Still, it feels better than nothing. In the smoky aftermath we touch each other, because that what he-his name is Monkey-wants to do. I don’t mind, though I think it’s weird he absolutely doesn’t want to kiss. That was something I really liked with Brett.
Suddenly the grief catches up to me. I writhe around like I’m in physical pain, thinking how she’s gone and with some other guy. My behavior spooks Monkey. He drops some pills into my coat pocket and takes off.
The sadness vanishes, just like that. I step out of the car. For five whole minutes I can’t remember where I left Dad.
* * *
When Monkey’s pills run out, I go get more. It’s easy. Sometimes people just give them to me, other times I have to do stuff. Mostly I don’t mind that. And even when I do, it’s no big deal to turn off my brain for ten minutes. Besides, I know a lot more people now. There’s more of a community on the streets than I ever really realized-incredible, considering how long I’ve been living out here.
One night I don’t come back to Dad, and the next day I have to go find him. This happens three more times. I’m welcome at the squat again. Brett never shows up, but I’ve long since stopped hoping she would.
I get wobbly sometimes, in the daytime. I can’t seem to quite get my feet under me when I’m walking. The ground sways. At that same Handoutlet I sit in front of a bowl of stew, not touching it. I glance up and see Tony, the attendant, looking at me. He shakes his head.
I don’t say my “Now I lay me …” anymore when there’s no one around to hear but Dad. The disappointment is permanent in his eyes now. Sometimes, rarely, I feel like he’s got a right to be disappointed in me. The rest of the time, though, I couldn’t give a shit what he thinks.
On the morning after a night when I’ve stayed with him, we wake up with the sunrise and stir out of our sleeping bags. My mouth is gummy; my bladder aches. Yesterday, I remember, it hurt when I pissed.
Dad is quiet. So quiet in fact I look at him, closely. He has his eyes on the ground, with a strange soft smile on his lips. For some reason it makes me nervous.
He says, “All of what I’ve told you, Cedric, the stories, what sin means, how it’s just a list of things you should avoid so you don’t hurt anyone or yourself-all of that …” He still doesn’t look up.
My back stiffens when he says sin, and now I’m waiting for it, the whole sermon or whatever it’s called. He better not tell me I’m a sinner, that I’m dirty somehow, in some stupid abstract way.
What he says, though, is, “Forget all that. If you want. Forget the prayers. Forget the stories. Just remember what it’s really all about. Love. Love.That’s all anybody needs to know.”
He finally looks up, and the smile stays for a second or two, then flickers away. Then he’s just
Dad again, and he has his work to do.
I go with him, a little meekly, to the plaza. I’ll be his lookout, watch for the cops, though I think I’m more of a liability than help. I’m not invisible anymore.
Before he makes his muttering way out onto the broken, pigeon-dominated pavement, I pull on his arm. Out of nowhere I say, “Why don’t we leave the city? Go to the country. You could do what you wanted there. Wide-open spaces, Dad. Wide-open spaces.”
He’s just taken his drops, and his eyes are clear. He blinks at me, taking me in, seeing deep into me, it feels like. For the first time in a while there’s no disappointment in his gaze.
After a moment he gives my shoulder a pat and says, “I’m needed here.”
Which is true, in its way. I’ve noticed over the past month that even more people are showing up wherever he appears. They make an effort not to look like they’re listening to his babble, but I get the feeling that some among his “audience” are sorting through every word, taking them to heart. I don’t know what, exactly, the words do to these people. Certainly I never felt much more than confusion and apprehension when I used to believe.
I’m wobbly again. I stand under an old lamppost and watch the plaza slide slowly side to side. Thoughts move in my head, but they don’t get far, fuzzing out into nonsense.
I don’t see the police at first when they make their move. When I’m jolted into noticing them, though, I realize I haven’t nodded out on duty, precisely; rather, the cops were in the plaza all along, disguised as bench bums. Four of them are suddenly on their feet and converging, hidden badges now on display. I see Dad as he halts, as he straightens from his pathetic hobbling crouch. He doesn’t try to run.
But I do. I have to. There’s absolutely nothing I can do to help him.
I’m grabbed after I take two steps. She’s been waiting behind me apparently. Not a cop, though there are two officers standing a little farther off; obviously her backup. She is dressed in a social services uniform, and she looks very smart in it.
“Everything’s okay, Ceddy. He’s going to be all right.”
I almost blurt out that my name is Bright Estabrook, but that’s just some weird buried instinct from all the times I’ve imagined this scenario. She’s taken me by my elbows, her grip strong. I try not to twist in her grasp, but even when I do, I’m horrified to find how weak I am.
“It’s okay. Calm down.”
The strange thing is that I am kind of calm, like this is no surprise at all, like I was expecting this inevitability on this very day, from the moment I woke up. It’s bullshit, of course, but the feeling is vaguely comforting and I grab onto it.
“It’s okay,” I repeat back to her.
She gives me a grim smile. “Good. That’s good.” She relaxes her hold on my elbows and takes a step back. She looks me over from head to toe, and it reminds me of when Brett did that to me. A pang accompanies the memory, then fades to nothing.
I hear a commotion behind me but don’t turn. I don’t want to see Dad getting beaten to the ground by police batons. I wish the dumb bastard would just go quietly.
“How are you, Ceddy?”
“I’m fine, Adalia.”
The grim smile curls at one corner, ironically. “We’re going to have to take you in too. Not to arrest you. But you can’t be out here alone. Right now you’re a danger to yourself and others.”
Behind, a voice rises, cursing; but it doesn’t sound like Dad. Another feral shouter joins in. I say to my sister, “It’s like I’m a … sinner. Isn’t it?”
Her face goes still. In a low tone she says, “Don’t start talking like that, Ceddy. Or there won’t be anything I can do to help.”