My unexpected shyness returned. In the meekest of voices, I told him hello.
“Damn if you don’t look like a carbon copy of your mother. I swear it’s like she had you all on her own. I don’t see my brother in you. Not one tiny bit.”
Rose nudged me away in order to pull open the door and climb inside.
“You want to come with your sister and me?” my uncle asked.
“Where?”
“Where? We’re going for a ride. Spin the wheels around this shit-box town for a bit. Who knows? Maybe we’ll hit an arcade if we’re lucky to find one. I’m guessing you like Ms. Pac-Man and Ping-Pong.”
“You guessed wrong,” my sister told him. “The girl doesn’t like any of the normal things kids her age like.”
Part of me wanted to climb into that truck simply to prove her wrong. I might have if Howie didn’t look right at me, cigarette bouncing, and say, “Come on, Rose. What are you waiting for?”
“I’m Sylvie. She’s Rose,” I corrected him.
The lighter popped out of the dashboard. Howie reached for it and lit his cigarette so it glowed like the rest of him. “I know that. It’s just, like I was saying, you look so much like your mother, a guy can get mixed up is all. Anyway, Sylvie, get in the truck.”
His voice had changed, so it sounded more like an order than an invitation. Now I was the one who stood caught between two choices, while the wind blew and the palms made a frantic swooshing above and that man with the scratches called into the bushes, “It’s all right. Come on. It’s safe. I promise.”
“Just forget her,” Rose said.
My uncle leaned across the seat, his hairy, tattooed arm brushing Rose’s stomach as he pushed open the door. “Get in the truck,” he said again.
And then came another voice, “Sylvie!”
I whirled around to see the revolving door of the conference center still spinning even after it spit my mother from the building. She moved in my direction, one hand clutching her silver cross necklace. When she saw Rose sitting in my uncle’s truck, her face took on a stricken expression. Over the sound of the wind and the chugging engine and that man calling into the bushes, my mother raised her voice louder than I’d ever heard, “Get out of that truck! Get out of that truck now, Rose!”
“You better step on it, Uncle,” my sister said.
When my mother reached us, she must have realized that my sister had every intention of ignoring her. She looked at Howie and said, “Tell her to get out.”
He laughed. “You want me to tell her?”
“Yes.”
“Don’t you think that’s a little messed up? I haven’t seen the girl in years and she’s going to listen to me. Sounds like you have trouble controlling your own kid.”
My mother gave up reasoning with him. One last time, she tried with my sister. “Rose, I’m asking you to get out of that truck.”
Rose’s only response was to pull the door shut. My mother tugged back, but Rose hammered down the lock and cranked up the window. I watched her say something to my uncle, but it was as though there were two worlds now: one inside the truck, which we could not hear, and another outside, where that man by the bushes was still calling into the bushes.
My uncle pulled away from the curb. As their taillights disappeared out of the lot, my mother clutched her cross and asked if I knew where they were going.
“For a ride. And maybe to an arcade if they find one.”
Her eyes shut a moment, and I knew she was praying. When she opened them again, I asked how she knew that Rose and I were outside. I thought maybe she’d tell me she had one of her feelings, but instead she said that the security guard had checked the greenroom and reported back that it was empty. My mother had excused herself from the talk and left my father on the stage while she came to find us. “I can’t believe she’s gone off with him.”
I wanted to tell her how sorry I was for not living up to the promise I made to my father, but someone else spoke first.
“Excuse me,” the voice said.
My mother and I turned to see the man with the scratches. We had been so preoccupied, staring out at the parking lot, that neither of us noticed him approach. Beneath the visor of his baseball cap, I saw a long nose with flared nostrils and skinny lips. He must have wiped his hand on his face, because blood smeared across one cheek.
“I’m sorry to bother you, but—”
“This is not a good time,” my mother told him, letting go of her cross and straightening her posture. It was never her way to be rude, but this moment called for an exception. “As I’m sure you just witnessed, we are having some family difficulties.”
“I’m sorry.” The man stepped closer, and I could see that beneath the smudges of blood, his skin looked smooth and creaseless. “I really am sorry. But, please. I drove all the way here, hours and hours, to hear you and your husband speak.”
“Well, my husband is still inside speaking. If you hurry, you can hear him.”