Chapter Five

by Lori Robertson

Mrs. Li pushed her bowl of soggy bread aside and calmly reached for her cup of tea. 

“Okay… wait just a minute,” I said. “You told me it was an ‘evil environment’ at my father’s house. What did you mean?”

“I mean bad energy. All the time he goes away. She all the time drinks too much, makes a mess, and cries, cries, cries all day. No good.”

“He goes away all the time? You mean he’s done this before?”

“Many times.”

“But he always comes back.”

“Yes.”

I let my fist drop to the table with more force than I’d intended. “Then why would Caroline make such a fuss this time?” 

Mrs. Li only shrugged and took another sip of her tea. Frustration shot through my body like a jolt of electricity, but I suppressed the urge to unleash it on the serene woman sitting across from me. I sat back, took a deep breath, and spoke slowly: “So…every now and then… my father goes off on a fishing trip. And while he’s gone, Caroline drinks herself into a pathetic, sniveling, lazy-ass state of paranoia. Is that what you’re telling me?”

Mrs. Li set her cup down and said nothing for a minute. Finally she looked at me and shook her head. “No, no fishing.”

“How do you know? And don’t tell me it’s in the bread. Have you ever asked him where he’s been?”

She nodded.

“And?”

“He say fishing.”

“Well then?”

“He never bring home a fish.”

“So he’s a lousy fisherman. Maybe he just wants to get away.  God knows, I would—”

“No fish. No fish smell. No fish pole.”  She sipped again at her tea and met my eyes over the rim of the cup. “Your father keeps secrets,” she said.  She lowered her cup slowly to the table and glanced at her watch. “I have to go now, I have work to do.”

I reached for her hand. “Wait, Mrs. Li. What kind of secrets? What do you think is going on here?”

She pulled her hand away and slid out of the booth. “I don’t know what is the truth  here. I only know what is not the truth.” She hiked her purse onto her tiny shoulder. “He is your father, Zeldanna. You know him best.” 

I shook my head. “You’re wrong about that. He’s my father, but I barely know the man.”

“Whatever you need to know,” she tapped two fingers firmly against her chest, “in your heart, you will know.”

I sniffed. “What, is that written in the bread, too?”

The barest hint of a smile played at the corner of her mouth. She nodded toward her soup bowl. “Nothing written in the bread. Americans love a psychic message. You go home now, Zeldanna. Nothing more you can do here.” 

I sat stock still until the diner door closed behind her with a jarring clang of bells. Then, resting my elbows on the cool Formica tabletop, I let my head drop into my hands. What I needed to know was in my heart? More phony mysticism, or something she’d read in a fortune cookie, no doubt. I closed my eyes and conjured up my father’s face, his voice. A staccato montage of images played through my mind and settled gently on a memory infused with the scent of soap and shaving cream. We’re in his car, he’s driving me to school, we’re laughing at something on the radio. He tries to sing along and mangles the words. I tell him, “no, no, you’re saying it all wrong!” and he sings louder, makes up his own absurd lyrics, and I think he’s hilarious, I think he’s the best, I think—

“Can I get you some more coffee there, Hon?”

It’s Darla, her coffee pot poised above the table and ready to pour.  “Sure, “ I said, and slid my cup toward her. “Tell me something, Darla, you happen to know Sheriff Harvey?”

“Sheriff Harvey? Sure, he comes in here now and then.” She eased the steaming cup in front of me and eyed me warily. “You got some kind of trouble going on?”

I shook my head. “I’m just wondering what people think of him. I mean, is he a pretty straight-up kind of guy?”

Darla’s eyes widened and she took a step back from the table. “Well I don’t know him that well.  I mean, I don’t know anything about his personal life. He’s married, though, I’m pretty sure.”

We stared at one another for the few seconds it took for her meaning to sink in. “No," I said. "What I mean is, do people think of him as a straight-talker, an honest Joe. Is he well liked?”

She shrugged. “I guess so. It’s pretty quiet around here, we got no big crime rings or nothing. Seems like he mostly hands out speeding tickets to out of towners in too big a hurry to get to Sedona.” She scooped up the credit card I’d placed on the table and gave it a quick glance. “I’ll just ring this up for you,” she said, and squeaked away.

I breathed in the scent of badly roasted coffee and considered what I’d learned so far. My father might or might not be off on a fishing trip. Half-wit and fully soused Caroline was convinced there was mayhem, but refused to call the cops. Mrs. Li knows nothing except that what’s been said is untrue, and that the small town cop who spends his days writing traffic tickets would affirm the phony fish tale.  I swallowed the dregs in my cup and considered the stack of case files I still needed to get to. Go home, Zeldanna. Nothing more you can do here. Maybe Mrs. Li was right.