Every mile or so, I glance to the clock in the middle of the dashboard hoping it will stop. Stop making it later. Stop making me later than I already am.
The final mile along Shoreacres Road, with the windows rolled down to air out the smell of too many Marlboro Lights, I can hear the woodland creatures stir, as they do, just before the light of a new day rises above the lake’s long, flat horizon. I can smell the morning moisture on the tree leaves and grass blades and easily imagine the orange-pink glow when the first light hits the gathering dew.
The last part of our long, bending driveway is with car lights off and engine hushed to a gentle roll. Parking outside the garage and being ever so careful - even though Mom and Dad’s bedroom is on the opposite end of the house - I tip-toe my way through the breezeway and into the kitchen, straight to the fridge where I hope to find an easy fix.
With a kosher dill in one hand and leftover pasta in the other, I turn toward the back stairs. There's a light coming from under the door to the den to my left.
Regularly enraged by city-sized electricity bills, Dad enforces a very strict Lights Off Policy and patrols the house in the dead of night, making sure it’s in full blackout mode before climbing into bed. Some nights when he can’t sleep, Dad (as a kind of an interior design therapy), rearranges furniture, regularly making after-dark arrivals surprisingly treacherous; causing me to wonder whether our late night stumbles are a result of - or the very reason for - his furniture moving follies.
Seeing the bright lights radiating through the cracks of the den door means only one thing, Dad is still awake… and waiting, perched on his favorite sofa, surrounded by five portraits of his five, ungrateful children. He’s been watching for headlights through the large paned window overlooking the front circle, growling at the dark, empty driveway, laying in wait for his way-past-curfew progeny, who’ll eventually have pass through the kitchen, within feet of the den, to reach the back stairs and beds.
Before I have a chance to make it to the first step, or swallow the bite of pickle now sticking in my throat, he rumbles, strong and low, “Anne Elizabeth.”
"Shit," I whisper as the kosher dill reluctantly heads toward my knotted stomach. I set down the food no longer offering any comfort and turn toward the den and Dad.
Opening the door, I see him, arms crossed, sitting with his legs up on the burnt orange, velvety sofa, staring straight into my bloodshot eyes.
“Daughter, do you know what time it is?"
I certainly do.
"What on earth have you been doing until five o'clock in the morning?"
And without warning, the truth (or at least most of it) comes pouring forth. I tell Dad about the hanging out and making ribs, and taking those ribs to the drive-in movies to eat while watching zombies eating humans in “Night of the Living Dead.” I tell him about the beautiful night and the roaring fire on the wide strip of beach at the edge of the silky, smooth lake, below the moonlight bright enough to see my friends’ laughing faces, as we stood in the cold, clear water up to our knees, skipping pebbles into the bright, silver-white moonbeam. stretching across the dark, black lake.
I even tell of one friend, in particular.
A confused and reluctant romance of strong attraction and mixed messages.
I shrug a little and smile to hide our mutual embarrassment.
And I stand there, waiting for Dad’s response.
At first he says nothing, confounded by the almost-truth, but then I see the Tell in his eyes.
Dad’s having to recalculate.
Dad doesn’t recalculate.
“Okay then,” he finally says with redirected conviction, “…I’m just waiting for your sister to get home."
Not sure what just happened, but elated it did, I give Dad a quick hug, say “Good Night” and move silently and swiftly from the room toward bed. At the top of the stairs, I look for headlights through the hall window just above where Dad remains on watch, but only see the sky turn brighter through the silhouetted trees.
Mia doesn’t stand a chance.
No comments:
Post a Comment