The Burning Side(60)
When I head out, I kiss his forehead and ask if he needs anything.
He smiles and sips his coffee. “I’m good.”
* * *
Getting out of Dallas, there’s traffic on the High Five, but I don’t mind the extra time to think.
It’s not like Ricardo Torres went missing or anything. Last we knew, he was in Odessa. I just never expected a chance encounter in Waco, or anywhere for that matter. I think back to that night at Jed’s, all of us standing in the breeze, my deep gratitude for the care that manager had shown my father. Still—I shake my head—if he is Leo’s dad, I know how this man neglected his son.
I crawl through a sea of Texas plates. The air conditioner blows cool, warm, warmer. On one side of me, a Chevy Silverado tows a tractor with a “Back the Blue” bumper sticker. On the other side, a low-riding Cadillac DeVille with a Mavericks sticker.
When traffic and lanes thin, I start trying to figure out what in the world to say to Ricardo-maybe-Rico. Scenes from The Count of Monte Cristo run through my mind. Justice and vengeance. I’m mad at Leo’s parents, and I’m a bit crazy-eyed by the time I arrive at the hardware store.
But I’m brought back down to earth by the sound of the door chime, the nicely working air-conditioning, the row of garden hoses and light bulbs, and the mother who is lifting her son up to the lollipop turnstile at the cash register and saying, “Solo uno, chiquito.”
I swallow. I have no plan.
There’s a basket of tape measures in front of me, and it dawns on me how many things I genuinely need to buy in order to replace some of what burned, especially if Leo and I are going to be divvying up the little that’s left. So I load a cart.
When I get to the checkout counter, I ask casually, “Is Ricardo around?”
“Yeah, he’s—” The man, whose name tag says Javier, looks around. “Oh, wait. He’s at lunch, but he should be back soon.”
So I complete my purchase and then wander the shop more.
It can’t be him. This Ricardo guy has probably never gone by Rico in his life, never had a kid or lived in Odessa. It’s probably a popular tattoo. I’m completely insane for coming here.
Still, with every chime my gaze flies to the door.
Ten minutes later, Ricardo finally walks in, carrying two orange-striped Whataburger cups. He offers one to Javier, and I duck down the broom aisle, watching them through a cluster of mops.
It’s not him. I should sneak out. Go spend time with my dad.
I make for the door, head down.
“Miss?”
Not me, please not me.
“Miss!”
Yes, he is indeed calling me.
I turn and find myself face-to-face with Ricardo, Manager.
He holds out a bag stamped red with thank you thank you thank you. “This yours?”
I see the lion halfway up his arm, same as last time and same as Leo’s photograph, though more ink surrounds it now. He has no wedding ring, dirty fingernails, and a scar across one eyebrow where the hair doesn’t grow.
The tips of my ears get hot. “Thanks, sorry about that.” I take the bag I missed in my hurry to flee.
“Wait,” he says. “I remember you. Your dad—”
“Right, yeah. Thanks again for that.”
Concern fills his face. “Is he—”
“Oh, he’s fine! Yeah.” I add, “Loves his hammer.”
Ricardo looks genuinely relieved. “Glad to hear it.” He gestures to my bags. “Did you find what you need?”
Heat in my ears again. “Uh, sort of.”
“Is there anything else I can help with?”
He is far kinder than my imagined version.
“Actually, yes. I need some”—I look around—“garden shears.”
I don’t need garden shears.
“Okay, come this way.”
As he leads me to another aisle, I suck in a breath. In a breezy, small-talk way, I tell him, “We’re actually about to move.”
“Oh yeah?”
“To Odessa, yep.”
He says nothing as we come to a stop in front of a wall of garden shears. I pretend to compare them, to be making unimportant conversation. “You ever been?”
He looks at me, bemused.
“To Odessa,” I clarify, starting to sweat.
“Used to live there, actually.”
“Oh!” Too much, I tone it down. “Small world. Any favorite haunts or tips?”
What do I expect him to say, don’t have a son and abandon him there?
His eyes darken. “Sorry, I haven’t been there in many years.”
I select a random pair of shears. I can’t just ask the guy if he has kids, so I scramble for another angle or tool to buy. But then he quietly offers: “I lost my family there.”
My heart crescendos. Lost? Talk about revisionist history. He sent his own child away.
Javier calls from the register, “Oye, Torres!”
“Un segundo,” Ricardo calls back.
The shop tilts. Torres. The man standing in front of me is unequivocally Leo’s father.
I swallow. “That, uh, must have been terrible.”
I’m on the verge of quipping, “terrible for your son” and spilling everything, but I can’t do that behind Leo’s back. There must be a reason why this man never sought his son and his son never sought him.