Promises to Keep - Ann Tatlock [54]
I took a moment to catch my breath and revel in the warm air rising from a floor grate by the door. My heart beat wildly and my knees were weak, and for one brief moment I considered backing out the door and running, but curiosity pushed me forward. If Daddy was there, he’d be in the far corner booth drinking strong black coffee and smoking a Marlboro cigarette. How often I had seen him doing that very thing back home, sitting at our kitchen table in Minneapolis, nursing a steaming mug at the end of a long day, a cigarette reducing itself to ash between the thick and callused fingers of his right hand.
I moved forward, peering into every empty booth along the wall until finally, as I suspected, I found him in the last one. He sat there with his back to the door, hunched over the predicted cup of coffee, an ashtray on the table just beyond his right hand. It was full of cigarette butts, crisscrossed and crushed, like a pile of fallen soldiers after battle. One lighted cigarette lay in the crevice of the ashtray, wispy smoke rising as it gave up the ghost. Daddy must have gone through a whole pack just waiting for me to arrive.
I cleared my throat and tried to find my voice. “Daddy?”
He turned, and seeing me, his eyes filled first with joyful recognition followed by something like gratitude.
“You came, Roz,” he said. I could smell the smoke on his breath and in his clothes. He only chain-smoked when he was nervous, and I wondered briefly if he was as afraid of seeing me as I was of seeing him. He might have been afraid, but he managed a smile as he waved toward the bench seat across the table. “Sit down, sweetheart. I ordered you a chocolate milk shake. I knew you’d like that.”
I noticed then the tall beveled glass that sat there waiting, like Daddy, for someone who might not come. The head of whipped cream had melted and was sliding in tiny avalanches down the side, leaving white puddles on the table. The plump maraschino cherry floated in the milky swamp like a toppled boat. A paper straw leaned against the inner lip of the glass, looking shipwrecked itself.
“Thank you, Daddy,” I said quietly.
“Well, go on, Roz. Have a seat and drink it.”
I did as I was told, sliding into the booth and dropping my books on the seat beside me. I took off my mittens and unwrapped the scarf from around my neck. I unbuttoned my coat but left it on.
Pulling the milk shake toward me, I leaned forward and sucked on the straw while studying Daddy’s face. “You grew a mustache since I saw you at the library,” I said.
“Yeah.” Daddy chuckled softly. “Like it?”
I shrugged. “I guess so. You look different.”
“Uh-huh.” The coffee cup shivered slightly in his hands as he raised it to his lips. When he’d settled the cup back in the saucer, he asked, “Listen, Roz, did you tell anyone I was here?”
I shook my head without letting go of the straw. I didn’t want to lie out loud.
He took a deep breath while his index finger traveled the rim of the saucer. Suddenly he blurted, “I’ve missed you something terrible, Little Rose.”
I lowered my eyes, pulled the shake closer to me.
“I want you back, honey,” he went on. “You and Valerie and your mom. I can’t live without you.”
I let go of the straw then but didn’t look up. “You knew we’d come here, didn’t you?”
“Where else? Of course your grandfather would help your mother get away from me. But listen, I understand why he did. I really do.” He reached across the table. I dropped my hand to my lap before he could catch it. “Roz, I know I drank too much. I know it. I know I did some things that . . .” He stopped, shook his head. “Like I told you, I’m making some changes. I’m not going to drink anymore.”
I bit my lip, ventured a glance in his direction.