I coast slowly down the hill with my foot on the brake. “Elizabeth?”
“She was upset. Upset,” he repeats as he searches for the next thought. “Afraid. She was afraid to lose everything. I had to help.”
“What did you do?”
He considers that, but either he can’t recall or doesn’t want to say. Hooking his elbow on the open window, he turns away from me and looks out.
“Dad?” So close. I know the answer is there. I want it. But he remains silent, and the square is in view. Frustrated, I try the Aiellos. “Seeing Lina yesterday got my mind working. I remember her husband, Roberto. Did you know him at all?”
He is silent so long I’m about to give up, when, without looking my way, he says, “Gardener.”
“Yes. Roberto Aiello.”
He does turn now, seeming puzzled. “Do I know him?”
He would, if the man had an affair with my mother—unless he didn’t know or doesn’t remember. But here we are, stymied again. Didn’t know or doesn’t remember. That seems to be the way on too many counts.
Frustrated, I pull into the lot and park. Once inside, we settle into Dad’s front corner table. Joy rushes over with coffee, which is some comfort. Anne rushes over with the newspaper. Lily rushes over with a menu for me. She already knows that my father wants bacon, eggs, and cinnamon toast, and I just double the order.
With a great rustle, he immerses himself in the paper. Around us, voices are early-morning low. Forks scrape on plates, teacups on saucers. The shop is half-filled, though a pair of young parents with toddlers arrive minutes after we do. Of the patrons already there, several faces are vaguely familiar.
“Dad,” I cup my mug and lean close, “do you know any of these people?”
He looks up, then around the shop before meeting my gaze. “Is that a trick question?”
I chuckle. “I’m sorry. No. No, it’s not. I just can’t remember their names.”
Glancing around again, he hitches his chin. “Babcock.”
I follow the hitch. “John? History teacher?” He was old when I had him. He looks ancient now.
“Retired.”
That’s good, at least. He put us to sleep back then. I’m sure the man knows everything there is to know about America’s wars, but I doubt he would convey it any more dynamically now, and with America’s recent history? Disaster. “Who else?”
He hitches his chin farther left. “Hendersons.”
I catch my breath. “That’s Mr. Henderson?” I stare at the man. He has to be my father’s age, to judge from his hands and face, but his hair is too blonde, his Polo shirt too slim, the woman with him too young. “The Hendersons,” I breathe. “He remarried?” I ask, but Dad has returned to his paper, which is fine. The last thing I want is for him to ask about the revulsion that has to be showing on my face. The idea that the cad across the room may be my biological father is horrifying to me. That’s the downside. The upside is that he doesn’t spare me a look. If I was his daughter, he would. And he would certainly know who I am based on who I’m with.
“Are you good, Mom?” Joy asks as she arrives, following my gaze to the pharmacist. “Yeah, aren’t they a pair? They’ve been married for three years. She’s younger than his own kids.” The last ends on a rising note that screamsEuwwww!
“Where do you get your information?” I ask.
“Lily. She knows everyone. Lovvvves gossip.” She glances toward the kitchen. “Ah. Okay. They want me,” she says, clearly delighted by this, and heads back.
A bit later, as we munch on the last of our toast, I return to the matter of Mr. Henderson. Do I even know his first name? No. Do I want to?No.This is one of the negatives of Tom Aldiss turning out to not be my biological father. Whoever is may be worse.
At least, the dad beside me is a known entity. And sad now, actually. He is withering into himself. If I weren’t here, he would be sitting alone. For no other reason than that, I’m glad I’ve come.
The door opens, and a man enters. About my age, he wears atired tee shirt, jeans, and work boots. The logo on the back of his shirt is fading, but enough remains to have me jumping up to follow him to the cash register, where he is picking up breakfast to go. Close up, memory stirs.
“Mike?”
He regards me with curiosity, then surprise. “Margo?”
“Mallory.”
He grins. Mike Hartley is a handsome guy. Back in high school, he was sweet on Margo, but he wears a wedding band now. “It’s been a while. I didn’t know you were in town.”
