Ben seems to get this because once we’re on the road, he goes all chatty, telling me about growing up in a snowboarding mecca like Bend but never having enough money to hit the slopes, so he and his brothers would do crazy things, like outfit their skateboards and ride them down snowy mountains. “My older brother Jamie broke both his elbows one time.”
“Ouch.”
“Bend’s a lot like Truckee. Hippie redneck outdoorsy types.”
I nod.
“Here, we’re off the highway now. Direct me.”
A few minutes later we pull up in front of a dilapidated redwood house. The front yard is littered with crap, a rusting lawn mower, a bunch of kids’ plastic toys, a couch with stuffing coming out of it.
“Is this him?”
“This is the address Harry gave me.”
“Do you want to go in?”
I look at the grubby front yard. This is not the nice house of the nice man with the nice family I’d painted for myself. Maybe Harry’s information is out-of-date.
“Or, we could just wait,” Ben says. “See who comes out.”
Yes. That. I nod.
We park the car across the street. Ben drinks his coffee and goes through about six donuts. I watch as the house wakes up. Lights go on. Blinds snap up. Finally, after about an hour, the front door yawns open, and a girl comes out. She’s younger than me, maybe fourteen, and she seems sullen as she halfheartedly picks up some of the crap off the lawn. A little while later the door opens again and out toddles a little kid in a T-shirt and a diaper. The girl picks up the kid. I watch, confused. Is the girl his daughter? Is the baby his? Or does the baby belong to the girl? Or is it the wrong house?
“You want me to go to the door?” Ben offers.
“As what?”
“I dunno. A traveling salesman?”
“Selling what?”
“Whatever. Cable TV. Makeup. God.”
“You need nicer clothes if you’re peddling the Almighty.”
As we contemplate what to do, a low rumbling grows louder and louder until it’s like an explosion, the telltale sound of a Harley-Davidson. It pulls up right next to us, and we both slink down in our seats. The chopper passes and turns into the driveway of the house, where it revs a few times, making the baby scream in fright. The girl picks up the kid and starts yelling at whoever’s on the bike. The rider turns off the noisy engine, and pulls off the helmet. A guy. He has his back to us, so I can’t see him, but I can see the hatred reflected on the girl’s face. The front door bangs open, and a woman with short black hair comes out, a cigarette in one hand, a sippy cup in the other. Stubbing out the cigarette, she picks up the baby and starts arguing with the motorcycle guy.
I watch all of this like it’s a movie. The motorcycle guy and the woman keep arguing. She hands him the baby, who starts screaming, so he hands it directly over to the girl. The woman says something, and he slams his hand against the seat of his chopper. Then he turns away, looking right at me, but he doesn’t see me. But I see him. I see his hair, the same chestnut color as mine, and his eyes, almond-shaped and hazel-gray, just like mine, and his skin, olive, just like mine.
Just like mine.
There’s more shouting. The teen girl sets the baby down and stomps off crying. Then the baby starts wailing. The woman picks it up and carries it inside, slamming the door, and soon he follows, slamming the garage door.