What You See in the Dark - Manuel Munoz [32]
Across the street, the door to Ed’s bar stood wide open, but it wasn’t a place she wanted to enter anymore.
“I can’t pay you,” said Dan quickly. “You can keep any tips, though.”
Had Cheno come and gone? She thought of what he might say when she presented this situation to him, but what made her dismiss him was the spark of her mother’s voice, the need when she sang along with those records, and what bloomed in Teresa was something close to forgiveness. Of course her mother would’ve boarded the bus to go back to Texas.
“Okay,” Teresa said, and nodded. “I’ll sing for you.” Then she froze. “You don’t mean tonight, do you?”
“No, no. Practice first. Practice as much as you want. In here, if you like. In the afternoons when I do the cleaning, so you won’t feel nervous.”
He made his way to the front door, picking up his keys from the top of the bar. “Unless you’re going to help me sweep up, maybe I should take you home right now before the drunks come in.”
“I can walk,” Teresa said. The old feeling came back: she wasn’t just worried about Cheno seeing her in Dan’s truck, but about the people in town, how a ride through the afternoon streets with the windows rolled down was far different from Cheno’s careful, tiptoeing courtship.
“It’s not a problem,” Dan said. “Come on.”
Seven years ago, when her mother had announced that money was too hard and that they would both board a Greyhound to Texas, where Teresa’s father lived, Teresa had said, I’m not going with you. Saying that had been like singing a song: opening her mouth and letting the sound crack through. She knew, even then, that Texas was not for her, that her mother wanted to go to the place where the records took her, the violet dark where Teresa’s father lived. She had said no, the static of the record turntable going round and round, and she couldn’t see her mother’s face when she said it.
Dan locked Las Cuatro Copas and made his way to the black Ford pickup truck, opening the door and holding it for her. Teresa looked across the street at the other bar, hoping to catch a glimpse of Ed or even Cheno, some opportunity to stop herself from her own falling, but the building only yawned back with its open door, Dan standing, waiting, his tall, wide-shouldered posture.
“Come on,” said Dan. “What are you waiting for?”
It’s your life, her mother’s silhouette had said, after a long silence between them, in the violet dark of their little room. You do what you want.
Five
She had known, since it was Bakersfield, not to expect anything fancy, but as the driver took them through the center of the city, it became clear to the Actress that all she was getting was a room, plain and simple. She didn’t need anything more, really, though she imagined there were people in the industry who begrudged everything. The driver stopped the car at a building that wasn’t more than four stories or so, flat at the top and made of brick, and they got out. She opened the door on her own, the driver rushing to her side, but she let him know implicitly that he needn’t be at her beck and call. They walked together through the plain glass doors of the lobby—no bellhops, no concierge, but more important, no Director. She had somewhat expected him to be waiting in the hallway lined with striped wallpaper that served as the lobby, sitting at one of the two tidy love seats and examining the fresh flowers set on a long table: the hotel was small, but the effort of small-town pride came through. It was only nine thirty in the morning, and the meeting wasn’t set until ten. She asked at the front desk if anyone from Los Angeles had checked in, but the clerk told her no.
“Are you expecting someone?” the clerk asked.
“A fellow traveler,” she answered, aware that the Director might try to shield himself from scrutiny.
Her room was ready, and the driver accompanied her to the top floor in the tiny elevator, her overnight bag in his hand. At her door, he scurried inside her room and placed the bag on her bed so quickly that she barely had time to open her purse for a tip.