Breakfast with Neruda (6 page)

“No.”

“Then what is it?” she asks.

I stare out the windshield and watch the van drive out of the parking lot. “I just wonder what it's like to have a dad.”

Shelly places a hand on my arm. “You don't have a dad?”

“Not my own.” I click my seatbelt. “Jeff's dad sometimes played with all of us when we were young. A couple of my mom's boyfriends did too. But none of them was my father.”

Shelly asks, “So what happened to him?”

“I don't know. My mom says he moved away before I was born.”

“So he doesn't even know about you?”

“No, I guess not,” I say. I start the car and back out of the space.

“Parents lie, you know,” she says.

“What do you mean?”

“Your dad may be living right here in Rooster, walking around, and you don't even know it.” Shelly reaches for her cigarette case, remembers it's empty, and stuffs it back in her bag. She chews on a piece of cinnamon gum. “Have you tried looking for him?” she asks.

I look for him every day
, I think,
every time I see a tall, dark-haired guy.
“I wouldn't know where to start.”

“You have his last name, don't you?”

“No. Flynn is my mom's maiden name.”

“So how come she didn't give Jeff and Annie her name?”

“They know who their dads are. My mom won't tell me his name.” What I don't want to say is she may not know his name. When I was small I used to ask at least once a year, and every time I got a different story. Sometimes I was a king's son who had been left on her doorstep, or she bought me at a flea market. My favorite tale was that I had been born a baby dragon, but somehow morphed into a boy. Eventually, I stopped asking. Any number of men in Rooster or Columbus could be my dad. I look for guys I resemble since I don't look much like my mother. She has blond hair and brown eyes, like Jeff, and my hair is dark, almost black, and my eyes are green. Jeff looks like her, and Annie resembles her father. Me? I'm a broken pencil in a box of felt-tip markers.

I don't tell Shelly any of this, though. I divert the attention back to her. “So in what ways have your parents lied to you?” I ask.

She holds out empty fingers and pretends to puff on a cigarette. “That's another long conversation for another day.” She takes an imaginary puff. “Just drive.”

We head south of town on a two-lane highway, one of those unevenly paved country roads common in this part of Ohio, roads that seem to lead to nowhere, where you can drive for hours and not see a soul, and suddenly you come to an intersection and there's a four-lane highway zipping with traffic. We come to a fork, where we can choose east or south.

“Which way?” I ask.

“South.”

“Aren't you afraid we'll run into a meth lab?”

She shrugs. “We'll take our chances.”

I shake my head. “You know, we have all day. Don't you want to share some of that long conversation with me?”

She bites her nail and ignores my question. She reaches into her purse for a stick of gum. “I've gone from being a chain smoker to a chain chewer,” she says.

At one intersection we spot a farmers' market stand. We stop and buy a bag of fresh peaches and a sack of tomatoes. As we drive, she reaches for a tomato and bites into it like she's eating an apple.

“I've never seen anyone eat a tomato like that,” I say.

“What do you mean?”

“I eat tomatoes on salads and stuff, but never, like, you know, just bite into it.”

She holds the tomato close to my mouth. “Taste it,” she says.

I do, and its sweet earthiness envelops me. The juice runs down my chin. “That is good,” I say.

“Have I steered you wrong yet?”

“Not so far.”

She slides her flip-flops off and places her feet on the dashboard. The wind whips through our hair. It's such a great moment; time can stop now and I will die happy.

We keep driving south and are probably close to forty miles from town when we spot a sign that reads “Hardin–Essex Family Reunion 1 mile.”

“Wanna crash it?” she asks.

“But we're not Hardins or Essexes.”

“Free food!”

I laugh at the idea. “Hell, I could be a Hardin or an Essex for all I know. Why not?”

Another sign a half-mile up says,
“Hardin–Essex Family! Watch for balloons,” and a few moments later, on the left-hand side I see a mailbox decorated with orange and blue balloons. I notice a large open patch already teeming with cars. I park close to the highway in case we get chased out and need to make a quick getaway. My beat-up station wagon makes me look like the white trash distant cousin I hope they think I am.

