The Impossible Knife of Memory(73)

The bartender scowled. “You got ID?”

“My dad,” I said louder. “A woman called me to come get him.”

An old guy two stools down looked at me with sad eyes. “She’s here for Captain Andy.”

The bartender’s expression changed. “Did you come alone?”

“My boyfriend’s outside in the car.”

He nodded at the old guy. “Go get him, Vince. He’s in the john.”

I kept my eyes on the beer taps. miller. bud. labatt’s. The music hammered at me, chipping off pieces that fell to the sticky floor. Most of the light in the room came from the television sets, all set to different channels. The couple sitting at the end of the bar stared at the hockey game, their mouths hanging open like they didn’t understand what they were seeing.

“Here he is.” The bartender’s growl made me jump.

Dad had a taken a couple punches to the mouth, his lips were swollen and bloodied. Blood stained his shirt, too, along with vomit and beer. His eyes were open, but nobody was home. He had no idea where he was.

“Thanks,” I said. “I got it.”

They stared at me, at us. All of them stared. Not because I was young and female, like when I walked in, but because my father was so wasted his little girl had to fetch him home. Total strangers—drunks, addicts, whores, excons—pitied us. I could smell it coming off of them.

Dad’s bad leg was useless and his good leg wasn’t much better. I put his arm around my shoulder and put my arm around his waist and dragged him through the door, outside to the car. Finn jumped out and helped me get him in the backseat. Dad crawled in and collapsed, his head hanging down in the foot well.

“What about a seat belt?” Finn asked.

“Don’t worry about it.” I slammed the back door. “Just drive.”

We got in and rolled down the windows so we wouldn’t be choked by my father’s stench.

Finn drove faster than I’d ever seen. “How much longer can you keep doing this?”

“This has never happened before,” I said.

“It’s not just tonight,” he said. “It’s everything. You take care of him more than he takes care of you. How much longer?”

I didn’t have an answer.

Michael drove Dad around the next day until he found the pickup truck. The window had been smashed and the radio stolen, but other than that it was fine. We both stayed home for a few days after that, feeling like we were coming down with the flu.





_*_ 75 _*_

I pedaled until I broke a sweat. Gracie and I had been able to snag exercise bicycles in gym because so many zombies had blown off school the day before Thanksgiving. (I wondered if they were rampaging in downtown Albany, or maybe took a train to join the larger horde, probably in Poughkeepsie.) The substitute gym aide was working on a laptop in the corner. A half-dozen girls were lying on the gym mats, talking about nothing, and laughing too hard. A couple more sat in the bleachers painting their toenails.

I pushed harder until the sweat dripped off my face and splashed on the floor.

“It doesn’t matter how fast you pedal,” Gracie said, handing me a water bottle. “That bike’s not going anywhere.”

I took a long drink. “Now you tell me.”

“You look like crap,” she said.

“I just need some sleep.”

“You need more than that.”

I shook my head.

She cycled slowly, like a little kid turning lazy circles on a tricycle. “What’s wrong with Finn?”

“What do you mean?”

“He didn’t say a single word first period.”

I shrugged. “Physics is kicking his butt.”

“He didn’t touch you, either. You grabbed his belt loop with your finger once and after a minute, he pushed your hand away.”

“What kind of pervert are you, counting how many times we touch each other?”

“If you want me to shut up, just say it,” she said.

I took another drink. “Don’t shut up.”

“I wasn’t planning on it, but thanks,” she said. “I’m worried. You’re both so weird and incompatible with anyone else, that you’re perfect for each other. When he stops touching you and when you stop teasing him, it screws up the universe, know what I mean?”

I held the water bottle against my forehead. “He’s got a lot on his mind.”

“His sister?”

I set the bottle on the floor. “He’s driving to Boston with his mom tomorrow to have Thanksgiving with Chelsea and his dad.”

“Sounds like hell.”

“I know, right? He was so bummed when he told me and I felt so bad for him that I said I’d go to the mall with him after school. His mom is making him buy a new shirt for the occasion.”

“You hate the mall.”

“He said he was desperate.”

Gracie got a text message. I changed gears and stood up to pedal. Since the night Finn helped me bring Dad home, something had changed. Gracie was right; he wasn’t touching me. I wasn’t touching him, either, because a token beltloop grab didn’t count. We’d stopped teasing each other. He hadn’t broken up with me, but I could smell it coming. He wanted a normal girl with a matched set of unscarred parents. Someone with a “bright future.”