at once.”

  “Your company’s really called MedEval?”

  “I wear a suit of armor to the lab. On bad days, I carry a lance, too.”

  “The lady doth fend for herself.”

  “Most of the time,” I said as the train pulled into the West Oakland stop. Ollie rose. “Wait,” I said, “we’re not going to Berkeley? Not even Rockridge?” He put his arm around my waist as we went down to street level. “Don’t worry,” he said. “It’ll be fine.” In the twilight, we passed overgrown lots and dilapidated two-flats. The blocks turned industrial. We came to a work yard filled with old road construction materials, girders, broken-up hunks of concrete. I swallowed down a burr of fear. “Not exactly the obituary I was envisioning.”

  “Come on.” Ollie pushed through a loose section of chain link. We picked our way thr
ough rusty twists of rebar. The dark shapes of concrete sewer pipes loomed. Above us, fog blurred the lights of the highway overpass to splotches of amber. “Are we going to a cockfight or something?” I said. “What is this?”

  The faint jangle of an acoustic guitar floated toward us. I saw several dark figures gathered at the end of one of the concrete tubes. A pale orange light flickered inside it. Ollie whispered hello to two guys smoking cigarettes. We ducked into the tube.

  There were at least thirty people inside, early or mid-twenties, some high school kids. They huddled under blankets, rested on pillows, or crouched in place, fitting themselves to the curve of the tube. Ollie unfolded our blanket, positioned himself so his feet were on the bottom, his back against the side. I started to protest again. He put his finger to his lips and drew me down to him. I squirmed.

  “Nice,” Ollie said, “we’re just in time.”

  A guy with a sparse beard and a wan, hunted expression hunched to the center of the tube and perched on an orange Quikrete bucket. In corduroys and a Pendleton jacket, he hunkered over his guitar, trying to look like he’d just rolled in on a cross-country freight and not, say, his girlfriend’s Jetta. He strummed absentmindedly, like we weren’t all actually, uncomfortably there to hear him, and began to sing in a ghostly whisper.

  I am a moonshiner