Chapter 21 - The Service Entrance
The rain had turned into a steady, freezing mist by the time I pushed open the heavy glass door of the Barton Springs condo building. The Ford F-150 was still parked in the loading zone, its windshield wipers stuck in the upright position like two dead arms pointing at the gray sky.
I walked over to the passenger side, my sneakers splashing in the oily puddles along the curb. I didn't knock on the window. I just reached out and pulled the handle.
The door clicked open with a dry, rusty snap.
Dad was slumped across the center console, his head resting against the stained vinyl seat, his mouth slightly open. An empty coffee cup from the gas station down the road sat in the cup holder next to a small, crumpled pack of cigarettes. On the passenger seat, right where he had left it the night before, was the white lined paper with Karen’s quitclaim deed.
"Dad," I said.
He didn't move.
"Dad." I reached in and tapped my fingers against his leather-jacketed shoulder.
He jerked awake with a sharp intake of breath, his eyes wide and disoriented, blinking rapidly against the pale morning light filtering through the rain-streaked window.
"Lily?" he croaked, his voice thick with sleep and cheap tobacco. "What... what time is it?"
" nearly eight," I said.
He sat up, rubbing his face with both hands, leaving red pressure marks across his cheeks where his glasses had dug into his skin during the night. He looked down at the quitclaim deed sitting on the seat between us.
"Karen's lawyer called again this morning," he muttered, staring blankly at the dashboard. "He says if I don't sign the transfer by Monday noon, they're going to motion the court to garnish my wages at Apex Plumbing."
"Let them," I said.
Dad looked over at me, his eyes dark and hollow under the fluorescent glare of the parking lot lights. "If they garnish my wages, I won't even be able to afford the rent on the motel room, Lily. I'll be sleeping in the back of this truck."
"Then find another job," I said, my voice not shaking at all. "Or go back to Waco. But don't sit here in the rain waiting for me to tell you it's okay to give up."
Dad stared at me for a long, agonizing moment. The silence inside the cab was heavy, thick with the smell of wet wool, old coffee, and twenty years of bad decisions that couldn't be erased by a signature on a piece of lined paper.
He reached into his shirt pocket, pulled out a cheap plastic ballpoint pen with the logo of a Buda hardware store stamped along the barrel, and laid it on top of the deed.
May you like
"I didn't sign it yet," he whispered.
***
