Hes silent for a long time, concentrating on his foot massage, as though hed been looking forward to it all day.
"Id prefer you not sell that statue," he says at last. Then he turns away, picks up the phone, and calls my mother.
"I know she called you," he says to her in Creole. "She panicked. I was just walking, thinking."
I hear my mother loudly scolding him, telling him not to leave me again. When he hangs up, he grabs his sneakers and puts them back on.
"Wheres the sculpture?" My eyes are twitching so badly now I can barely see.
"We go," he says. "I take you to it."
We walk out to the parking lot, where the hotel sprinkler is once more at work, spouting water onto the grass and hedges like centrifugal rain. The streetlights are on now, looking brighter and brighter as the dusk deepens around them. New hotel guests are arriving. Others are leaving for dinner, talking loudly as they walk to their cars.
As my father maneuvers our car out of the parking lot, I tell myself that he might be ill, mentally ill, even though Id never detected any signs of it before, beyond his prison nightmares.
When I was eight years old and my father had the measles for the first time in his life, I overheard him say to a customer on the phone, "Maybe serious. Doctor tell me, at my age, measles can kill."
This was the first time I realized that my father could die. I looked up the word "kill" in every dictionary and encyclopedia at school, trying to understand what it really meant, that my father could be eradicated from my life.
My father stops the car on the side of the highway near a man-made lake, one of those marvels of the modern tropical city, with curved stone benches surrounding a stagnant body of water. Theres scant light to see by except a half-moon. Stomping the well-manicured grass, my father heads toward one of the benches. I sit down next to him, letting my hands dangle between my legs.
Here I am a little girl again, on some outing with my father, like his trips to the botanic garden or the zoo or the Egyptian statues at the museum. Again, Im there simply because he wants me to be. I knew I was supposed to learn something from these childhood outings, but it took me years to realize that ultimately my father was doing his best to be like other fathers, to share as much of himself with me as he could.
I glance over at the lake. Its muddy and dark, and there are some very large pink fishes bobbing back and forth near the surface, looking as though they want to leap out and trade places with us.
"Is this where the sculpture is?" I ask.
"In the water," he says.
"Okay," I say calmly. But I know Im already defeated. I know the piece is already lost. The cracks have probably taken in so much water that the wood has split into several chunks and plunged to the bottom. All I can think of saying is something glib, something Im not even sure my father will understand.
"Please know this about yourself," I say. "Youre a very harsh critic."
My father attempts to smother a smile. He scratches his chin and the scar on the side of his face, but says nothing. In this light the usually chiseled and embossed-looking scar appears deeper than usual, yet somehow less threatening, like a dimple thats spread out too far.
Anger is a wasted emotion, Ive always thought. My parents would complain to each other about unjust politics in New York, but they never got angry at my grades, at all the Cs I got in everything but art classes, at my not eating my vegetables or occasionally vomiting my daily spoonful of cod-liver oil. Ordinary anger, Ive always thought, is useless. But now Im deeply angry. I want to hit my father, beat the craziness out of his head.
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