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“Is he, now?” I hear myself say.
“He had a stroke this morning. The housekeeper found him unresponsive at about ten thirty, after knocking on his door several times. I know it’s a lot to digest, and I probably should’ve waited until you got here to tell you—”
“It’s fine.” I cut him off, running my palm over my face. I’m trying to figure out what I’m feeling right now. But the truth is . . . I don’t feel anything at all. Some oddness, yes. The same sensation you get when something you’ve been used to—a piece of furniture—is suddenly gone, leaving an empty space. But there is no agony, no gut-piercing sorrow. Nothing to indicate I’ve just lost the only living relative I have in this world.
“I should head back,” I hear myself say. “Cut the trip short.”
“That would be ideal.” Bernard exhales. “I know it’s very sudden. Again, I’m sorry.”
I put him on speaker and withdraw the phone from my ear, scrolling through the next available flights. There is one two hours from now. I can still make it.
“I’ll text you my flight details. Send someone over to pick us up.”
“Of course,” he says. “Will Miss Langston be joining you?”
“Yes,” I say. “She’ll want to be there.”
She’s closer to Dad than I am, the little suck-up. Visits him every other weekend. The fact that Bernard knows that she is with me tells me everything I need to know—Dad knew damn well that I was screwing my stepsister and gossiped about it with the help. Funny, he never mentioned this to me. Then again, the Langston women have been a sore subject for us since he kicked me out to attend boarding school.
I make a pit stop in the unisex restroom before getting into the restaurant. Unzip and take a leak. When I get out of the cubicle, I hear a faint voice coming from behind one of the doors. A bone-chilling, feral cry. Like someone is wounded in there.
Not your problem, I remind myself.
I roll my sleeves up, wash my hands, as the wails grow louder, more erratic.
I can’t just leave now. What if someone gave birth to a baby and left it to drown in the toilet? While no one could accuse me of having a conscience, drowning newborns isn’t a thing I’m happy to get behind.
I turn off the faucet and make my way back to the cubicle.
“Hello?” I lean a shoulder against it. “Who’s there?”
The weeping, which turns into little hiccups, does not subside, but there is no answer either.
“Hey,” I try, softer now. “Are you okay? Should I call someone?”
Maybe the police? Or someone else who actually cares?
No answer.
I’m running out of patience, and my nerves are shot as it is. My whole body is reeling with the news about Dad.
“Look, either you answer or I kick down the door.”
The cries are harder now. Uncontrollable. I take a step back for momentum and kick the door open. It flies off its hinges, slamming against the large cubicle wall like a casualty in a gory action film.
But I don’t find a baby or an injured animal.
Just one Winnifred Ashcroft, curled over the toilet tank in her red dress, makeup smeared all over her face, drinking wine straight from the bottle. Her hair is a mess, and she is shaking like a leaf.
Isn’t she pregnant?
Poor Oatmeal Paul. Can’t even get himself a sensible trophy wife.
Tears run down her cheeks. She put a good dent on that bottle. It’s half-finished. We both stare at one another silently, engaged in some fucked-up contest. Only now, it’s clear she doesn’t expect me to ask her what’s wrong.
“Are you in trouble?” I spit out, asking mainly because it is my civic duty. “Is he hurting you? Abusing you?”
She shakes her head. “You’ll never be half the man he is!”
There goes my lifelong mission.
I glance around us, waiting for her to pick herself up and evacuate the toilet. She’s the most bizarre creature I’ve ever met.
“My husband is amazing,” she stresses, getting riled up, like I’m the one crying into a bottle of alcohol atop a germ colony.
“Your husband is as unremarkable as my least favorite pair of socks, but that’s not a conversation I’m interested in having now,” I counter. “Now, if there’s nothing I can do—”
“Yes, there’s nothing. Even if I did need help, I wouldn’t turn to you for it. You’re stuck up higher than a light pole.” She wipes her nose with the back of her arm, sniffling. “Beat it.”
“Now, now, Winnifred. I thought all southern belles were sweet and agreeable.”
“Go away already!” She jumps to her feet and slams the door in my face, or whatever’s left of the unhinged door, anyway.
For a brief moment, I contemplate giving her my number, in case Paul does abuse her. But then I remember my plate is full of my own shit to deal with, including Doug’s death, Grace’s wishy-washy attitude, my career, and so forth.
