He says nothing. There is a greasy yellow light between us now.
“Never mind,” I say, standing up. “I’ll stick with Howard. Or Mayor Delafonte. That’s what everyone else calls you, isn’t it?” I get up and walk around the couch ‘til we are standing face to face. It’s the first time I’ve been this close to him, and I can actually see his features. He looks like me: broad face, eyes spaced too far apart, so lightly blue they almost blend into the whites. He’s ugly, and strange, and striking, and I want to hate him, but I can’t, because he has the same flaxen hair that I have. It falls in the same odd way around his eyes. I look into his eyes, hoping to see contrition, a fondness he harbored without words. But what I see there is fear of me. Fear of what I can say about him—how my words, if directed the right way, can reach his friends at the country club, his cow-faced wife at home who never did die of her illness, his legitimate children at their Ivy League colleges. The thousands of voters … the news.
It’ll be out of the bag now, Papa, I want to say. Except I don’t make empty threats, and I have no intention of ratting out the secret life of Howard Delafonte.
I wait. I’ve daydreamed about this moment for so long, the moment my father says honest to God words to me. But, he says nothing. He’s waiting for me to speak, and without that he has nothing to say. I feel a crushing truth that can’t be reversed or unseen. It’s a black hole that starts near my heart and moves outward. I thought that when I met my father—the obscure man who I pictured having a broad, smiling face—he would embrace knowing me. He’d be delighted at this new relationship prospect, the chance to know his offspring, a girl who got excellent grades and was capable of taking care of herself. In my daydreams, my father never rejects me. I am ill prepared for this reality. He has nothing to say. When I realize I’m not going to get what I want, which at this point is a simple acknowledgment, I take a step back. My insides feel oily. There are too many paths of disappointment, too many ways that this can make me disappear.
“All right,” I say. And then again, “All right.”
My backing off has unsettled him. I see his Adam’s apple bobbing around his throat. Say something.
“Give me your watch.” I am startled by my request. Probably more so than he is. I can see it glinting out of the corner of my eye, that heavy thing I once held in my hand. I hadn’t known then that it belonged to my father, yet I felt strangely drawn to it. He doesn’t move, still doesn’t say anything. It’s a standoff—a battle of wills. He’s determined not to acknowledge me, even with his words. I stand there for a few more seconds before I am exhausted. I walk backwards to the front door, never taking my eyes from him. Committed to getting one last look at the man who was responsible for making me, yet responsible for nothing else.
The night air hits my shoulders. I feel the rain before I see it. My last glance before the door shuts is of my father, Howard Delafonte, walking back up the stairs, unperturbed.
The box, the box, the box, I think. Did the person inside belong to him? I go back inside to check on it—kneeling down in front of the oven and flicking on the oven light that has miraculously not yet burned out. It’s there. He or she, I think, resting my forehead against the door.
I go to Judah’s because I can’t stand to be within the same walls as them. He’s sitting by the window, his usual spot. I don’t bother to go inside. I slide down the wall until I am sitting directly beneath the window. I can hear him messing with something that sounds like a plastic wrapper.
“I have Cheetos,” he says.
“I’m not hungry.”
“You don’t have to be hungry to eat Cheetos, just depressed.”
“I’m not…” and then my voice drops off, because who am I kidding? I was born depressed. “I don’t eat that shit anymore.”
“Well la-ti-da, fancy pants. Didn’t know you were a health nut. Excuse me while I eat my orange-coated shit.”
I smile. All of a sudden I feel like Cheetos, because Judah makes me want things I have no place wanting.
“Judah, you suck.”
I hear him move away from the window, the clean squeak of his wheels on the linoleum. Then the door opens, and I feel something hit my arm. Judah leans out the door a little, and I catch sight of his wet hair.
Then the door closes, and he’s back at his post.
I reach down for what hit me. It’s a Ziploc bag of mini carrots. I smile as I open it. That’s more like it.
“We are both eating orange-colored food. I feel all close to you and shit.”
“And shit,” he says. And then,“Why you all sad and shit, Maggie?”
“Eh, just life. You know.”
“I know,” he agrees. “But sometimes it’s still beneficial to talk about it and shit.”
“And shit,” I say. “I met my dad tonight. He’s the worst kind of cracker jack loser lobster.”
“I’ve never met a cracker jack loser lobster. Is that like an asshole?”
“Yeah,” I say. “Exactly.”
“You know,” says Judah. “I know you’ve never met my dad, but he’s kind of a cracker jack loser lobster, too. He left my mom because he didn’t want kids. Didn’t even come see me at the hospital when I was born. Sent her the child support check every month though. The first time I met him was after my first surgery. He felt guilty and decided to start being a dad to his cripple son. Sometimes I wonder if he would have contacted me if I didn’t get the tumor. Sometimes I’m even grateful to the tumor for giving me my dad. It makes my mom’s life easier … the help. And he’s all right. But, I always feel like I’m disappointing him.”
“I don’t have anyone to disappoint,” I say. “That’s nice, I guess.”