mad in pursuit
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SUNDAY NIGHT It’s 10 P.M. and Jack Dunne answers a page from Candi Stanton. She’s closing up the club and wants to know if he’s going to open tomorrow. “Why wouldn’t I?” “The blizzard.” “It’s been snowing for a month. You only live a few blocks away.” “But twelve inches,” she whines. “That’s what they’re saying we might get. Nothing will be open.” “All right, look, somebody’s got to be there to fiddle with that bum chlorinator or we’ll wind up having to empty the pool.” He pauses, presses his hand against the frosted kitchen window and hopes he’s evoked a pang of guilt, but she doesn’t cave. The only sound is frozen snow pellets crackling against the windows. “So, I guess that somebody’s me. You, uh, get home safe tonight and try to make it in on Tuesday, okay?” He looks at the watery handprint and watches it slowly ice over. The club is two miles away. Maybe he should go over there now, spend the night on the couch like he has so many times before, but then he surveys the mess around him. He’s in the rental unit on the first floor of his house where he’s spent the day scrubbing and spot painting before the new tenant moves in. The paintbrush needs cleaning and all his shit needs to be gathered up and stowed in the basement. And sleeping on the couch in his office feels so damn pathetic. But later he’s sprawled on his living room couch, one foot on the floor and one long leg sticking out over the arm, when the phone rings. He startles from a deep sleep, kicks the coffee table, and catches the cordless phone before it hits the floor. The muted television screen shows a congested radar map of the Great Lakes and a time of 1:00 EST. “Yeah.” “Not asleep, are you?” It’s Marjorie, his ex-wife. “What’s wrong?” “Nothing’s wrong. Theresa’s fine. We were up talking is all and she just went off to bed. I’m keeping her here next week-end. That’s all I called to say.” “What’s the problem?” His daughter visits from Manhattan only once every four to six weeks so canceling is a big deal to him. He hoists himself to a sitting position and his pager jams into his ribs. “The weather, for starters. Your airport is closed and I’m hearing some people aren’t getting mail deliveries. I don’t want her taking any unnecessary chances.” Sure, the mail truck hasn’t made it down his street for a week now, but the airport hasn’t been closed for more than a few hours at a time – probably because half the street and sidewalk plowing equipment has been redeployed there. The truth, he guesses, is that Theresa is fifteen, busy with school friends and ballet classes and bored with these obligatory visits to her father. “Don’t be telling me it’s the weather. What’s going on? And who’s making this decision, you or her?” “Together,” Marjorie snaps. “We made it together. She’s been telling me what goes on up there and I feel she needn’t be exposed to her father’s lifestyle at this tender age.” “My lifestyle?” Jack nearly laughs. Style was hardly a word he’d associate with fifteen-hour days – days full of repairing broken equipment and cleaning up after everyone – if not club members, then tenants – and generally trying to make a living in a city buried under umpteen feet of snow. “She told me,” Marjorie continues, “that the last time she visited you stayed out all night. She says you’re carrying on with one of your employees. A married woman. Someone named Iris.” Jack catapults to his feet, mind racing back to her last visit. Thanksgiving. What went on? When she wasn’t exercising at the barre he’d installed in the basement, she was logging hours of long distance calls to her friends. Toward him the once chatty daddy’s girl was sullen and impatient. He’d heard that all girls go through this phase but thought his darling ballerina was exempt from all things average. It didn’t occur to him that his special child might have an especially dark streak of adolescent orneriness in her. She inherited his height and his athletic prowess, so why didn’t she also inherit his trait of doing what he was told and sparing his father anxiety? His mind retraces the week-end. He didn’t work any shifts at the club because Theresa was up. Thursday and Friday they hung around the apartment. On Saturday Iris Amado paged him to say the sewerage system at the club was backed up and the locker rooms were flooded with muck. She was trying to handle the problem herself but kept needing to consult with him. Of course, Theresa was glued to the phone and every time Amado paged him, he had to ask Theresa to hang up – which made the child more and more irritated. Amado was making a lot of jokes about being up to her ass in shit and Jack did a lot of laughing. He finally decided to go in. He and Amado spend the evening and into the night disinfecting floors and shampooing carpets. At 2 A.M. he stretched out on the couch in his office, slept till 6, then helped Amado get the club open by 7. He couldn’t even remember if Amado had gone home or had found a couch of her own to sleep on. They certainly hadn’t “carried on.” He remembers being home before Theresa woke up. “That’s ridiculous.” Jack explains what went on that Saturday. “How in the world did Theresa turn a sewage mess into a… something illicit?” “Apparently the husband called while you were out. Looking for this Iris person. Very upset. Made vile accusations. Theresa was horrified – and of course scared to death, since you left her all alone. And ashamed. Ashamed enough she couldn’t even broach the subject with you.” Jack feels his face and ears heat up. How could his daughter hold onto this for nearly two months without his knowing? Is something awry between Iris and Brett? If he had the balls to make accusations to Theresa, what’s he saying to everyone else? What’s Amado been keeping to herself? And is Jack really the biggest idiot in the world? “Get her up. I want to talk to her now.” The hardness in his voice covers the embarrassment. “She’s been at practice all day, Jack. She needs her sleep.” “She managed to stay up long enough to fill your mind with this, this pulp fiction trash – nevermind, nevermind. I’ll call her in the morning, but you tell her the minute she wakes up that it isn’t true and if she doesn’t want to come up…” He softens. “Tell her it’s up to her, I won’t force the issue.” Jack hangs up and stares into shadows of his unadorned living room. Every spare nickel goes to Theresa and every spare minute goes to chasing that nickel. It rattles him to have her turn against him, especially for such an outrageous lie. He flips off the TV, sinks into a rocking chair and pulls a throw pillow against his chest. All he hears is wind and creaking tree branches. All he sees is an explosion of snow and it mesmerizes him till – Iris appears. Her big smile, her out-of-control hair, her energy… the way she fills out a leotard… His face heats up again and he hugs the pillow closer. This isn’t good, he thinks. Not good at all. 05/31/2004 |