迷失的自我 英文版｜第7章B

“You’re saying working people don’t like to be called by their Christian names?” He’d looked at my mother through narrowed eyes, his elbows moving farther out. Elise, home from college for fall break and already feeling claustrophobic in every sense, growled under her breath and pushed his elbow away from her head. My father apologized and looked back at my mother. “You basing that claim on any actual evidence? Or are you just, you know, more empathetically down with the working folk than I am?”

My mother kept her eyes on her menu. “I’m basing my claim on how uncomfortable they look when you’re so familiar with them.”

“That waiter?” My father pointed behind him. Our waiter, a very bored-looking man in his thirties wearing a button that read “Ask me about our crepes!”, had just disappeared in that direction. “He was smiling, wasn’t he? He didn’t look uncomfortable.”

“He has to smile. That’s his job. If he doesn’t smile, he might not get a tip.”

“When have I ever not tipped?” He held his raised palm halfway across the table. “I’m an excellent tipper! What are you talking about?”

She was still looking at her menu, at a glossy picture of an enormous, syrup-drenched Belgian waffle. “I know that, Dan,” she said. “We all know. We all know that you are an excellent tipper. I’m saying that waiters and waitresses smile because most people will tip them according to how friendly they are. They don’t smile because they like you, or because they think it’s funny when you use their damn names.”

Elise and I exchanged glances. My mother wasn’t normally one to say “damn.” She was still gazing at the waffle, the tips of her thumbs rosy, her grip on the menu tight. That morning at the nursing home, the nurse had walked us out to the lobby and told us that despite the evident senility, my grandmother’s vital signs were all quite strong. “She’s a tough old lady,” the nurse had said. “I have a feeling this is far from the last birthday.” I had looked up just at that moment and caught sight of my mother’s silent reaction—a deep wrinkle in her brow, a parting of her lips—her fear and fatigue apparent for just a moment before she looked down, searching through her purse.

“Okay.” My father leaned forward on the table, his face maybe six inches from the tip of my mother’s menu. “So calling someone by his name is now giving them shit? I’m going to need a new etiquette manual, then. Maybe you could write it for me, Natalie. Because there’s no way I understand the logic of that.”

“You don’t need a manual, Dan.” Her voice was monotone, pointedly unruffled. “Just think about it. Or put yourself in his shoes. Ask yourself how you would feel if you had to be nice to someone because that was your job, and then that person kept saying your name over and over as if he knew you, when really, he didn’t.” Now, finally, she looked up at him. Her cheeks were pink, her jaw clenched. “Ask yourself how you would like that.”

He stared at her for a long moment and then drew back, holding his menu up like a barricade. “Well,” he said quietly. “Maybe you ought to consider that not everyone feels the way you do.”

Elise pumped her fist. “The King of the Last Word speaks!”

My father put his menu down. “I just don’t think he looked uncomfortable!” He turned to Elise, and then to me. “Girls? Did you think the waiter looked uncomfortable?”

“I know I’m uncomfortable.” Elise smiled at her menu, then looked up at me. “Veronica looks really uncomfortable. Maybe we need to get our own booth.”

My father gave her a sideways glance. “Maybe you need to pay your own bill.”

“Maybe you should keep dreaming.”

My mother and I both sighed, the exact same way, at the exact same time. We looked up at each other and smiled. This banter between my father and Elise was normal, playful, nothing to cause any worry. In fact, it had a calming effect, at least for me, after the far more unusual bickering between my parents. I was used to Elise pushing back at him, giving him a hard time. But my mother, when she did disagree with him, usually did it softly, and with a smile.

“Thank you so much.” My father took the new bottle of steak sauce and, after the waitress walked away, gave me a look. “Easy there, Jaws. Nobody’s going to take it away from you.”

I held my napkin up to my mouth. “I’m hungry.”

“Okay. Well.” He made the hurry-up motion with his hand again. “Sing for your supper, at least. You were saying what happened. After the truck.”

“I went into the Hardee’s.”

“Right.” He cut into his steak. “And then what?”

“I went to the bathroom.”

“And then what?” His eyes seemed tender, sympathetic. The air around me seemed to go still and quiet, though I could still hear the restaurant’s music playing, the soft twang of a steel guitar.

I took another bite. I chewed, swallowed. He waited.

“And then I…called you.”