“So are we Hardins? Or Essexes?” I ask.

She thinks. “I will be an Essex, and you're my boyfriend from college. I am, after all, a graduate student at Ohio State.”

I laugh. As I get out of the car, I notice others are carrying food with them. “Should we share some of what we bought?”

“Yeah, probably,” she says. “Not the peaches or tomatoes, though. Or the wine.”

“The bread, grapes, and cheese?”

“Sure.” I pick up the Kroger bag. We walk uphill and notice a gathering of several dozen people ranging in age from newborns to old people. I glance at Shelly, and she glances back at me. We smile. “What's our cover story?”

“I've been away at college at Ohio State and you're my boyfriend from Columbus. My name is Wanda.”

“And I'm Jim.”

There is enough food to feed half of Rooster, and the aromas are overpowering. It looks like there are a hundred or so people here. Who would know if we were meant to be here or not? I wonder if we're the only interlopers. We brought food, though, so I don't feel too bad about crashing.

Shelly and I move toward the food tables, and a chubby woman with iron-colored, spiky hair says, “Breads go over here, hon.” She indicates a long table covered in a checked tablecloth. I notice she wears a badge claiming her as a Hardin. Not everyone is wearing a badge, but many are. Blue for Hardin, orange for Essex.

“We brought grapes and cheese too,” Shelly says.

“You can put that next to the meats, and the grapes can go on the salad table,” the woman says. “Grab a plate and help yourselves.” She smiles at us and walks away.

We lay our parcels in the appropriate spots and search for the plate table. “Man, everything smells so good,” I say. Even though Shelly and I ate only a couple hours ago, this is good food. Baked beans, ham, hamburgers, hot dogs, pickles, chicken casserole, homemade macaroni and cheese, biscuits, fresh vegetables, sliced meats, fried chicken, potato salad, green salad, deviled eggs, fresh noodles, potato chips, fruit, and an endless array of desserts.

I'd love a beer, but since I'm driving and not really sure where we are, I opt for a Pepsi instead. Shelly drinks a Diet Coke.

Shelly and I find a spot in the shade and settle on the grass. My plate is overloaded with as much as I could put on it. I notice Shelly has also not held back on her servings. “I know we just ate,” I say, “but, damn, everything looks and smells incredible.” I take a forkful of macaroni and cheese, something I have not eaten in years. It's pure joy. I make a mental note to get seconds.

We eat and watch the Hardin–Essex families intermingle. After I vacuum up all my food, I have no room for any more. Neither does Shelly. “Maybe we should walk around a bit and digest.”

We toss our plates and napkins in the trash bin. There is a recycle bin for the plastic ware, and we place our forks and spoons in it.

“Let's go toss horseshoes with a group of kids,” Shelly says.

“Never done that before,” I say.

“Neither have I.” She grabs my hand and her fingers feel soft against mine. I let her lead me toward the other kids.

We spend a couple hours tossing horseshoes and playing corn hole. Enough time to develop appetites to try trashcan dinner.

“It's sort of like a giant vat of beef stew,” says a blonde woman wearing an Essex badge. “You take meat, like sausage and beef, and add your vegetables and cook it all day over an open fire.”

I taste a forkful. “This is one of the best things I have ever eaten.”

“You must be one of Lee's people,” the blonde says to me. “You look just like him when he was young, may he rest in peace.”

I feel a stab inside. I notice her badge says she's an Essex. Could Lee be my dad? I glance at Shelly, and as if she reads my mind, she asks, “Wasn't he from Rooster?”

“No, hon. I don't think he ever went there,” the blonde says. “He pretty much stayed in Cincinnati.”

Someone in the background calls the woman's name. “Be right there!” she yells. She turns back to me. “Well, it was nice talking to you,” she says. “Enjoy!”

“You, too,” I say. When the woman is out of earshot, I ask Shelly, “Wouldn't that be wild if I really was an Essex?”

Shelly glances at her phone. “It's only two o'clock,” she says. “We could head back into town and look up Lee Essex from Cincinnati on one of the library computers.”

