to get at you.”
Ryan opened his mouth, then seemed to think better of whatever he’d been about to say. Vic put the Cadillac in gear and pulled into the street.
“There was never any question between us. Your mother understood I was just passing through.”
Ryan said nothing. He stared out the side window at the houses and storefronts that lined the street.
“I was still sowing my wild oats,” Vic said.
“You were in your thirties.”
“Some people grow up slower than others. My oats stayed wild a long time.”
“Then what happened?”
“The years caught up with me. Now, instead of wild oats, I’ve got oat bran for my cholesterol.”
“You make getting older sound like so much fun.”
“Like they say, it ain’t for sissies.”
They drove in silence for a minute, then Ryan said, “So, you never got married or had kids?”
“No matrimony for me,” Vic said. “A couple of near-misses, but I got accustomed to living alone. It’s a hard habit to break.”
He wheeled the Cadillac onto Lomas, headed west. Most of the houses along this stretch had been converted to law offices and were closed for the night.
“We going to Old Town?”
“Nah. We’re going to Monroe’s.”
“I thought we were having Mexican food.”
“That’s right.”
“Waffles at Josefina’s and enchiladas at a place called Monroe’s.”
“That’s New Mexico for you.”
Monroe’s red-and-blue neon sign was the only bright spot on an otherwise dark block. Vic wedged the big car into a tight spot in the parking lot, and they squeezed out into the cool night air.
Inside, the restaurant was steamy and noisy, with waiters bustling among families gabbing around plain brown tables. A few old-timey photos, some fake plants and a few strings of Christmas lights were the only concessions to atmosphere. This place was all about the food.
Vic waved to an older man behind the cash register and said hello to one of the waitresses. A muscular guy about Ryan’s age led them to a table.
Once they’d ordered, Ryan said, “You don’t know our waiter?”
Vic smiled. “He must be new.”
Ryan slid the envelope across the table. “I don’t know if you want to do this here—”
Vic opened the envelope and started flipping through the photographs. Lisa when she was a little girl. Lisa when she was a majorette. Lisa graduating from nursing school. Lisa leaning against a swarthy guy who had a Fu Manchu mustache. He held that photo out to show Ryan.
“Who’s that guy?”
“I don’t know. She never told me. For a long time, I thought
he
might be my father.”
“Good God.”
“I look at you and I look at him, and I think I might’ve gotten lucky in the genes department. You were there on the right night.”
“It wasn’t like that,” Vic said. “I never got the impression your mother was one to sleep around. Even back then, when
everybody
was sleeping around. She was what they call a serial monogamist, looking for Mr. Right.”
“And you tried out for the role.”
“No, no. She knew from the start that I wasn’t Mr. Right. But she took a shine to me. Let me be Mr. Right Now.”
Ryan looked away, his jaw tight.
“Come on, kid. It was a long time ago. A different era.”
Vic went back to thumbing through the photos. He got to one of Lisa in the Arizona desert. She wore jeans and boots and a gauzy shirt that let the sun shine through, outlining her slim figure. He held it up for Ryan to see.
“This is the way I remember her. When she was this age, her hair long like that. She was a beautiful woman.”
Ryan nodded.
The rest of the photos showed a Lisa that Vic had never known. Growing older, dandling Ryan on her knee, helping him ride a bike, waving on a beach. Then the more recent photos, the ones from the end of her life. The baldness, the hollows under her eyes. In her hospital bed, still smiling as the cancer ate her alive.
Vic felt a surprising sandpaper scratchiness in his throat. Hell, he’d hardly
Ryan opened his mouth, then seemed to think better of whatever he’d been about to say. Vic put the Cadillac in gear and pulled into the street.
“There was never any question between us. Your mother understood I was just passing through.”
Ryan said nothing. He stared out the side window at the houses and storefronts that lined the street.
“I was still sowing my wild oats,” Vic said.
“You were in your thirties.”
“Some people grow up slower than others. My oats stayed wild a long time.”
“Then what happened?”
“The years caught up with me. Now, instead of wild oats, I’ve got oat bran for my cholesterol.”
“You make getting older sound like so much fun.”
“Like they say, it ain’t for sissies.”
They drove in silence for a minute, then Ryan said, “So, you never got married or had kids?”
“No matrimony for me,” Vic said. “A couple of near-misses, but I got accustomed to living alone. It’s a hard habit to break.”
He wheeled the Cadillac onto Lomas, headed west. Most of the houses along this stretch had been converted to law offices and were closed for the night.
“We going to Old Town?”
“Nah. We’re going to Monroe’s.”
“I thought we were having Mexican food.”
“That’s right.”
“Waffles at Josefina’s and enchiladas at a place called Monroe’s.”
“That’s New Mexico for you.”
Monroe’s red-and-blue neon sign was the only bright spot on an otherwise dark block. Vic wedged the big car into a tight spot in the parking lot, and they squeezed out into the cool night air.
Inside, the restaurant was steamy and noisy, with waiters bustling among families gabbing around plain brown tables. A few old-timey photos, some fake plants and a few strings of Christmas lights were the only concessions to atmosphere. This place was all about the food.
Vic waved to an older man behind the cash register and said hello to one of the waitresses. A muscular guy about Ryan’s age led them to a table.
Once they’d ordered, Ryan said, “You don’t know our waiter?”
Vic smiled. “He must be new.”
Ryan slid the envelope across the table. “I don’t know if you want to do this here—”
Vic opened the envelope and started flipping through the photographs. Lisa when she was a little girl. Lisa when she was a majorette. Lisa graduating from nursing school. Lisa leaning against a swarthy guy who had a Fu Manchu mustache. He held that photo out to show Ryan.
“Who’s that guy?”
“I don’t know. She never told me. For a long time, I thought
he
might be my father.”
“Good God.”
“I look at you and I look at him, and I think I might’ve gotten lucky in the genes department. You were there on the right night.”
“It wasn’t like that,” Vic said. “I never got the impression your mother was one to sleep around. Even back then, when
everybody
was sleeping around. She was what they call a serial monogamist, looking for Mr. Right.”
“And you tried out for the role.”
“No, no. She knew from the start that I wasn’t Mr. Right. But she took a shine to me. Let me be Mr. Right Now.”
Ryan looked away, his jaw tight.
“Come on, kid. It was a long time ago. A different era.”
Vic went back to thumbing through the photos. He got to one of Lisa in the Arizona desert. She wore jeans and boots and a gauzy shirt that let the sun shine through, outlining her slim figure. He held it up for Ryan to see.
“This is the way I remember her. When she was this age, her hair long like that. She was a beautiful woman.”
Ryan nodded.
The rest of the photos showed a Lisa that Vic had never known. Growing older, dandling Ryan on her knee, helping him ride a bike, waving on a beach. Then the more recent photos, the ones from the end of her life. The baldness, the hollows under her eyes. In her hospital bed, still smiling as the cancer ate her alive.
Vic felt a surprising sandpaper scratchiness in his throat. Hell, he’d hardly
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