Ghost Lights, Lydia Millet [book recommendations for teens TXT] 📗

“Come in,” he said.

It was Rodriguez, who wore his pants belted high.

“Hey, man,” said Rodriguez.

“Hey.”

Often a single habit of an otherwise unremarkable person, such as wearing high-waisted pants, struck Hal as tragic.

“So you coming to lunch? It’s Linda’s fiftieth.”

“Fiftieth,” said Hal. “Whoa.”

With the pants tightly cinched right below his rib cage, Rodriguez limited his options. Figuratively speaking, Rodriguez shot himself in the foot every time he got dressed.

“Who woulda known, right? She doesn’t look a day over sixty-five,” said Rodriguez, and laughed nervously.

“Thanks for thinking of me. I have an appointment with my daughter at lunchtime, though,” said Hal regretfully. It was his standard excuse, but in this case a lie and thus in need of fleshing out to have the ring of truth. “She’s in the market for a new car. I have to go with her to a dealership to talk about conversion. You know—hand controls, wheelchair loader. You’d be surprised how many of those mobility-equipment folks try to rip off paraplegics.”

“Oh man,” said Rodriguez, looking pained. “You kidding?”

“Yeah,” said Hal. “I am. They’re all right. But she needs help with the process.”

Rodriguez was not a real cynic but wore the guise of cynicism to fit in. His attempts at sarcasm had the air of a strained joke, and from the rare moments when he allowed his actual persona to reveal itself Hal suspected he was secretly and painfully earnest. The earnestness and the high-waisted pants were connected, of course. Intimately. Anyone could tell from looking at his beltline that the cynicism was a juvenile posturing. But Rodriguez was a guy who could watch comedians on TV make fun of nerds simply by wearing their pants belted high and laugh heartily along with the crowd, never suspecting that their target was him. Essentially he had a blind spot—as everyone did—but Rodriguez’s blind spot was in the public domain, like Casey’s paralysis.

“Sure, man. Too bad though. We’re going to that place with the kickass enchiladas.”

Hal had a weakness for Rodriguez. And he presumed that his own sincerity—mainly his devotion, which had become known to his colleagues only by dint of their collective involvement in taxation, to the quaint idea of a wise and kindly government—would look practically jaded next to the near-cretinous gullibility of Rodriguez.

But this genuine, earnest persona of Rodriguez, being kept in lockdown, was never allowed into Gen Pop long enough for Hal to be certain.

“Eat one for me, OK?” he said in what he hoped was a tone of finality. “With New Mexican green chiles.”

“No way,” said Rodriguez. “Those chiles’d be repeating on me.”

“Jesus,” said Hal, and waved him away. “Enough said then.”

Rodriguez retreated with a swaggering manner, as though his remark about vomiting into his mouth placed him firmly within the pantheon of the suave.

•

At one o’clock Hal drove west, partly because he was committed to his fabrication and partly because he wanted to pay his daughter a visit. Casey had recently relocated from her Soviet-style tenement in the Marina to a pleasant building dating from the thirties or forties, rare for Santa Monica, with large, airy rooms and arched doorways. He was delighted with the move, which signaled a rise out of apathy. Calla lilies grew in profusion beneath the front windows.

She had a new job in telemarketing. Difficult to see how selling timeshares in Jamaica could satisfy her in the long run, but for now at least she had a steady income. He should have called before he left but if she wasn’t home, fine: he had to get out of the office anyway.

The freeways were open and before long he had parked on the street and was walking around to the back door. Through an open window he heard her voice—“Uh huh. And what do you want me to do then?”

The tone struck him as wrong for telemarketing. Of course she was a novice, she might not have it down yet. Casey had a nice voice, low and husky, which to him had always seemed tomboyish. It occurred to him she was probably, in fact, talking to her new boyfriend, a man from the support group, and he felt sheepish. For the so-called differently abled, privacy was a chronic problem.

He rapped on the window and waved to her inside; she turned, wearing a telephone headset, smiled, and mouthed at him to wait. He nodded as she rolled into the next room and out of earshot.

He was used to waiting: he waited for her often. Sitting down on the ramp, he gazed out at the backyard. Behind a small patch of grass, the usual deep and lush L.A. green that looked fake but in fact merely represented an extravagant level of water use . . . but here she was, already.

“I hear you got yourself a new cripple,” said Casey from the back door. It was automatic and had swung open silently. “I’m so jealous!”

“Hi, sweetie. Hey, you meet any of the neighbors yet?” he asked, and stood.

Good if someone close by was looking out for her.

“Dad, please. I mean I know your little girl is coming out of her shell finally, every day is a blessing, rise and shine and like that, hell, I’m full-barrel on the positive attitude. But I didn’t get a lobotomy. I don’t roll around to the neighbors smiling and doing the meet and greet.”

“A lobotomy wouldn’t have that effect,” he said, and went up the ramp and inside.

“So the three-legged dog thing, it’s like a classic empty-nest syndrome, child-surrogate deal. Am I right?”

She went ahead of him through the kitchen, where an electric teakettle was whining. She switched it off and poured.

“You want a cup of tea? I’m having peppermint.”

“Thanks. I’ll just get a glass of water I think,” he said, and moved around her.

“I knew this couple that when their basketball-playing kid went away to college—and this guy was like seven feet tall—they went out and got a dog two days later. Thing was though, the dog was a hundred-and-sixty-pound English mastiff. Came up