What You Don't Know(51)
“Go to your room,” her mother had said, but Gloria had hid behind the couch in the living room instead, curled her knees up to her chest and listened, breathed in the dust bunnies and tried to keep from sneezing. She couldn’t make out everything her father was saying, but she was sure something bad was going to happen. Gloria was a girl, but she’d grown up fast, she’d had to, most girls do, and she’d seen how her father’s love for his wife bordered on obsession, that he treated her in the same way a greedy man treats his money, like he owned her, worshipped her. She needed to be captured, hidden away where no one else could see, like treasure in a vault. Or just destroyed.
Gloria fell asleep behind the couch, listening for a gunshot that never came, and woke up when her mother was carrying her into the bathroom, whispering that she needed to relieve herself before she went to bed, so there wouldn’t be any accidents in the middle of the night. Her mother kept the bathroom light off, so there was only the glow coming from the hallway, yellow and comforting.
“Why did Daddy do that?” she’d asked, swaying as she sat on the cold toilet seat, only half-awake and struggling to make sense of anything. Her mother was kneeling on the cold tile, waiting for Gloria to finish so she could help with her pants and put her to bed, and she didn’t look at all beautiful then, only tired and sad, and very old.
“I don’t know,” her mother said. “I guess it’s because he loves me so much.”
*
When you get married the diner’s yours, her father had told her when she was young, and she’d go in and sit in a booth, one that was toward the back and out of the way, and a waitress would come by with a malted and fries for her, and she’d imagine how it would be to own all of it, how she’d make it better. She’d have the old tables replaced with nice new ones, and throw away the cheap plastic ferns that stood in all the corners. Put different things on the menu. Cakes, or pie. Gloria’s mother could cook anything except cake. It was the altitude, she complained. Denver sat a mile high, and that was too far up for a cake to rise, and hers were always sunken, like someone had come by and thrown a rock in the middle.
But Gloria never had a boyfriend. There were no prom dates in high school, no Friday nights at the drive-in. Her mother tried to set her up with boys from the church, but those always fell through, and her father never said a word about it, but she knew he thought she was a lesbian. She knew because of the way he looked at her sometimes, and when, after high school, he pushed her into college. You need a way to support yourself, he’d said, but halfheartedly, not meeting her eye. Just in case.
It was the summer after her first year in college—she was a history major—when she came home and worked at her father’s restaurant, waiting tables and smoking cigarettes out back, that she met Jacky.
“Can I bum one off you?” he said, coming up from behind and making her jump, because she wasn’t supposed to be out there, her father didn’t know she smoked and there’d be hell to pay if he found out. Her father didn’t spend much time at the restaurant anymore—neither of her parents did, they mostly pottered around at home, busy with gardening and TV and whatever else—but she was still paranoid. “Left mine at home.”
She pulled the pack from her apron pocket and passed it to him, more out of surprise than anything else. No one had spoken much to her since she’d started—she was the boss’s daughter, after all, and a stranger—and she wasn’t sure how to react to the friendly face.
“Thanks,” he said. “Appreciate it.”
“Yeah, of course.”
He stood beside her, leaning back against the green Dumpster, one sneaker propped up against the metal side. He wasn’t handsome, but there was something about his face that made her want to look at him more, something about the way he moved. He had a slip-slidey way about him, like a crab running on the beach, sidling along in the sand.
“I’m Jacky,” he said. He didn’t hold his hand out for her to shake, which she liked. Too many people had weak grips and sweaty palms, and she’d always want to wipe her hand on her skirt afterward but couldn’t, because they’d think she was rude. “I wash the dishes.”
“I know.”
“And you’re Gloria, right?” he asked, peering at her sideways with his bright eyes. “One of the waitresses?”
“Yeah.”
If she were a different girl, she’d have something to say. She’d comment on his watch, or the weather, or the way it always smelled so bad out here, especially during the summer, no matter how much boiling water they poured on the concrete pad—something, dammit, anything to keep the words going. Or if she were beautiful, like her mother, she wouldn’t have to say much at all. He could look at her, and that would be enough. But she could only be herself, and Gloria had heard one of the girls at school say that ugly girls had to try harder with guys, and the girl had meant it as a joke but it was true. But Gloria couldn’t think of a thing to do, she wasn’t beautiful and she wasn’t clever, so they just stood beside each other, taking long inhales of their cigarettes and blowing clouds of smoke at the sky.
Three days later, Jacky invited her on a date.
“Why’d you ask me out?” she’d questioned. This was after the movie he’d taken her to, something about spaceships and aliens that she didn’t understand. You have to see the first two, Jacky had said, shushing her when she asked questions. He’d bought her a popcorn and a Coke, and the butter had been greasy on her hands. She’d thought about licking her fingers, but Jacky had been watching her, so she’d used a napkin instead.