On the drive back toward Rooster she hands me a peach. I drive one-handed, savoring the crisp sweetness of the peach. “There is nothing like summer fruit,” I say. “Too bad it's not always summer.”

“It is in Hawaii.”

“Maybe I'll move there someday,” I say, knowing the odds of my leaving Rooster are about a million to one.

As I drive I try not to get too excited, but I can't help thinking I may have found a new clue to my identity.

“Can you call your mom and ask her if she knows someone named Lee Essex?”

“No,” I say. “She gets mad every time I bring up the subject of my father.” I notice a sign for a hiking trail. “I don't know about you, but I could use a walk. Work off some of this food.”

“That sounds good.”

I pull up next to a couple parked cars. “I can't lock the car, so take your bag with you.”

She stows the peaches and tomatoes under her seat. “Precious objects.”

The trail is short, only a mile each way, but any movement will help. We climb out of the car and I look at Shelly's flip-flops. “You can't hike in those.”

“I'll be fine.”

“I'm a runner,” I say. “You can't take your feet for granted.”

She sighs. “How about if we just do a half-mile then turn back?”

The trail is paved and shady. What I really want to do is take off and run, get lost in these woods. Too many times I have discovered false clues to my identity. Why should today be any different? But you never know. Shelly might be the good luck charm I need.

“Hey Wanda,” I say, after we finish our mile. “Thanks for being with me today.”

“No problem, Jim.”

No one bothered my car while we walked. It's too nice out to commit crimes. Or maybe the car looks too crappy to bother with.

• • •

Shelly logs in to the library computer with her library card and types
Lee Essex AND Cincinnati
. There are multiple listings. “How old would he be?” she asks.

“Probably around forty or so,” I say.

She Googles
Lee Essex AND Cincinnati
. We find a Lee Essex who looks to be around seventy, a black guy with the same name, and a blond guy younger than me. She checks Facebook, LinkedIn, and Tumblr. We cross-reference Lee Hardin, but come up empty. Shelly also checks his name with cities and towns surrounding Cincinnati and Rooster.

“This is a shot in the dark,” I say. “The woman said this Lee guy never came around here. As far as I know my mom's never been to Cincinnati.”

We continue searching until we hear, “The library will be closing in fifteen minutes,” from the loudspeaker.

It's after five by the time I pull up to Shelly's house. “Shit,” she says. “I totally forgot to call or text my parents.” She pulls her phone out of her bag and texts.

-Sorry. Forgot. Home Now. See you in a couple.

She starts to bundle up her stuff.

“Thanks,” I say.

“For what?”

“For being my friend.”

I'm a block away from her house when my phone rings. It's Shelly. “Did you forget something?” I ask.

“Yes,” she says, “but that's not why I called. My mom invited you to have dinner with us.”

“You're not sick of me?”

“I
am
, but I know how much you like a free meal.”

I laugh. “Okay. I'll be right back.”

Shelly meets me in the driveway, and we enter the house through the garage, which leads to the kitchen. Her mom is slim and blond, wearing shorts and flips-flops. She's about the same size as Shelly and could pass for her older, blonde sister.

“Hi.” She extends her hand. “I'm Claire.”

“Michael,” I say.

“I understand you're a friend from school.”

“Yes ma'am.” I don't think Shelly has shared that I'm a fellow criminal element, and I don't volunteer the information.

“I'm glad to meet you. You're more than welcome to stay for dinner. We're just doing salads and chicken on the grill.”

“Thank you, I will.”

“Do you need to call your folks and let them know?”

“No. My mom is working. She won't care.”

Shelly grabs my arm and tells her mother, “We'll be in the family room.”

We go downstairs to a vast, finished basement. The furniture in most basements I've been in has been castoffs from old living rooms, but everything in here looks brand new. The giant TV covers half the wall, and there's a pool table, gym equipment, and a game table.

“We also have a sauna and a guest suite down here,” she says. “I know; it's all pretty bourgeois.”

I look around. “This is nice.”

She shrugs. “Want to take a swim before dinner?”