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"But I love Melinda," she says. "She's the one piece of beauty among all this ugly." Suzanne sits next to her daughter and catches me in the mirror. "She makes me worth it, you know?"
I start the car and drive.
Only the engine sound fills the car while Melinda Boyd sleeps, but when she wakes up, she plays and talks and dances with her hands.
"Do you hate me, Ed?" Suzanne asks as we approach town. I recall Audrey asking me the same question.
I only look back in the mirror and say, "Why should I?"
"For what I've done to Marv."
The words that come to me are actually quite succinct. Maybe I'd rehearsed them subconsciously. I simply say, "You were a kid, Suzie. Marv was a kid.... And your father was your father.... In a way," I tell her, "I feel for him. He's pretty hurt."
"Yes, but what I did to Marv was unforgivable."
"You're in this cab, aren't you?" I look at her in back again.
After some thought, Suzanne Boyd gives me an acknowledging look and says, "You know, Ed?" Her head shakes. "No one's ever spoken to my father the way you did."
"Or faced him like Marv."
She nods her agreement.
I tell her I can take her to where Marv's working, but she asks me to stop at a nearby playground.
"Good thinking," I reply, and she waits.
There's a gap in Marv's hammering at the site. He's up high, with a few nails in his mouth. I take the chance, calling up. "I think you'd better come with me, Marv."
He sees the intent in my expression, pauses, spits the nails, drops his tool belt, and comes toward me. In the car, I think he's more nervous than the other night.
When we make it to the playground, we both get out. "They're waiting," I tell him, but I don't think he hears. I sit on the hood of my cab, and Marv walks hesitantly on.
The grass is dry and yellow and not maintained. It's an old playground. A nice old one, with a big iron slippery dip, swings with chains, and a splinter-arse seesaw--just as it should be. No plastic vomit anywhere.
A slight wind taps the grass.
When Marv turns to look at me, I see the fear crouch down in his eyes. He walks slowly to the play equipment, where Suzanne Boyd waits. Melinda sits on one of the swings.
Marv looks so big.
His walk and hands and his worry.
I hear nothing, but I can see they're talking, and Marv's giant-looking hand shakes that of his daughter. I can see he wants to hold her, hug her, squeeze her, but he doesn't.
Melinda jumps back on the swing, and after looking at Suzanne for permission, Marv gently, gently pushes his daughter into the air.
After a few minutes, Suzanne quietly escapes and comes back to stand with me.
"He's good with her," she softly says.
"He is." I smile for my friend.
We hear Melinda's shrill voice now. "Higher, Marvin Harris! Higher, please!"
He gradually pushes harder. He touches his daughter's back with both hands, and she laughs loud and pure into the sky.
When she's had enough, Marv stops the swing. The girl climbs off and grabs his hand and walks her father back toward us. Even from far away, I can see that Marv has tears on his face as clear as glass.
