Upstairs, Malaya was startled. Sixty-six? She didn’t know anyone whose father was sixty-six. Courtney’s dad was almost that old, but Courtney was part of his second set of kids. Courtney’s mom had been friends with one of his older daughters when both girls were in grade school. That was pretty creepy if your mom had been your dad’s daughter’s friend. Courtney had to explain it three times to Dani, who just could not get it.
Well, whatever. Jimbo was definitely her dad. And after all this work, she was going to meet him. She looked herself over critically in the mirror and then started down the stairs.
“Hi.”
They hadn’t heard her coming.
Honorata was surprised to see her daughter looking so pretty. She’d brushed her hair long and straight, with a clip in the back, and she was wearing a buttoned shirt that covered most of that horrible tattoo. Her makeup was pretty too. A little mascara. Pink lipstick. Had she taken out her nose ring?
It had been a long time since Malaya had looked like this. Maybe as far back as that dance sophomore year, when she had worn the royal blue dress they found at the Fashion Show Mall. Malaya had actually whooped when Honorata agreed to buy it for her; she was so sure her mother would not let her have it. And then they had gone together to a salon to have Malaya’s hair put up and her nails done in a bright contrasting pink, and she had been so pretty, so happy.
Had Honorata actually worried about that dance? Worried about the boy and the party bus and the group of friends all dressed up, posing for photos in the park? It was so innocent, compared with the friends Malaya had found the next summer, compared with the way she had started dressing after her job at the movie theater; after the boyfriend, Martin, who was so thin it had to be drugs, with his shaved head and his chains and those ridiculous boots. “Mom, you don’t know anything about who’s nice and who’s not!” Malaya had yelled at her. “You don’t have any idea what kids are like!” And Honorata had remembered how distressed her own mother had been when she kept disappearing with Kidlat, and so she had not put her foot down, but she should have. She should have stopped Malaya; at least she wouldn’t have that tattoo.
Jimbo thought he had never seen a more lovely girl. She was taller than Honorata, and her face was a bit like his mother’s. His eyes watered. He wanted to say hello, but he was trying very hard to stay composed. He stared at her and then looked down. He was helpless.
“Malaya. This is Mr. Wohlmann.”
Everyone seemed uncomfortable, and still Jimbo could not bring himself to look up. This was terrible. He was the man. He was the father. But he didn’t want to lose control. He didn’t want to embarrass her.
“I’m glad you came.”
Her voice was familiar, from the message she’d left on his phone. He had played it over and over, but he had not called her back. He had been afraid to chase her away, without ever getting to see her.
He took a deep breath and stood up.
“Hello, Malaya. It’s an honor to meet you.”
He was funny. An honor. And he looked like he was crying. Which was sort of embarrassing. But it was nice to think he cared that much. That he really wanted to meet her.
“Malaya likes movies. And she’s very good at dancing.”
Her mother was so awkward. Malaya was annoyed that she had said this.
“Not really. I mean, everybody likes the movies. And I just take dance lessons. It’s not like I’m going to be a dancer or something.”
Honorata was surprised. Malaya always said that she was going to be a dancer, whenever she told her daughter that this was not a job, not a career, not a practical plan for a smart girl.
“I’m sure you’re a very good dancer.”
This was the first thing he said to his own daughter. And it came out oddly. He knew what Honorata thought of him: that he was some sort of sex monster. Which was about as far from the truth as something could be. But he was going to make it all worse. He didn’t know what to say to this girl, to this very young girl in front of him. He felt sick.
“I like science too.”
“Really? What do you like?”
“Chemistry. My chemistry teacher’s pretty good, and everyone thinks she’s too hard, but I like that it’s hard. And I like being in the lab. I might study chemistry in college.”
Honorata did not recognize this daughter. She had said she hated chemistry and that Honorata should not be surprised if she failed, because the teacher was a witch.
“I studied chemistry in college,” Jimbo offered.
“You did?”
“Yes. I’m a chemical engineer. Or I was. I started my own company a long time ago.”
Malaya didn’t say anything.
“Do you want some pastries?” Honorata asked. “Mr. Wohlmann brought some.”
Malaya shook her head. And they all stood there, uneasy.
“Do you want to take a walk?” the girl asked. “Just down the block?”
Jimbo looked at Honorata. He saw her freeze, and he knew that even now she was afraid. He was about to say no, to tell his daughter he’d rather stay in, when Honorata spoke.
“Stay in the neighborhood, Malaya. Just walk around here.”
Malaya nodded, and Jimbo said, “Yes. Yes, I would like to take a walk.”
Honorata felt lightheaded as she watched the two of them walk toward the front door. Jimbo wasn’t frightening now, the way he had always seemed in her mind or the way he had been just weeks before. If she were meeting him for the first time, she would notice how self-conscious he was, how his hands trembled, how his voice was too high for his size. She would notice that he kept his head lowered slightly, as if anticipating a blow.
How could he have once been terrifying? He was rich. He looked rich. And he was big. But he was the opposite of frightening. He looked like someone who would always have time to read at Sunday Mass, to help with the ushering, to replace the bulletins in the pews. When she lived with him—it was amazing that she could have that thought without fear—when she lived with him, he had talked and talked and talked. So many words that washed over her, that she could not remember, even then, even an hour after he stopped talking, and she thought now that he must have noticed she did not remember, that she did not pay attention, and this hadn’t mattered, because—and how could this be the first time she had realized this?—because nobody ever listened to him. He was used to being ignored.
It didn’t change what he had done. It didn’t change the horror of what her uncle had done, of those months in Chicago, of all the memories that had played over and over again in her mind all these years, but it did somehow relieve her. The money she had won, the daughter she adored, her whole life: it was connected to this. To Jimbo’s loneliness. To the way he seemed as if he thought he were about to be struck. This was an idea that surprised her. That Malaya had come not from violence but from sorrow.