Page 70 of And Still Her Voice
Days later, returning from the studio, the phone rang down the hall. As I neared my room it became even more distinct. At the door, I fumbled with the key. It could be River! On the nightstand, the phone vibrated with panic. I picked it up.
“Anna, thank God you finally answered,” Maggie said, anxiety in her voice. “Dad’s dead.”
My heart plummeted. Gasping, breath trapped, I’d forgotten to exhale. “Oh Daddy!” I burst out crying surprised at myself and then I caught my reflection in the dresser mirror across the room, the little girl I used to be. Embarrassed at my emotional outbreak, I sucked it up before apologizing to Maggie. “I’m sorry. What happened?” I wiped my tears.
“He shot himself.”
“No!” The child in the mirror stared back at me. Dad was dead now, but still she wasn’t free. I felt dizzy, swirling downward, as if I might pass out; as if I were looking down from a helicopter watching the world being sucked away. I slumped onto the bed and closed my eyes, cradling my forehead. He’d finally accomplished what he’d threatened to do so many times, like he was the Boy Who Cried Wolf. “When did it happen?”
“They found him last Friday.”
Last Friday? That’s when Grandma insisted that I call home, but I’d refused and then she let it go saying there was nothing she could do anymore.What is done isdone.I couldn’t remember hearing from her since then.
High-pitched noises sounded in my skull like sirens or wolves howling. I clutched the bedcovers to keep from lifting off, but the traffic noise outside called to me to spring up and storm out. Suddenly, I wanted to blend into the cacophony of sound as if the melody of the street and the disharmony in my head might transform into some sort of soothing new music of my soul.
“Who found him? Where? In the house?”
“I guess life just finally got to him,” practical Maggie said.
Does she feel nothing?
“It’s time to come home. You’ll be safe now.”
Now?I sobbed out loud. What does she know? And if she knew anything, how long had she known and why hadn’t she told me?
“When’s the—is there going to be a funeral?” I stammered, planting both feet on the floor to stop the room from spinning.
“Not for a couple weeks,” Maggie said. “The church frowns on suicide, but Mom insists on having it in the church, even though she also wanted him excommunicated.”
Is this a joke?
“We’ll have to see what Father Reynoso has to say. Anyway, I’m thinking the Rosary should be on Monday or Tuesday night and then the service the next day,” she said. “It would be nice if you could get here to help. I’m hiring some Mariachis. You know how Dad loved them?”
Yeah, Dad loved them so much that Mom grew to hate them and all they represented; drunken, lonesome ballads of loss and heartbreak. “You could do a reading or even the eulogy.”
I blew my nose.
“I’ll have Patty be in charge of ordering the food. I should probably say goodbye. There’s so much to do and Mom is sort of useless right now, but she insists we give him a proper Catholic send-off.”
As if I could hang on to a perfect life that never existed, I listened to the beeping sound after Maggie hung up. Why was everyone going through so much trouble for him? Acting like it was some sort of Hollywood production. Dad couldn’t care less. He’s dead. Never mind that he wasn’t even a real Catholic; he only got baptized as an added measure to prove to Mom he was going to quit drinking. Why couldn’t you stop, Daddy?I swiped my tears. There were so many more questions swirling in my head; so many I’d been afraid to ask. Why couldn’t you love me?
***
Again, I found myself running out of breath as I sprinted along the sidewalk, not knowing where I was headed, dodging throngs of pedestrians, dogs on leashes, hot dog vendors, and plenty of protestors. The last time I took off running, I ended up in a San Francisco bus station just before River came along to stop me from returning home. Maybe I should’ve gone home. Things would have been different, for sure. Dad might still be alive.
“It was his fate.” Grandma spoke up finally.
“Oh my God, Phoebe,” I shouted. “Everything would have been different had you just died without transferring over to me. Am I next?”
Behind me a mother pushing a stroller rushed past me as a few pinstriped Wall Street types carrying briefcases strode toward me, seemingly not bothered about my carrying on a heated conversation with myself. Heads lowered, they simply stepped around me, hurrying off to their important jobs.
The sun beat down on me through a sky the color of a week-old bruise. Steam rose up off the asphalt and ascended through the grates in the sidewalks. Noisy garbage trucks scooped up the trash leaving the streets still smelling of urine and rotten food. I felt like vomiting. Not only had my father died, but the whole nation wobbled on the heels of a turbulent time. All of the highways across America fumed noxious gases. The assassinations and the Vietnam War still raged like an out of control forest fire. Around the country, people protested in the streets with a fanatical sense of anger and loss. And then River left me with my insides the same as the outside world, sticky and humid; the air and my veins swollen with toxicity and yet I pushed myself along.
Racing across Central Park reminded me of Griffith Park and Panhandle Park where people played music and the pungent smell of pot and patchouli packed a punch. Today, there were young families picnicking in the shade; fathers playing catch with their kids; all normal stuff ordinary families did. A little boy threw a Frisbee for his dog who looked a lot like my Bella. The child looked a lot like my father as a little boy in a picture of him—playing with his three-legged dog, Mel—that hung on the wall at home. I didn’t know I had any tears left as I slumped to the ground and sat on the grass. Now that Dad was dead, the seeds that had been planted in darkness were free to grow and I wouldn’t let Grandma throw dirt on them anymore. She wasn’t telling me to go home now, and why should she? Home sure as hell never existed for me. And now that Dad’s gone, what’s the point? I didn’t want to go to Dad’s funeral, but wondered who might show up for him if I didn’t. His friends? Neighbors? We were his only family. I felt sorry for him, but then as I plucked blades of grass, one elusive memory after the other sprouted up, one blade of truth at a time.
Dad has slapped me across my face before it hits the wall.
There’d been a work party he wanted to get to where the families from the plant were invited, but I didn’t like some of his smelly friends with their bo, beer, and cigarettes breath. I refused to go.
