uncertainly.
“I’m going,” he said. “I’ll fly out as soon as you can book me a flight. Don’t have to speak Spanish—see—English is the official language there. Former crown colony. British Honduras. Used to be called. As I’m sure you all know.”
He had weeks of vacation days coming to him—months, very likely. He could use all of it if need be. He risked a brief glance at Susan’s face: astounded. Almost stricken. He had blindsided her. He felt a surge of elation.
“Hal, that’s . . .”
“Come on, Dad,” said Casey. “What do you know about missing persons?”
“Actually a fair amount,” said Hal. His eyes were dry and his head was almost spinning—or would be if he lay down—so he was gratified at his own lucidness. “I’ve been tracking down delinquent taxpayers for years. It’s part of my job.”
He mainly supervised the process these days, of course. A technicality.
Sal was picking all of the bay leaves out of his leftover soup and placing them one by one, with a wiping motion, on his placemat. Hal found himself captivated by the process. Its repugnance was bold. Practically courageous.
Was Sal insane, actually?
“Honey, we should talk about this,” said Susan.
“You need someone you can trust,” said Hal, a bit severely. He knew himself for a liar, because she could not trust him now, not when he was angry. Not at all. But honey ? The nerve of the woman. “You need a known quantity. There’s nothing more to discuss.”
There was a silence, the guests chewing their food. Possibly they were simply bored. Hal noticed again that his beer bottle was empty; at the same time Nancy reached for a saltshaker and knocked her wineglass over. Red wine flowed and then dripped over the edge of the table.
“I’m getting up anyway. I’ll get something to clean that with,” said Hal.
“Daddy, I think it’s brave of you,” said Casey softly. “I do. Volunteering like that.”
He felt a rush of tenderness toward her as he rounded the end of the table behind her chair and looked down at the golden cap of hair on her head, neat and small and shining—but then she too was deceiving him, albeit to a lesser degree. From now on, in his nightmares, she would say “I’m a slut” . . .
Not words to reassure a parent. No indeed.
It was settled: he would fly away from all of it and that would leave the field wide open, he reflected as he went into the kitchen. He had already forgotten what he came for . . . a rag? A rag for cleaning up the spilt wine. And a beer for drinking. He didn’t care if he drove home at all; he would be happy to fall asleep here. Too drunk to drive would be, the more he thought about it, a very neat solution . . . of course Susan had her own car, but he could claim he did not want to leave his here, didn’t want to have to come back for it in the morning. He would get so goddamn drunk no one could reason with him.
Then he would get into a plane and leave the field wide open; the field was crammed with paralegals, all of them stoutly armed with condoms.
Possibly, he reflected, Susan and Robert had an Oedipal relationship. She was, after all, twice his age.
Here also he would leave the fat, ugly men on phone-sex lines, grunting and jerking off as they listened to his baby girl.
It was all crumbling. No one had his back anymore, no one was with him. Not a single person. All he felt at his back was a cold wind, a falling-off into nothing. As he left, an abyss yawned behind him. He’d nearly been swept in.
Before him, the ground would be more solid. Anyway there was nothing more Susan could do to him once he was far away—nothing she wasn’t already doing.
His own bed, slow and lavish afternoons.
• • • • •
A lthough she made the arrangements for him dutifully he could feel Susan’s shock reverberate throughout the day. It was gratifying, in a minor way. She had not let him pass out alone at Casey’s as he preferred to, had insisted on sleeping
“I’m going,” he said. “I’ll fly out as soon as you can book me a flight. Don’t have to speak Spanish—see—English is the official language there. Former crown colony. British Honduras. Used to be called. As I’m sure you all know.”
He had weeks of vacation days coming to him—months, very likely. He could use all of it if need be. He risked a brief glance at Susan’s face: astounded. Almost stricken. He had blindsided her. He felt a surge of elation.
“Hal, that’s . . .”
“Come on, Dad,” said Casey. “What do you know about missing persons?”
“Actually a fair amount,” said Hal. His eyes were dry and his head was almost spinning—or would be if he lay down—so he was gratified at his own lucidness. “I’ve been tracking down delinquent taxpayers for years. It’s part of my job.”
He mainly supervised the process these days, of course. A technicality.
Sal was picking all of the bay leaves out of his leftover soup and placing them one by one, with a wiping motion, on his placemat. Hal found himself captivated by the process. Its repugnance was bold. Practically courageous.
Was Sal insane, actually?
“Honey, we should talk about this,” said Susan.
“You need someone you can trust,” said Hal, a bit severely. He knew himself for a liar, because she could not trust him now, not when he was angry. Not at all. But honey ? The nerve of the woman. “You need a known quantity. There’s nothing more to discuss.”
There was a silence, the guests chewing their food. Possibly they were simply bored. Hal noticed again that his beer bottle was empty; at the same time Nancy reached for a saltshaker and knocked her wineglass over. Red wine flowed and then dripped over the edge of the table.
“I’m getting up anyway. I’ll get something to clean that with,” said Hal.
“Daddy, I think it’s brave of you,” said Casey softly. “I do. Volunteering like that.”
He felt a rush of tenderness toward her as he rounded the end of the table behind her chair and looked down at the golden cap of hair on her head, neat and small and shining—but then she too was deceiving him, albeit to a lesser degree. From now on, in his nightmares, she would say “I’m a slut” . . .
Not words to reassure a parent. No indeed.
It was settled: he would fly away from all of it and that would leave the field wide open, he reflected as he went into the kitchen. He had already forgotten what he came for . . . a rag? A rag for cleaning up the spilt wine. And a beer for drinking. He didn’t care if he drove home at all; he would be happy to fall asleep here. Too drunk to drive would be, the more he thought about it, a very neat solution . . . of course Susan had her own car, but he could claim he did not want to leave his here, didn’t want to have to come back for it in the morning. He would get so goddamn drunk no one could reason with him.
Then he would get into a plane and leave the field wide open; the field was crammed with paralegals, all of them stoutly armed with condoms.
Possibly, he reflected, Susan and Robert had an Oedipal relationship. She was, after all, twice his age.
Here also he would leave the fat, ugly men on phone-sex lines, grunting and jerking off as they listened to his baby girl.
It was all crumbling. No one had his back anymore, no one was with him. Not a single person. All he felt at his back was a cold wind, a falling-off into nothing. As he left, an abyss yawned behind him. He’d nearly been swept in.
Before him, the ground would be more solid. Anyway there was nothing more Susan could do to him once he was far away—nothing she wasn’t already doing.
His own bed, slow and lavish afternoons.
• • • • •
A lthough she made the arrangements for him dutifully he could feel Susan’s shock reverberate throughout the day. It was gratifying, in a minor way. She had not let him pass out alone at Casey’s as he preferred to, had insisted on sleeping
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