Of being confirmed.
Confirmed to be unimportant.
“I'm so sorry, Mandy,” he blurts out. A cloud of cigarette smoke hits us full on from a group of men and women sitting at a hexagonal, weathered picnic table to the right of the house. Leo frowns and looks at Amanda. “How about we move? You like ice cream like you did when you were little?”
“What?” Amanda's in a trance.
“Ice cream?”
I speak for her. “That sounds like a good idea, Leo. Is there a place we can go?” I hit the locks on my keyfob and my car unclicks.
His eyes narrow as he takes in the Model X Tesla SUV. “Nice car. Looks safe.”
“Mmm hmm.”
“We can walk. There's a great diner just a block from here. Has peppermint ice cream and good coffee.”
I lock the car.
“You said the magic words,” Amanda jokes. “Ice cream.”
Leo grins and looks at Amanda's belly. “Can you walk a block?”
“Sure.” She gives a wan smile, but then laughs. “As long as they have a bathroom and ice cream, I can go anywhere.”
Awkward seconds pass as we figure out how to align ourselves on the walk. Leo takes Amanda's left side and I move to the right. As time moves us forward, we say nothing, Leo slightly in the lead, guiding us to wherever he has in mind.
The seconds turn into a full minute that feels like an hour. I watch her father, his gait stiff and hunched. He's at least ten years younger than my dad, but seems like he's ten years older. Thin and wiry, he has the look of a guy who has been taught the hard way that reality doesn't bend to you.
The diner he's talking about is a total dive, an old Quonset hut that's seen better days.
Like, in the 1940s.
But there are outdoor tables with wide umbrellas providing shade, and a walk-up window that Leo leads us to. We get in line behind three other people. He points to the menu board.
“My treat,” he says.
I nearly swallow my tongue.
Amanda cocks her head and stares at him like he's suddenly sprouted antennae and gills.
Leo reaches into the back pocket of his jeans. He unfolds a very used wallet that looks as soft as the inside of a dog's ear and mutters, “I started getting Social Security disability three months ago. My life's on track now. Living at the house for now,” he adds, thumbing back toward the place where we met him. “But me and some guys are looking at a three-bedroom house to rent. Gary and George are vets, like me.”
“Vets?” I ask politely, deciding on a coffee and a butterscotch dipped soft-serve cone. Haven't had one of those since...
Since my mother was alive.
“Served in 'Nam. Pulled a bad number. Got drafted in the very last wave. Turned eighteen, and two days later, I was on a goddamned ship.”
“Navy?”
He nods. “Got me VA healthcare and some bad PTSD.” He says it slowly, like he's still getting used to the idea, then looks to Amanda, who is studying the menu like it's childbirth class and she needs to be an A student.
I know she'll order a peppermint sundae with hot fudge and crushed Oreos, so the reason she's taking so long isn't a mystery.
She's stalling.
Listening.
Absorbing.
“Sounds harsh,” I say to him.
Leo snorts and says in a broad coastal Massachusetts accent, like a lobster boat captain, “Harsh?” The word comes out with a long ahhhhh, like the R went into hiding. “Prison's harsh. PTSD got to me there. But I'm doing better now. Never going back to who I was.” He takes the chance, touching Amanda's shoulder. “I promise, Mandy.”
The people in front of us leave, fists full of ice cream cones and cups. My hand goes to Amanda's sacrum and her shoulders drop at my touch. She doesn't say anything to him at first, but as her lips part to speak, I jump in.
“Peppermint sundae with hot fudge and crushed Oreos,” I say to the clerk on her behalf, which makes her laugh.
“How did you know?”
I kiss her temple. “Because I love you.”
Leo's turn to study the menu board more carefully than he needs to.
We place our orders and I let Leo pay. Pride must be important to a guy like this. As we thank him, he beams but waves us off.
“It's the least I can do,” he says as we move laterally to a large water cooler, pouring big cups of the free stuff, waiting for our ice cream and coffee.
No shit, I want to say, but don't, suddenly filled with a jumble of emotions that must be a tiny percentage of what my extremely pregnant wife is feeling.
This isn't about me.
First comes my cone, an enormous tower of soft serve covered with gold hardshell in a waffle cone, then a paper cup of coffee. Amanda ordered the three-scoop sundae, but this place must be run by pregnant women because every scoop is the size of three.
There has to be a quart of ice cream in there.
Amanda is delighted.
Leo has a frappe the size of a grain silo and an orange soda.
Overloaded with drinks and ice cream, we make our way to an empty table near a large beech tree, shade at a premium. We sit. We use our mouths to eat.
It's a convenient excuse not to talk.
And for me to think.
The guy knows how wealthy I am. Saw my Tesla. He’d have to live under a rock not to know. He got out of prison a year ago; Anterdec security has been keeping tabs on him for me for a long time.
Why wait until now to make contact? Did he see Amanda somewhere, realize she's pregnant, and he's tugging her heartstrings?
A long time ago, Dad warned me that money brings the cockroaches out, ready to feast on whatever they can find. “The only way to get rid of a cockroach is to kill it, Andrew,” he said. “Squash it. Make sure it doesn't dig in and breed.”
If this guy is like that, though, he's playing it smooth.
The ice cream is surprisingly good, the butterscotch coating instantly transporting me back to childhood. A light breeze lifts Amanda's hair, and her tongue pokes out to lick a dab of hot fudge at the corner of her mouth. Leo says something to her and she laughs, her smile making my heart sink.
This guy has no idea what he's doing to her emotions.
And I'm the one who has to make sure the damage never happens.
With less enthusiasm, I eat more of the ice cream, using time as an advantage. After the cone, the coffee tastes more bitter than usual, but the order makes sense.
I need all traces of sweetness washed away for what I have to do next.
“Leo,” I say, balling up my napkin and shoving it into the empty coffee cup, “why did you want to see Amanda?”
A guarded look kidnaps Amanda's face, like my words hold her hostage.
Damn.
“Uh, ah–I know it's been a long time. I said I was sorry, Mandy.”
No one's corrected him on her name. Mandy was her childhood nickname. I'll let it slide if she's not saying anything.
“I heard you. I can tell you are.”
A coldness washes over me, brain clicking into robot mode. Emotion has no place in me. This is a transaction. If he crosses the threshold for ending conversation, we're gone.
Otherwise, we're here, but conditionally.
“I don't...” His voice is thick, choked with emotion. “I don't know how to use words to make up for years, Mandy. All those years. I was a bad father. An absent father. You turned out so well. Your mother did real good by you.” He wipes his eyes with the back of his hand, avoiding conflict.