I tapped on the door lightly with my key. I tried again harder. There was a doorbell but it hadn't worked since he'd moved in and he'd never had it fixed. But still I pushed it, once, twice, then held it down. I used the flat of my hand and smacked the the door again. It felt good, and I had to make myself stop.
Excessive noise at inappropriate hours, the HOA complaint would read.
I turned around to see if there were any shadows in windows from the other condos spying on me. Christ, was I becoming just like him suspicious and paranoid, thinking I was being observed behind curtains, imagining heads ducking out of view at the last second. The thing of it was, I'd probably stand behind a curtain and watch me, too. Just what did that say about me, I wondered.
Could he be hurt, possibly collapsed on the floor gasping for air? It was a possibility -- and one my mother might assume and therefore I should not -- but more likely, he was he tucked away in bed, his body a lump beneath the blankets, his balding head poking out beneath the covers, an empty packet of Pepperidge Farms Milano double-chocolate cookies on the night table next to SemiConductor weekly.
I smacked the door some more, "Daddy!" The word came out like a gasp, like a drowning person surfacing from a great depth. It seemed to bounced from one condo to the next, tinkling wind-chimes, reverberating in the leaves and the precision-cut blades of grass, skidding over the wet cement walkway, ringing every single doorbell. I held my breath and waited for something. And nothing happened. No word from behind the door, no turning of the lock, nothing -- not even a "shut the hell up" from 1A or B or C.
I have to stop calling him Daddy, I thought. Too old.
It was 10:30. The clouds that had once looked so nice sliding across the moon in sliver slivers, now appeared more menacing, like a crowd of angry faces looking down upon me waiting to pounce.
I had two choices as I saw it. I could sleep in the back of my dad's Toyota. It wouldn't be so bad if I could get the side window to roll up completely; I'd have to grab hold of it from the top and yank it up. Doable. But then there was the issue of the cigarette ashes and fumes, and the still sticky areas of the car, in particular the back seat, that never really recovered from the orange juice explosion circa 83. Or, I could call my mother and ask if she wouldn't mind letting me crash at her studio because I was locked out.
I would try the car. I smacked the door one last time. The sting of the wood against my palm tingled all the way down the steps. I'd have divorced him too, I thought, though I was probably just trying to align myself with my mother if the stickiness of the car's backseat was too much to take. Still, it was easy to see her side of things about their disasterous marriage. He was definitely self-absorbed,lacking concern for the mundane business of day-to-day living, I agreed, as I walked to the car and sized up the rear window.
I could understand how this disregard might grate on one after fifteen years, as I grabbed the glass by the top and yanked, successfully raising one side of the glass about a millimeter. I looked up at the sky. If it rained I'd need a plastic bag to stop the rain coming in the open window. Or not. He always theorized away a new window saying that the rain would have to come in at a very sharp angle to actually soak anyone inside. He had so many theories that I ate up. I opened the door and winced at eardrum piercing screech the buckled door made.
I thought of Deney sleeping in her van after she broke up with Jim. She said it wasn't that bad. She showered at the gym and saved a lot on rent, utility and phone bills. I'd always thought that might be the way to go. You know, really deck out a van, put in carpeting, a comfortable mattress, darken the windows.
Only her van had no carpeting and only thin cotton curtains that she'd made (while killing time living in her van) with white pompoms. And since she didn't have a job, and Jim had kicked her out and wouldn't let her pick up most of her clothes, and since he had hit her in the face a couple of times, she wasn't really in the mood to fix up the van the way she'd wanted. She took it as it was: cold, hard, unlivable, really. But that was life, I guess. You get a taste of things, and usually it's missing essential ingredients that could make it a whole lot better.
