Promises to Keep - Ann Tatlock [91]
He looked at me, waiting for an answer. He was a tall and incredibly round man, with a waist like a redwood tree. I nodded at him, saying nothing, fearing that if he caught me in a lie he could snuff me out like a tiny gnat pinched between his sausagelike fingers.
“Mr. Knutson there,” he said with a smile toward Daddy, “he and I are getting to be the old-timers around here. Isn’t that right, Nelson?”
“Yeah, I guess we are,” Daddy agreed. He didn’t look up from his food.
Mr. Wainwright laid the spoon in the sink and took a long sip of coffee. “Well, back to the game. I’m down ten dollars, but this next hand’s mine. I can feel it.”
“Yeah, well, good luck, then,” Daddy said.
The stranger left. The other stranger who looked like my daddy stayed seated at the table, eating quietly.
“Daddy?”
“Go on, Roz, scoot,” he said. “I’ll talk with you later.”
“But – ”
“I said go on.”
I didn’t want to go; I wanted answers. But Daddy wouldn’t look at me, let alone talk to me. I moved stiffly toward the hall, walking slowly, feeling unbearably heavy as I dragged all of my questions out of the kitchen with me.
chapter
38
“I found out where my daddy’s living.”
The words were nearly lost to the din and clatter of the school cafeteria. Lately Mara’s homeroom class and mine had been assigned to the same lunch period, so we always sat together. Mara stopped poking at her lima beans long enough to ask loudly, “What’d you say?”
I looked around and leaned in closer. “My dad . . . he’s living at a boardinghouse owned by some old lady named Miss Charlotte.”
Mara’s eyes widened and her mouth followed suit. “How’d you find out?”
I told her how I’d seen Daddy there the previous night, adding that before I could go upstairs and find Tillie, I had to press my forehead against the cold glass of the front door window until my heart stopped beating crazily and I could breathe normally again.
“So,” Mara said, “he acted like he was mad you found him?”
“Well, yeah,” I said reluctantly. “I guess he was surprised to see me.”
“He doesn’t want you to know where he lives, does he?”
I tried to look nonchalant by shrugging my shoulders and taking a bite of fish stick before answering. “I don’t know. I guess not.”
“I bet he’ll move now.”
“Why should he move? I’m not going to tell anyone he’s there.”
“Yeah, but think about it, Roz. He doesn’t want that guy, what’s his name – Tillie’s son – going to your house and blabbing about some guy named Alan Anthony living at the boardinghouse.”
“He won’t because Daddy’s not using his real name. I think he’s told everyone his name’s Nelson Knutson.”
“Nelson Knutson?”
I nodded.
“What kind of name is that? It sounds like something a magician would say . . . you know, like abracadabra.”
“It does?”
“Yeah. You know, I’m waving my magic wand and . . . Nelson Knutson! . . . there’s a rabbit in my hat!”
I narrowed my eyes and sneered at Mara. “Only you would think of something like that.”
She smiled confidently.
“Listen, Mara,” I went on, “up in Minnesota Knutson is kind of like Smith. I mean, practically everyone’s named Knutson up there. We had a guy on our street named Nelson Knutson, but he died in a car wreck just before we moved.”
Mara’s smile faded. She looked at me a long time before saying, “This is giving me the creeps, Roz.”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t know. I just don’t like it.”
“You don’t like what?”
“This whole thing with your daddy, his coming down here and telling everybody he’s someone he’s not. Plus, he chooses the name of some dead guy. Doesn’t that seem weird to you?”
I started to lift the milk carton to my lips, but my stomach was churning. I set it back down on the tray. “You know,” I said, “I’ve been thinking about that. He doesn’t want Mom to know he’s in Mills River yet, so he has to use another name. That’s all. It makes sense to me.”
“Uh-huh.” She looked unconvinced. “And has he really quit drinking?”
“He says he has.”
“But do you know for sure?”
“How can I? I hardly ever see him.