Page 30 of Meet Me in the Garden

“I have a friend in a hospital like that,” Sally says. Her mascara’s bled, her lip quivers. I feel terrible. She’d wanted a comedy.

Janine puts her arm around Sally’s waist. “My aunt was in one, too. Shhh. There, there.”

I want my sisters. Imagine the three of us right here, finally talking about Papa together.

“Let’s go get a drink,” Marcus says, and he leads us to a bar nearby, a place that’s hospitable to all of us. He buys a round of martinis and I sip mine, distracted, and finally slip away to a pay phone against the far wall. I close myself in and the bar noise fades. Adele answers on the third ring.

“I have an idea,” I say. “Is Claire still there?”

“She’s right here.”

“I just sawThe Snake Pit. It was remarkable. How about you two come join me? I’ll get us tickets for the ten o’clock show. My treat.”

“Tonight?” Adele says.

“It’s just a one-day screening.”

“What’s it about?” Claire asks. I picture my sisters, cheeks pressed together, sharing the receiver.

“A woman in a mental hospital and everything she goes through. It would mean so much to me,” I say.

“I’m still finishing washing up. Clairejustgot the kids down.”

“They were all riled up without you,” Claire says.

“There’s plenty of time. I can hold our seats.”

It’s quiet on the line.

“I don’t think so,” Adele says.

“I’m tired,” Claire says. “You know how I need my rest.”

“Sure,” I say. “All right.”

But I’m ferocious with anger, hanging up the phone. Through the booth glass I see my friends by the bar. Marcus is telling a story, the girls lean in to listen. Janine shakes her head, Ivy laughs with her mouth wide open, and I want to talk about Papa, but the opportunity’s passed now. This feeling—it’s bringing me back to tubes of paints and smears of color and the turpentine smell. Making art is its own kind of frustration but one I wish I hadn’t closed off. My body’s full of need. A flash of Hattie’s sewing room floor, my urgency turning to pleasure. I press my hands hard against the phone booth glass for the pressure of it, close my eyes and push until my muscles weaken. Let go, and Marcus is on the other side, peering in at me.

I open the door. Make myself look and keep looking. Hazel eyes, same shade as mine, and a boyish sweetness. So close, but it’s okay. He isn’t Cyril. He’s himself. “You said you’re selling your car?” I ask.

“I am.”

“Can I see it?”

“It’s parked a couple blocks away.”

We leave the others, weave among strangers on the busy sidewalk. All these people out late, enjoying their lives together. My sisters, home in their neat little houses, unwilling to meet me. My heart pounds. “There it is,” he says, pointing to a car on the corner. “A 1941 Studebaker Commander.” It has two doors, curves at the roof and over the tires, chrome details.

“What color is it?” I ask. It’s too dark to make it out.

“Mint,” he says. “With black stripes and a cream interior.” He unlocks the driver door and gestures for me to climb in. I run my hands over the stitches in the steering wheel, the shiny dash. “There’s a built-in radio,” he says. “Great sound. And the engine runs real smooth. The front fender has a scratch on the right side. Other than that, nothing’s wrong with it. Want to take it for a drive?”

I do. He hands me the keys. I start the engine, a thrill. “How much are you asking for it?”

“Kelley Blue Book says a thousand. I can take a little off for the fender, though.” I steer us toward the hills, turn again before I get too far. Thegas pedal is solid and easy underfoot. I accelerate and he sucks in a breath, exhales when I slow at a light. I could find a cheaper car, but I want this one. I want it now.

“If we drive down to Compton, I can pay you and get you a taxi back home.”

“You don’t want to sleep on it?”