Page 84 of Nothing Less than Magic
It’s there that I call Lolly, who surprisingly picks up.
“I’m in Reno.” There’s no need to elaborate, because she knows. She knows exactly why I’m here.
“Turn around, get back on the highway, and go home, Chelsea. Nothing good can come of it.”
“I have to. For my own peace of mind.”
“Then do it at your own peril.” She hangs up.
Someone taps on my window, and I jump. It takes me a few seconds to disengage the child locks and crack the window.
“You’re blocking the air compressor.” He bobs his head at the tire inflator machine, which I am indeed blocking.
“Sorry.” I watch him through my rearview mirror climb into a jacked-up truck, then move to a parking space in front of the tiny convenience store. I sit there, gathering my wits.
What’s the worst that can happen?I ask myself, and nose the car back into traffic.
It’s closing in on five, and commuters are clogging the four-lane boulevard on their way home from their workday in Reno. Congestion in the ’burbs. I pass a succession of strip malls, chain restaurants, and big-box stores, each one nearly identical. There’s a megachurch that’s as big as a city block and a high school with a jumbotron, promoting a winter formal.
I hang a right at the light, following the directions, and find myself traversing quiet residential streets. One-story stucco homes with red tile roofs and arched courtyards. Tidy rock gardens with succulent plants. Blow-up Santas and icicle lights.
By the fourth or fifth block, the houses start to get larger and the yards wider. There are more that butt up against a golf course with grass so green it looks like carpet against the desert sky.
“You have reached your destination,” my GPS tells me. I park between two driveways and check the address on my phone. It’s the two-story Mediterranean house with the wrought-iron balcony and the two-car garage.
I sit in the rental, gazing across the front yard, a drought-resistant garden of cacti and fake grass. There’s a Mexican tile address sign that says THEROSARIOS,the only clue that my father’s oldest friend in the world lives here.
I flip down the visor and check my reflection in the mirror, wondering if Big Al will even recognize me. The last time he saw me, I was twelve years old.
I scoop up my purse, exit the car, and gird myself for a less-than-happy reunion.
A motion light flickers on as I make my way to the front door. A holiday wreath made of plastic poinsettias greets me, making it impossible for me to use the knocker without disrupting the wreath. I press the doorbell, instead, holding my breath.
A middle-aged woman in jeans and a turtleneck sweater swings opens the door as wide as the security chain will let it. A small barking dog tries to wriggle free through the narrow opening, and the woman pulls it back by its collar.
“Can I help you?” She looks behind me to see if I’m alone.
“I’m looking for Al Rosario. I was told he lives here.”
She lifts the dog up into her arms and orders it to stop barking, which surprisingly works. The dog, some kind of terrier, nuzzles its face into the woman’s neck. “What’s this in regards to?”
I’m unprepared for the question. In all my plans for this day, it was always Big Al opening the door. I suppose somewhere in the recesses of my brain, I made room for the possibility that he’d remarried. Even that he might be a grandfather by now. But I’m completely at a loss of how to answer.
“Who’s at the door, Barbara?”
Now, Al is behind her, his eyes meeting mine, and it’s as if I’ve gone back in time twenty-four years. His dark hair has turned gray, and he’s carrying twenty extra pounds, but those sparkling brown eyes still light up a room.
“Chelsea? Well I’ll be goddamned.” He undoes the chain, swings open the door, and reaches for me, pulling me into a warm embrace. All at once it’s as if I’m surrounded by my father, my mother, and all those years of happiness. Of family.
“Let me look at you.” He pulls back and gives me a warm assessment. “You’re all grown up.”
“It’s been more than two decades.” I don’t mean it judgmentally, but I hear it come out that way. At least a little bit.
“It’s been a long time,” Al says. “Come on in. Barbara, this is Chelsea Knight. Chelsea, my wife, Barbara.”
I reach out to shake her hand and really see her since she opened the door. Before, she was a faceless woman; now, she’s Al’s wife. The anti-Gloria. She’s attractive in a quiet way with her neat brown bob, too-thin eyebrows, and warm hazel eyes. Her skin is flawless.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Chelsea. Let me get the two of you something to drink. I’m sure you have a lot of catching up to do.”
