“You see the car keys?” I asked. “I’ll be late to work.”
His whole body seemed to blush with rage. The shoes he had on were his worn black oxfords.
“Out all night, nearly crashed the car, sleeping in your own sick, and now you’re worried about getting to work on time.” His voice was eerily measured, grave. “I can hardly look at you, I’m so ashamed. Oliver Twist would be grateful for this home, this nice house. But you, Eileen, you seem to think you can just come and go as you please.” His voice cracked.
“I went out with a girl from work,” I told him. It was a mistake to disclose this, but I suppose I was proud and wanted to rub it in his face.
“A girl from work? Do you think I was born yesterday?”
I refused to defend myself. In the past I’d have begged his forgiveness, done anything to appease him. “I’m sorry!” I would have cried, falling to my knees. I’d gotten good at being dramatic; he was only ever satisfied by complete self-abasement. That morning, however, I wasn’t going to stoop to his level.
“Well,” he said, “who is he? I at least want to meet the boy before you get knocked up and sell your soul to Satan.”
“Please, can I have the keys? I’ll be late.”
“You aren’t going anywhere dressed like that. Now really, Eileen. How dare you? That’s the dress your mother wore to my father’s funeral. You have no respect,” he said, “for me, for your mother, for anyone, and least of all for yourself.” He let go of the golf club, startling himself with the racket it made as it tumbled down the stairs. Then he started shaking. He sat on his hands, bowed his head. “Trash, Eileen, just trash,” he whined. I thought he might start to cry.
“I’ll go get you a bottle,” I said.
“What’s his name, Eileen? Give me the boy’s name.”
“Lee,” I answered, almost without thinking.
“Lee? Just Lee?” He winced, wiggled his head back and forth mocking me.
“Leonard.”
He ground his teeth, jaw pulsing, and rubbed his palms together.
“Now you know,” I said, dropping my hands from my face as though my lie itself could shield me from my father’s wrath. “Keys?”
“Keys are in my robe,” he said. “Come back quick and change. I don’t want anyone to see you in that getup. They’ll think I’m dead.”
I found my father’s robe thrown in the empty fireplace. I got the keys, unearthed my purse from a pile of junk by the front door, put on a coat, and went back out to the car. The vomit was already melting, the edge of the puddle coinciding with the strap of the seat belt. It was awful. The smell transferred to everything I wore and lingered on my coat long after I’d abandoned the Dodge and disappeared a few days later. I had no intention of going to the liquor store, which would have been closed anyway at that early hour. But I had to extricate the front of the car from the snowbank. That took some effort. My father may have saved my life that night, but he clearly didn’t care much for my well-being. He wasn’t capable of much, I knew that. The one time I’d dared to ask him not to pick on me, he burst out laughing, then feigned a heart attack the next morning. When the ambulance arrived, he was sitting on the sofa smoking a cigarette. He said he felt fine. “She’s on the rag or something,” he told the paramedics. They all shook hands.
Once I got the car out of the snowbank, I drove back to O’Hara’s. If I’d had my wits, I could have taken off then and there. I could have just sped off into the morning, a free woman. Who could stop me? But I couldn’t leave yet. I couldn’t leave Rebecca. I parked in front of the bar and went inside.
It was dark as ever in there, just thin daggers of light needling through the chipping black paint on the window over the door. The smell of stale beer made my stomach churn. Sandy stood behind the bar drinking a glass of water.
“Can I borrow a bottle of gin?” I asked him.
“You’re back,” he said. His smile perturbed me. He looked like a man who’d fondle children. He was a real creep.
“My dad needs a drink,” I said.
“You girls drank all the gin I got last night,” Sandy chuckled. “Would your dad believe that, huh?”
“You have anything else I can borrow?”
“I’ve got gin, dear,” he said, fatherly. He walked behind the bar, ducked and disappeared for a moment, came back up with a bottle of Gordon’s. “And consider it a Christmas gift. To your dad, not you. You deserve much better,” he said. “Have a drink with me first, though,” he said, plunking down two shot glasses, breaking open the bottle with a violent twist, a crack like bones breaking as he twisted the cap. “One drink with me and the rest is yours.” He nudged the glass toward me. I swallowed it quickly. The soapy, burning taste at least seemed to cut through the taste of bile in my mouth. “Good girl,” Sandy called me. When he handed me the bottle, he lifted his other hand to caress my face. I jerked myself away.
“Tell your dad this is from me, OK?”
“I’ll tell him,” I said. “Thanks.”
That was the last time I saw him. In the years since, I’ve wondered what memories of Sandy I may have buried from that previous night, perhaps of his thick, beer stained hands grappling me, maybe his mouth on me somewhere, a sour tongue probing my throat, disgusting. Who knows? Sandy, wherever you are buried, I hope you’ve stayed out of trouble. But if you haven’t, I’m sure you paid for it somehow. Everyone does, eventually.
• • •
Back home, my father appeared to be sleeping when I set the bottle down on the kitchen table, but before I could leave he bolted up out of his recliner. His hand darted out and gripped my wrist.
“Leonard, you said? Leonard what?” he asked.
“Polk,” I answered, stupidly.
“Polk,” he repeated. I could see his rusty gears turning. He shook his head. “Do I know him?”
“I doubt it,” I answered, wresting free of his weak grasp and flitting up the stairs. I was relieved to hear him crack open the gin. My guess is he washed away any memory of this exchange immediately. He never mentioned the Polk name again, though my hope is that it vexed him as a clue he’d failed to follow when I disappeared. “I should have known she was in trouble,” I’ve imagined him saying.
From under the bathroom sink I grabbed a bunch of rags and went back out to the car and slid the vomit off the passenger seat and into the snow. It was remarkable how easy it was to remove the frozen puddle in one piece, but it left a stain. I sprinkled dishwashing powder on it and covered it with a towel. I’m sure I was gagging and retching the whole time, though what I really remember is rushing up into the shower afterward. I scrubbed myself vigorously down there again — a mess had been brewing all night — and washed the vomit I found dried in my hair. My hands were swollen and tight as I fumbled with the towel, still damp from the night before. Those navy stockings were by then tattered, looked like ghosts where they lay dashed out across the bathroom tile. I dressed quickly, combed my wet hair, grabbed my coat and purse and ran back down to the car.
I suppose the details of my behavior that morning are unnecessary, but I like to remember myself in action. I’m old now. I don’t move vigorously or frenetically anymore. Now I’m graceful. I move with measured and elegant precision, but I am slow. I’m like a beautiful tortoise. I don’t waste my energy. Life is precious to me now. In any case, when I went back out to the car, there was a police cruiser blocking the driveway. I was aghast. The cop’s name was Buck Brown. I remember him because we’d gone to grade school together. He was big and dopey and talked with a lisp, eyes still full of sleep, white spittle at the corners of his mouth, the kind of man to act dumber than he is, to deceive you into lowering your expectations. I really dislike men who do that. He corrected his cap and stuck his hands in his pockets.