When Women Were Dragons(77)

We didn’t say anything for a long minute. His chin sagged into his neck. His lips were dry. I remembered him looking much bigger than this. Did he shrink? Even his shoulders could barely maintain the weight of his wrinkled shirt. He cleared his throat.

“Would you like to come in?”

I didn’t answer, but rose to my feet. He unlocked the door and let me inside.

It was a mess. Much worse than when I was there in October. Dust clung to every surface, and grime insinuated itself into the cracks. The air was stale, and musty, and the trash needed to be taken out. Much of the furniture was gone, too. The walls were almost entirely bare, with only bare nails and dusty rectangles to show where framed pictures had been.

“Your new wife?” I said.

“Gone,” he said. “And the kids. They live at her mother’s. It’s for the best.”

“I see,” I said. I didn’t ask how long ago. He could have told us to move back home, but he didn’t. Instead he was paying for his house and an extra apartment and probably his wife’s upkeep as well. I tried not to let it hurt me. I took a deep breath and set my face. He wouldn’t see me upset.

“Beer?” my father asked, as though I were a man.

I blanched. “I don’t drink, Dad,” I said.

“Good,” he said. “I’ll have something stronger.” He waved for me to sit down at the table—it was sticky and covered with bits of paper—and he came back with a tall glass of scotch and nothing for me. There were cobwebs in the corners. The windows were thick with grime. Some husbands were devoured on the day of the Mass Dragoning. Others, like my father, simply languished. I slid my eyes toward the door.

“Have you given any more thought about that job I mentioned?” he said, reaching into his pocket and finding his pack of cigarettes.

“I told you, Dad. I’m going to college.”

His laugh sounded like the bray of a donkey. “With what money?” he said, his first puff leaking out of his mouth.

“I’ll figure it out.” I crossed my arms across my chest and pressed my back into the chair. “Anyway, that’s not why we’re talking. My aunt is back. And she’s a dragon.”

“Alexandra!” My father held up his hands, and he cast his gaze aside, suddenly too embarrassed to look me in the eye. “That’s none of my business.” He flushed scarlet.

“Yes it is,” I insisted. “Whether you like it or not, you’re Beatrice’s legal father. And mine too, obviously. And that dragon is hanging around. And says she’ll be back. Doesn’t that bother you? What if we got hurt? Or worse?”

I didn’t say out loud what I meant by worse. I thought about Beatrice’s drawings. The dragons everywhere. My father would say nothing if Beatrice . . . changed. If she took to the sky and never came back. But my world would end. I closed my eyes for a moment, doing everything in my power to keep from crying.

“Well. I’d be sad, obviously.” He took another sip of scotch. “You are, you know. Important.” Another sip. “You may not believe me, but I do care about you, Alexandra. And your little, um, Beatrice.” He set down his glass. He didn’t look at me.

We sat for a long moment, saying nothing.

I rolled my eyes. “Well, Dad. This was fun. Maybe we should see each other again in a few years.” I stood. He put his hand on my hand. He turned his body away and rested his forehead on his other palm, cupping his face. It took me a while to realize he was crying.

“The wrong sister left,” he said, finally, wiping his eyes. “It should have been your mother. I told her that myself. That very day. She knew it was coming, and told me so. She could feel it. We both knew it was only a matter of time before her cancer came back, and maybe it wouldn’t have, if she let herself change. I told her to tell Marla to do the right thing—that she should be the one to be the grown-up, and resist the childish urge to run away. Or fly away, rather. She should have stayed. Marla could have raised both of you and my Bertha—” His breath caught. “She could have—” He shook his head. “Well, she probably would have kicked me out eventually, but I would have known that she lived. Even if they both had . . . well you know . . . and left, it would have been preferable. I could have made arrangements for you and Beatrice when you were still little enough to be raised properly in a new family. Instead, we spent those years waiting for the cancer to come back. Watching her die by inches. She knew I would be bad at this. She knew I wouldn’t be able to bear it. This is all her fault.” He drained his glass.

I turned away and looked at the wreck of the house. The shine was gone. Back when I was a kid, every surface glowed. Now it was all dust.

“I have to go, Dad.”

“Wait.” He stood, drained his glass, and stumbled toward the basement. He returned with a wooden box, about the size of a loaf of bread. It had vines and flowers carved into the edges. He shoved it into my hands. He couldn’t even look at me. “It belonged to your mother. I didn’t keep it with the rest of her things because . . . well, my wife, you see, has sticky fingers. You’ll notice your mother’s jewelry is gone. And this, well, it’s special. Handmade. Your mother told me specifically that she wanted you to have it when you were old enough. I figure now is as good a time as any.”

“What’s in it?”