I am going to see you.
Her smile is self-satisfied, filled with the pleasure of knowing she’s brought joy to someone she loves.
Do not tease me, Bell tells her. You should not tease your father.
Athena mocks a pout, then shakes her head. Her hands fly. No really no teasing!
When?
Next weekend Saturday Mr. Howe and Mom on a class trip.
Bell shakes his head at the same time as Athena reads his expression, her own falling, confusion turning into hurt.
You do not want to see me?
“That’s not-,” Bell starts, stops, then starts again, this time with his hands. No you know better than that I always want to see you.
You could have fooled me the way you look!
Bad timing Athena the timing not great.
She glares at him, hands out of sight. Then they’re up again, and she’s signing so quickly he’s in danger of losing her words. The hurt has turned into anger, but Bell can see the edges of its desperation, see his daughter reaching for it to hide the pain he’s just inadvertently caused her.
You know what? Athena says. Fuck you and fuck timing you never have time always bad time or something or you go someplace or something I thought you would be happy excited to see me but always the same and you left you are the one who left-
They’re signing over one another, now, Bell trying to make himself understood.
I did not leave you your mother and I-
— always did you go and came back and-
Bell gives up. Watches his daughter yelling at him through her hands, waits until she runs out of steam, until the tears are welling in her eyes. She blinks angrily, and then they stare at one another, and Bell is again caught by the power of his daughter’s gaze. Absolute attention, a focus that would make a sniper jealous, and he’s getting it full force now, even across the Internet.
Can I say something now? he finally asks her.
She blinks, cocks her head. Flashes an angry smile, reaching out toward the monitor, toward him.
The screen goes dark. She’s gone, and Bell is thinking that technology has made the whole act of hanging up on someone a much more painful process than ever before.
“What’s this about Howe taking the class to WilsonVille?”
“What the hell did you say to her?” Amy says.
“Are you coming to the park? Athena said you’re coming Saturday.”
“We fly in next Friday, leaving late on Sunday. What did you say to her, Jad?”
Bell stares past his reflection in the window. The sun is setting on the Pacific, golden glare off the water burning his eyes. He turns away, adjusts the phone against his ear.
“I need you to talk to Howe. I need you to postpone this trip.”
“You need? Jad, they’ve been planning this all year. You have any idea how many bake sales your daughter and I made brownies for? How many quilt squares we sewed? This is a class trip; I can’t just tell him it’s suddenly off.”
“Postpone it.”
“We’ve already bought the tickets, Jad!”
“I am asking you to postpone the trip, Amy.”
She knows him well enough to know the tone. There’s a moment’s hesitation. “Can you give me a reason?”
“I cannot.”
“I need to tell him something, Jad. Jesus, I need you to give me something I can tell him.”
“It’s bad timing. You know I wouldn’t ask this if the reason wasn’t good.”
“I thought you were out.” The accusation is sharp and unmistakable, and when the pause has stretched long enough that she knows he’s not going to answer it, she sighs. Resignation. “I’ll talk to him.”
“Let me know.”
“Sir, yes, sir,” Amy says, and hangs up.
Bell stands at his window. The apartment is very still and very silent.
When he was a younger man, he thinks, being alone was not a problem. When he had a wife and a daughter and a home to return to, he could, perhaps, afford to be alone.
When it was a choice.
Amy’s text comes the next morning.
Howe says no way to cancel.
See you Saturday.
Chapter Six
Dana’s working float in the Wild World, either assigned to the lines at Gordo’s Yesteryear Ballpark, Soaring Thyme, Cannonball Plunge, or working as an usher during the Flower Sisters Mystical Show. She’s on call as an interpreter, too, so Gabriel sees her, if he’s lucky, maybe once or twice during the day, and only for a few minutes. Most of the time they spend together, it’s after hours. They rented an apartment at the beginning of summer, here in town so they don’t have to commute to and from Los Angeles every day. Nights, they’re both so tired they have dinner, curl up to maybe watch a video, find the strength to make love, and then pretty much pass out.
Thursday morning, though, Gabriel has an e-mail waiting from the Uzbek, and Thursday night, he has to make an excuse.
“I’m going to be late getting back tonight,” he tells her. “Couple army buddies are in town; I’m going to meet them for drinks.”
Dana smirks. “No girls allowed?”
“Beer and bragging,” Gabriel agrees, answering with a grin. “I love you too much to ask you to sit through that.”
“I think maybe you do, too.” She leans in, runs her fingers through his hair, then kisses his mouth gently. “You do what you have to do. Have some fun.”
When they talk about such things, Dana makes no secret of what she thinks of the U.S. fighting so many wars in so many places for, in her opinion, oil and nothing but. But she’s never let her opposition to the conflicts become an opposition to soldiers, and there are times Gabriel thinks she is, perhaps, proud of him for his service. Times like that, he thinks that he is, perhaps, proud of his service as well.
So it’s Thursday night and Gabriel is going to meet the Uzbek at the DoubleTree near the business park, the place called the Irvine Spectrum. There’s a lot of tech located there, including some major computer game company that, apparently, has more money than God. Gabriel wonders if the Uzbek’s already trying to find a way to get a slice of that pie, too, if he hasn’t already, and thinking that he realizes he’s nervous, that he’s not looking forward to this.
He parks his Prius, moves from the fading day’s heat into the air-?conditioning of the lobby, then straight to the elevators. Nobody gives him a glance, asks to see his key, asks if they can help him. It’s ten minutes of eight, exactly, when he knocks on the Uzbek’s door.
He hears a bolt turn, the door unlocking. A moment, then it’s opening. The Uzbek backs up, allows Gabriel inside, and then he’s got the door locked again, slipping past him, moving to the desk. There’s a laptop open, and the Uzbek shuts it.
“It will be this weekend,” the Uzbek says, turning to face him. His English is accented, but only just. “It will be Saturday.”
“What do I need to know?” Gabriel asks.
It’s almost one in the morning when he gets back to their apartment. Quiet and dark, Gabriel stands in the main room, just stands there. His thoughts tumble, chase each other about in conflict, and he thinks these are the last days of his dream, can feel it fragmenting and tearing, dandelion fluff whipped away in a storm. He can remember a boy with a tire iron, and he does not know who that boy is, where he came from, or where he went.
He’s still standing just like that when he realizes that Dana has come out of their little bedroom, is watching him. He didn’t hear her and he didn’t see her, but he knew she was there, holding herself in the doorway. She’s wearing a tank top and panties, what she wears to sleep in most times before they both end up wearing nothing at all. Lavender is on the tank top, the irony of the words Friendship Is Trust printed in faded lettering beneath the character. She brushes hair back from her face, tucks it behind her ear.
“Are you okay, baby?” she asks.
Gabriel nods, moves to her. Sets his hands on her hips, and she’s warm and solid and tangible, not a dream at all, and when he kisses her she wraps her arms around him.