He nodded. “Wait, I’m a little cold.” He put on a tan sports coat. He had a pen in the pocket, and he paused to make sure it was fastened in. “Okay. You get yourself away from the truck. You fall. You’re bleeding. You go into the restaurant to use the phone. Who’d you call first?”

For a moment, I thought this was what he was getting at. I actually thought he was hurt because I had tried to call my mother first. And I was relieved, even touched. It was just that old divorce story—each wounded parent wanting to be the chosen one. I considered lying, but I got scared.

“Dad. I knew you would be in court, or at least working. And Mom was closer.”

He nodded. “And what did she say to you?”

I swallowed. It was a trick question. We both knew it.

“Elise told you.”

We sat without talking for several seconds. The people in the booth behind us were laughing about something. A child’s shrill voice cried out.

“I’m sorry, honey. I can’t believe she let you down like that. I’m so sorry. I can’t explain it. I can’t understand how a person can change so much.”

I looked away, considering the situation, and how what he was saying pointed to things not being as bad between them as I thought. Maybe they were not completely severed. He could still apologize on her behalf. I managed a smile. I appreciated his understanding, his apparent concern for us both.

He leaned forward, lowering his voice. “Can you tell me exactly what she said to you? Before she hung up.”

“She just…she sounded a little crazy.” I shrugged. I picked up my knife and fork again. The steak tasted amazing, salty and firm. “She feels bad about it now. She’s left messages, apologizing. She said she was having a bad day.”

“But she knew you’d been in a car accident, correct? She knew you were out on the highway somewhere?”

I frowned. Correct. He was using courtroom language. “I don’t remember,” I said. I took another bite. He smiled patiently. He leaned forward a little more, reaching past my fork to touch my hand.

“Try.” He appeared annoyed, or disappointed. “Just tell me what she said to you. Tell me exactly what she said.”

I was about to ask him what he was getting at, why he was so fixated on this small point, when, while trying to gather the courage, I found myself gazing at the pen in his pocket, which, now that I looked at it, didn’t look like a pen at all. It was rectangular. And it appeared to have several openings on the tip.

He saw me looking and sat up quickly.

I stopped chewing. I put my knife and fork down.

“What’s in your pocket?”

He gave me a blank look. I think it was the first time in my entire life that I had ever stumped him.

“Is that your voice recorder?” I shook my head. It was impossible. I did not believe it. It was the voice recorder my mother had given him for Christmas. It was sleek, expensive, designed to look like a pen. She had hoped he could use it for work.

“Were you recording just now? What I was saying?”

“Fine. I’ll turn it off.” He touched a button on the recorder and picked up his knife and fork. He reached for the steak sauce, his mouth tight.

“Why would you…?” I was at a loss. My hands were limp in my lap.

“She’s crossed a line, okay?” He pointed at me with his fork. It wasn’t a threatening gesture, more of a lazy one—he was still eating, and he didn’t want to put his fork down. And yet he needed to point. “What your mother did, leaving you out there, was completely unacceptable. And it needs to be documented.”

Warm saliva pooled in my mouth. I looked down at my steak. My stomach no longer existed. “Documented for what?”

“Don’t worry about it. It has nothing to do with you. It’s not your problem.” He looked up and made the quickening gesture. “Why aren’t you eating?”

I did not move. “You’re going to use this in the divorce? You’re going to use this against her?”

He rolled his eyes, still chewing. He brought his napkin up to his lips. When he spoke again, his voice was very quiet, but his words were clipped and hard. “You bet I am. You better believe it. She’s completely delusional about my assets. She thinks I’m hiding piles of money from her.”

“Yes,” I said dully. “You’ve both told me.”

“Okay. Be sarcastic. Be sullen. But at least consider what I’m saying. Let’s review the facts. Your mother, as you know, had an affair. She made the choice to break the vows, the legal contract.” He popped a piece of steak in his mouth and went back to cutting. “So she is solely responsible for the demise of the marriage, but because of the law, she still gets to walk away with half of everything I’ve earned, everything I’ve worked my ass off for, for almost thirty years. And even that isn’t enough. She thinks she’s still getting a bad deal!” He was still cutting the steak, his knife scratching against his plate, his voice getting steadily louder. The laughter at the next booth stopped. “She had it pretty good, you know? She never had to work. She always had a nice home, her garden. Nice clothes. She got her hair done. I guess I thought she was a little appreciative. Well you know what? I guessed wrong.”

