The Song of David(47)

“You’re lying. You have a little groove between your eyebrows and you’re biting your lip. Those are your tells.”

“My tells?”

“Yep. Don’t ever play poker, sweetheart.” I stepped back, my arms falling to my sides, mimicking her posture. I pulled Millie forward so I could open the bathroom door she still leaned against. “It’s got to be close to two a.m. I need to go before I get careless. I’ll say goodnight to Henry and be on my way.”

Millie’s back stiffened and her chin lifted slightly, another tell, but she followed me out without a word. I’d embarrassed her, but there wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it, so I held my tongue and kept my hands to myself. I stuck my head into Henry’s room, only to discover him asleep, sprawled across his narrow bed, the highlight reel flickering across his face from the TV on the opposite wall.

“The San Francisco Giants have won the 2012 World Series! The Giants have taken it all!” the announcer crowed, and I realized he’d been watching a replay. Baseball season was long over. I wondered if Henry hoped to catch a glimpse of his dad, Giants alumni, one of baseball’s brightest lights. Too bad he was an *. Too bad Henry still cared.

I closed the door softly and made my way down the stairs, suddenly weary, my muscles achy, my neck stiff, my mind troubled. “He’s never called, never contacted you? Not even since your mom passed away?”

Millie knew who I was referring to, though I had asked the question without clarifying. She shrugged as if it meant very little to her. “No. His lawyer called once, verifying that Henry and I were still here. Verifying that I was Henry’s guardian. After that, the money doubled. He just sends money. Month after month, we get a check. I’m sure it makes him feel better about himself. Some people can’t handle it, you know. The disappointment, the baggage, the responsibility that comes with having children with disabilities. He couldn’t.” Millie’s voice was cool and her posture was straight as a board.

“Huh.” I leaned in and kissed her forehead. “Goodnight, Millie.” I let myself out, and was halfway down the street before I realized Millie probably thought I was one of those people—the people who couldn’t handle it.





Moses




I NEVER KNEW my dad. I never knew my mom, for that matter. I knew who she was though. I knew her name, her life, her family, her weaknesses. Her name was Jennifer Wright, a blond-haired, blue-eyed, white girl with a crack habit. She had me, she left me, and she died. We had a three day relationship that didn’t include exchanging important information, and she was the only one who knew who my dad was. He was dark-skinned—I’d inherited that much—and that was all I had to go on.

I wondered about him sometimes. Where he was, who he was, how he was. I wondered if he had any clue he had a son. Wondered if he would like to be a grandfather. Wondered if he liked to paint. Wondered if he looked like me. I wondered. I guess it’s just human nature.

Millie knew who her dad was. He knew who she was. He knew where she was. But he’d chosen to distance himself from her and from his son, and I wondered if that wasn’t worse. Odds are, my father hadn’t had a clue. Odds are, he hadn’t chosen to abandon me. I could give him the benefit of the doubt. Henry and Millie didn’t have that luxury.

I’d stepped out of the room when Tag had described running through the house, following a trail of blood. It made my palms itch and my neck hot, his descriptions and feelings too reminiscent of the time I’d walked through my own house to find tragedy had struck. Plus, I’d noticed the heat on Millie’s skin and the way her finger hovered over the buttons on the tape recorder, as if readying herself to push stop when things got too personal. Georgia had followed me from the room, and though Millie must have heard us go, she didn’t stop us.

Even Henry vacated the living room with us, trailing us into the kitchen. He hadn’t said anything about Tag’s absence, hadn’t asked questions, and I wondered how much Millie was telling him. He wasn’t listening to Tag’s tapes. When he wasn’t at school, he sat with earphones on his head, listening to podcasts, watching YouTube videos, or he was up in his room playing the Xbox, cocooning himself in his own activities.

“Researchers have found that saturated fat intake increases sixteen percent among sports fans after their team loses a big game,” Henry said matter-of-factly, as he opened the freezer and eyed a huge tub of rocky road ice cream. I wasn’t sure if he was just making conversation, making a larger statement about loss, or if he was just hungry.