American Son by Brian Ascalon Roley

Author:Brian Ascalon Roley
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: W. W. Norton & Company, Inc.
Published: 2001-08-14T16:00:00+00:00

III

As we leave the restaurant he lingers by the cash register with Aunt Jessica but she seems to insist on paying. Then I am left alone with him in the waiting space before the doors. He leans without a word against some newspaper vending machines. You could cut a cloth with the thin blade of feeling between us. I look at him, his hot glance meeting mine.

Why didn’t you tell me, Gabe?

I shrug, looking down.

No, Gabe, you tell me—why?

My eyes fix on a stack of free local papers, the headlines and words a confusing blur. He studies me curiously.

Why?

He leads the way to his truck and Aunt Jessica pulls out some bills for his tip and he tries to refuse, but it is a feeble gesture, and she gives it to him and he does not look at me as he starts the engine and drives away. He had been polite to my mother and even given her a key chain with a little leather boot dangling from it, but he had no more words for me. We do not wait to watch the truck turn onto the road. We do not wave. It is ten o’clock and he will get home past midnight, but my aunt and mother do not mention this and we walk quietly back to the room.

Aunt Jessica takes the ice bucket and steps outside.

Mom sits on the unmade bed, beside her suitcase.

As I pick up her suitcase and lug it onto the dresser and begin to unpack her clothes and carefully fold her panties and blouses and pants, I try to talk to her, but she is quiet. I tell her about the towns I passed through and Navarro, California. The winged Mobil horse and boys in cowboy boots. The sands that blew in from the desert and covered the faded highway like silver sheets. In her brown palm rests the little leather boot and her wrists are limp and her shoulders drawn forward over her knees.

I ask her if she wants to watch a movie on cable.

What did you tell him about me? she suddenly says.

Tell who?

The tow truck man.

I pause. Nothing.

She shakes her head, disappointedly.

I don’t know what you’re talking about, I add.

Yes you do, Gabe. Her fingers cup each other, trying to keep still in her lap.

I guess he just assumed, I say, glancing aside.

No, Gabe. I don’t think so.

Through the walls comes the muffled sound of our neighbor’s television set. I slam shut her suitcase.

Okay, fine, don’t believe me.

Why was he ignoring me?

I don’t know. Some people can be rude, I’ve noticed.

Gabe.

What? I face her, the blood violent in my fists.

Gabe.

I already asked you—what?

Did you tell him I was your maid? she says.

I am silent. She studies my face, and the motel curtains catch the headlights of some car in the parking lot.

Of course not.

She looks down, shaking her head. That’s what he told your Aunt Jessica.

She must’ve got it wrong.

He told her you told him I was your maid.

Then he’s lying, I say.

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