That wasn’t fair. My body knew this before I did. I felt something like a current moving through me, pulling my hands up from under the table. “She took care of us,” I said. “She took care of your mother. You make it sound like she was sitting around. She…” I tried to think what it was that had filled my mother’s days while we were at school. She didn’t play tennis. She didn’t just get her nails done. She’d called the insurance companies and argued over bills. She’d picked me up at school when I was sick. She’d picked up other kids when they were sick, if their mothers were working.

My father stopped chewing. He stopped cutting his steak. He was still holding his knife and fork, but he was just staring at me.

The waitress reappeared. “How is everything?”

My father smiled, though he kept his eyes on me. “It’s all wonderful, Erin. Thank you.”

I looked down at my plate and listened to the receding footsteps of the waitress. I could hear my own shaky breathing. My napkin was in shreds in my lap.

My father took a long drink of water. “I paid for her mother’s hospital bills. Let’s not forget that. She helped my mother. I helped hers. We were a team. I thought.”

I slid my plate away and sat hunched over, my elbows on the table.

“You must be exhausted.” He went back to work on his steak. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you be so…contrary before. I have to say…I’m a little impressed.”

“Great. That was my goal.” I could feel tears welling, but I fought them back. I was angry, not sad, and I wanted him to understand the difference.

I stood up. I didn’t look at him. I snatched up my purse and my coat.

“Hey!” I heard his startled voice behind me. I kept going, blurry-eyed, past the smiling hostess at the register, past the large statue of a Holstein in the lobby, and out through the double doors to the parking lot. I was aware of the rain, the wind in my face. My coat was still balled up under my arms. I got to the edge of the parking lot and stood there for a moment. I was maybe three miles from Jimmy’s, two from the dorm. I put on my coat and started toward Jimmy’s, my head bowed against the wind.

I knew he would come after me. I couldn’t imagine that he wouldn’t. But I really wasn’t sure if I would get in. He was no better than she was. There were many ways to leave someone stranded. There were many ways of hanging up.

I’d only gone a couple of blocks when his car pulled up alongside me. The passenger window lowered, and he ducked to catch my eye.

“Okay. I’m sorry, honey. Okay? Please get in.”

Cars honked behind him. He ignored them. I kept walking, my hands pushed deep in my pockets. He kept rolling slowly along.

“What? You gonna walk home in the rain? It’s far, honey.”

I stopped and looked at him. Whatever he saw in my face made him lower his gaze. Cars were still honking. Someone yelled.

“I’m sorry.” He cleared his throat. “Okay? Okay? I am. I shouldn’t have done that in there.”

Another car honked. He held up one gloved finger to me, asking me to hold on for a moment. He rolled down his window, turned back, and let loose with one of the longest, and loudest, streams of obscenities I have ever heard in my life. The honking car screeched around to pass him. He made a series of gestures, screaming after it, and then turned back to me.

I leaned down a little so he could see my face. I wanted him to know how absolutely serious I was, how much I meant what I was saying.

“You’re not allowed to use that against her,” I said. “You’re not allowed to talk about it, about her and me, with your lawyer at all.”

“Okay. Okay.” He leaned over and opened the door. “Just get in. Please? It’s getting all wet in here.”

I stood where I was, considering my options. I was cold. And wet. I wished, wished, wished that I had my own car. But I didn’t. I opened the door and slid into the bucket seat. The heater in his car was working well. He angled all the vents toward me.

“You said it doesn’t have anything to do with me.” I spoke without looking at him, my purse cradled in my lap. “But you’re the one it doesn’t have anything to do with. It’s between us. It’s between her and me. You need to just stay out of it.”

“Gotcha. Okay.” He extended his hand. “This glove is leather. A dead horse. Beat it.”

I shook his hand limply, still looking away.

“This thing has heated seats, you know. They’re great. You’ll feel it in a minute, even through your coat.”

His voice was shaking a little. I said nothing.

“Please put on your seat belt.”

We stared at each other. I looked like her. Everyone said so. You couldn’t look at me and not see her eyes, her mouth, her strong chin. It must have been strange for him, to be so mad and done with her, and still have a daughter with so much of her face.

I put on my seat belt. He reached behind him and got a Styrofoam box out of the backseat. I could smell the steak inside. “I got the potato, too,” he said, handing the box to me. I started to shake my head, and he set it carefully in my lap.

“You’ll get your appetite back.” He sounded tired. He put the car in gear, glancing up in the rearview mirror. “It’ll all be okay, sweetie. I promise. Okay? Just wait and see.”