Rayne & Delilah's Midnite Matinee(70)

I need to know why.

The landscape changes as I head southeast toward the coast and take I-95 South. There are more palm trees. I’ve never seen palm trees before this trip. From the look of my phone GPS, I’m only a short distance from the ocean. I’ve never seen the ocean either. I’ve always wanted to. I imagine loving it the way I love storms—things that are so large and powerful, they make me feel like it’s okay to be small. I roll down the windows and let the sultry wind buffet my face. Maybe it’s my imagination, but there’s a salty softness to the air.

If he wanted to pick a place that wouldn’t remind him of Jackson, he did well.

I start seeing signs for Boca Raton, and my stomach kneads and froths like it’s doing a load of laundry.

This is nuts. You could get off the highway, drive until you hit the beach, kick off your shoes, sit and watch the ocean, and drive back. You’ll meet up with Josie and Lawson, and they’ll tell you about the amazing deal they worked out with Jack Divine, who, in spite of his obvious quirks, is still a well-connected TV professional.

You’ll all change into your swimming suits and romp in the hotel pool until management kicks you out. You’ll celebrate your bright future, having finally buried your dad. You’ll have shown yourself you have nothing left to prove. Then you’ll all drive home in triumph, singing along with Beyoncé at the top of your lungs. It’ll be great.

But I’m in the pull of some gravity, and so I keep driving.

???

I sit in front of the address for Derek Armstrong, aka Dylan Wilkes, aka Dad, listening to the engine of Josie’s car tick as it cools and listening to my heartbeat throbbing in my ears. There’s a Jeep Compass in the driveway, parked behind a Nissan sedan. He drove a Jeep Liberty when I was little. Other than that, I see no outward indication that this is where he lives. His house is small and unspecial, in a part of Boca Raton that seems to be full of small and unspecial houses. But the palm trees lining the street make it seem like an exotic destination. A window AC unit hums and drips. I think I see a flicker of a TV from deep within the house.

My dad might have rebuilt his horror movie collection and is maybe watching one right now. He could be watching my show at this moment for all I know. Maybe he got his hands on it somehow, like Larry Donut did.

I’m dizzy and breathing fast—almost hyperventilating—to the point of growing faint, and my heart is thrumming with more energy than it did when I drank the Cobra Venomm. I catch my eyes in the rearview mirror and try to psych myself up. I notice I’m still wearing my Delilah makeup. I rub most of it off. My dad will already have a hard time recognizing me.

No one would fault you if you left. No one would think less of you. Now you’ve seen him again, sorta. You’ve seen for yourself that you share the same planet and breathe the same air.

But that’s not what you came for. You didn’t come to see if he was still alive. You came to ask him why.

So ask him why.

A part of my brain outside of my conscious control takes over. I open the door and get out, almost collapsing immediately on legs that have taken on the consistency of biscuit dough.

I walk to the front door and stand on the porch. My life feels like it’s been leading up to this moment. I suddenly have the most intense focus. I’m noticing everything. That Dad’s doorbell is cracked and I can see part of the lightbulb inside. The paint on his screen door is chipped. There’s a hole in the screen. The muted sounds permeating from inside.

I ring the doorbell and hear footsteps. The space between each footfall is a thousand years. I live a lifetime between each heartbeat.

A man opens the door. “Hi,” he says tentatively, not making eye contact. “I’m sorry, I’m not—”

I am looking at my father’s face. Dark spots swarm my field of vision. I feel like I’m going to black out.

He looks up and meets my eyes. The color drains instantly from his face, and his jaw hangs slack. “Are you—” he whisper-gasps. His eyes widen, and he steadies himself with a hand on the doorframe. “You can’t be—Oh my lord. DeeDee?”

And then I look him in the face and I ask him why.

Why he left me behind.

Why I wasn’t good enough.

Just kidding! I go to speak and promptly yak all over his front porch.





They seat us and hand us menus. I open mine like it’s a Kleenex someone with Ebola has sneezed into. Oh, fun. Seventy-dollar steaks. Ninety-dollar lobsters. Twenty-five-dollar appetizers. Twenty-dollar salads.

Divine studies the menu. “Mmm, mmm, mmm, everything looks so tasty! Who can choose? So, tell me about your show,” he says without looking up, like he’s wondering out loud, Now, what exactly is raclette cheese?

In fact, I almost miss his asking about the show, that’s how nonchalantly and seamlessly he tossed it in. “Um, okay, I’m not totally sure what Delia’s told you, but—”

“Am I in the mood for something heavy like a steak?” Divine interrupts. “Or something lighter like lobster? I don’t know.” He taps his lips and waves at me to continue, still not looking up.

“Uh…so…we’re horror hosts of a show called Midnite Matinee on TV Six in Jackson, Tennessee. We air from eleven p.m. to one a.m. on Saturday nights. We’ve been doing it for about a year and a half. We do a show a week, for the most part—”