Spoonbenders

Dad hadn’t asked why she’d returned a day early, or seemed to notice that she was a hollow-eyed wreck. But why should that be a surprise? Before she left he hadn’t asked her why she was going to Arizona or who she was seeing. He was oblivious to her nervousness and excitement, and now he was blind to her heartbreak. His sole interest in the trip was when it would start and end, and that was only because he wanted to know how long he was responsible for Matty.

My father is a narcissist, she thought. This was not a new thought. She’d learned when she was ten that if you’re not part of the act, you’re part of the audience.

He took the wrong exit off North Avenue and she gave him a look.

“One last errand,” he said.

“Just take me home,” Irene said. She’d taken too many car trips with her father recently, and she’d be happy never to take one again.

“I helped you, now you help me,” he said. “I absolutely need you at my side for the next half hour.”

“What scam are you running now?”

“I’m just trying to do something nice for a woman.” His imitation of outrage was unconvincing.

“Sure, it’s all for Graciella. Look at you. You’re practically hopping up and down behind the wheel.”

“I like helping people,” he said.

She made a rude noise.

“What?” he asked. “Why are you acting like this?”

“Jesus Christ, Dad. I can’t believe I’m still doing it. I’m a grown woman, and I’m still—never mind.”

“Doing what? Please, enlighten me.”

“I spent most of my life waiting for you to notice me.” She shook her head. “What a waste.”

“Notice you? How could I not notice you? You were the one scowling at me every time I did something that your mother wouldn’t have done.”

“There we go. It took you one sentence to get back to how you’re the victim.”

“You’re making the same face. Right now.”

“Did it even occur to you to ask me why I needed a babysitter for Matty?”

“I’m sure it was important.”

“Unbelievable.”

“If you wanted to tell me, you’d tell me! I’m sorry for wanting to respect your privacy. Now, here’s the bar.”

“A bar? We’re going to a bar?”

“Technically, a tavern. Don’t you remember this place? I used to bring you with me sometimes.”

“You never brought me here. That was probably Frankie.”

“Maybe so, maybe so.”

He parked in the spot closest to the door, which happened to be a handicapped spot. Irene started to object, and he shushed her. “It’s legal, it’s legal. Open the glove compartment.”

She found the handicapped tag and pulled it out with two fingers, as if it were a dead fish or a loaded gun. Dad rolled his eyes and hung the tag from the front mirror. “Come around and help me out.”

“What?”

“Help me walk in.”

“Help yourself out!”

“Damn it, Irene, it’s a simple request. Hold on to my arm like I can barely walk. Help me sit down, fuss over me—”

“Jesus Christ, why?”

“I can’t explain, not now. But rest assured—”

“I’m sure it’s important,” Irene said, throwing his line back at him.

“It is! It surely is!” He was oblivious to sarcasm. “Now remember, I’m feeble.”

“Minded,” Irene said, loud enough for him to hear.

They performed a geriatric mime on the way to the front door, Teddy placing one foot meditatively in front of the other, hand gripping her arm. He was pretty good at it. Irene could almost imagine the hip replacement.

“A cane would really sell this,” he stage-whispered to her. “Maybe one with the three rubber feet?”

She couldn’t believe she was participating in this.

“It’s the saddest of the canes,” he went on. “You can’t even pretend to be stylish. Fred Astaire never danced with a tri-support.”

Irene pulled open the door for him, and he hobbled inside. The dim interior smelled of stale beer and inadequate bleach.

“The usual, Teddy?” said a huge, indistinct shape behind the bar.

Teddy chuckled. To Irene he said, “Twenty years since I’ve been here, Barney still knows my drink.” Somehow he’d made his voice shakier, as if it needed its own tri-support.

“Let’s sit at the bar,” Teddy said to Irene. There was no one else in the place. Maybe it was too early on Saturday for even the drunks.

“Sure, Dad,” she said flatly. “Let me get the stool for you.”

“Nothing for her,” Teddy said to the bartender. “You been using the same bar rag since 1962. She doesn’t have the antibodies for this place.”

“I’ll have a beer,” Irene said. “In a bottle.” Barney nodded. He was about the same age as Dad, but three times his size.

“So how’s the place doing?” Teddy asked. He threw some extra quaver in his voice, an old man struggling to sound jovial. They started talking about people Irene didn’t know and would, she hoped, never meet.

Irene watched Mirror Irene sip her beer. That woman lived in an alternate universe called Arizona, with a man who loved her.

When she came back from the interview, Joshua could see she was upset—unlike her father, he was no narcissist—and kept pressing her for answers. For words. She couldn’t explain why she’d gotten so mad, and so couldn’t explain why she’d all but set fire to the conference room. She couldn’t tell him how angry she was at him.