If this is a performance, I give him points for faking earnestness.
Suddenly, he's looking at me, red-rimmed eyes unembarrassed. “And you. Your secretary sent me the letter. I know what you're doing.”
Amanda stiffens.
“Any good man would do it, protect Mandy from someone like me. I got no right to ask for your time like this, but you're here and so am I. I'm making amends. You know what that is?” Narrowed eyes meet mine.
“You're in AA?”
“Recovery. Yeah. Working the program.” He reaches into his front pocket and pulls out a shiny round object, thrusting it at Amanda. “That's my two-year chip.”
“Two years?” she says with marvel.
“Been more like ten now, in fits and starts, but two years is the longest I've gone in one stretch. Took me this long, and getting settled after getting out, to finally dig up the courage to ask to see you.” Leo's eyes cut to me. “Hey. What's wrong?”
“I have to ask, Leo – how do you get alcohol in prison?”
He's taken off-guard by the question, but a sheepish laugh comes next. “Man, until you're inside, you'd never know. Toilet wine. Pruno.”
“Toilet wine?” Amanda asks, making a face.
Waving off the question, he scratches his nose and lets out a long sigh. “You just need sugar and something that ferments, like a moldy piece of bread. Some fruit. A bag to put it in and store it. People use toilet tanks sometimes to store it all in a plastic bag.”
“Or people smuggle it in for you,” I add, thinking it through. Leo gives me a fingershoot that says I'm right.
“Oh.” Amanda's little gasp kills me.
Then she does it again, face filled with astonishment, hand going to her lower ribs on the right. “Oh, goodness, Righty!”
“Righty?”
She laughs. “We don't have names for the babies yet, so we call them Lefty and Righty.”
Leo shakes his head. “I knew a Lefty in prison. That's no name for a kid. He could dislocate his own shoulder, elbow, and wrist to get out of handcuffs, but only on the left.”
“They'll have names soon,” I declare. Leo's staring at Amanda's belly like it's a nature show on the National Geographic channel.
“They're your grandchildren,” Amanda says softly. He looks at her, frozen. “Do you have others?” she asks.
“Others? Where would I have others?”
One shoulder goes up as she clearly tries to find a way to ask something. “I–Mom never told me much about you. Were you ever married to anyone else? Did you have other kids?”
“God, no, Mandy. You're it. My only kid.”
“Oh.” Relief fills that single syllable.
“Grandkids. Two at once. Who ever imagined old Leo would have grandkids?” He seems overwhelmed by the idea.
So much that’s unsaid fills the air, choking me.
“Why are you in Nashua, Dad?”
Her use of the word Dad almost makes me jolt, but I hold it in. I’m very accustomed to restraining emotional reactions. My guard goes down when I'm with Amanda, but Leo isn't her.
And Dad isn't a word I’ve heard her say directly to any man.
Ever, until today.
A shaky smile dissolves and he nods slowly. “I had some choices. Guys like me don't get many, so when we do, it's scary. I came to this place.” He nods in the direction of the halfway house. “It's close to home.”
I assume by home, he means Boston.
But I'm pretty sure he also means my wife.
“And me,” she says, courage coming forth.
“Yes, Mandy. And you.”
“Do you...” Her voice breaks. My heart goes along with it. “Do you think we'll just suddenly have a relationship, Dad? I tried. I tried to come to the prison to see you and you refused.”
An oh, shit look takes over his entire being. I sit up taller, leaning toward Amanda.
Not that she needs my strength. She has plenty of her own.
Leo's eyes close, his throat spasms with a thick swallow, and his nostrils flare as he inhales. The non-stop nodding is a tic, maybe learned in prison, a stalling technique for time.
The guy isn't rushing to give an answer.
And we have all the time in the world.
When he finally opens his eyes, decades of pain shine in them.
“I couldn't face you, Mandy. I was so ashamed. Didn't know how to be a dad in prison. It was easier to pretend you didn't exist than to face up to what I'd done and be human. I'm so sorry. I should have done more. I understand if you want to pretend not to have a dad.”
“I don't… I…” Amanda stammers.
Leo stands, hands flat on the table, head down, shoulders curled in. It's a stance of pain, of a wounded warrior struggling to re-center.
“I'll leave you. Grateful you came at all, Mandy. And those babies are so lucky to have a mom like you.”
“Dad, wait.” Amanda touches the back of his hand. “This isn't all or nothing.”
He flinches, then lets out an enormous sigh. He was holding his breath.
“You sound like the therapists in group. Is that what you do for a living?” he asks with a tender smile.
“I run the market research department at Andrew's company.”
“Yeah?” Grateful for a less fraught topic, he looks at me. “What's your company do?”
I just blink.
“I'm the head of Anterdec.”
Zero recognition.
“What do you guys do?”
I play it safe. “Real estate.”
“Gotcha.” Uncertainty makes his eyes shifty, until finally he looks at Amanda and says, “I don't know what to do next.”
Her hand flies to her throat, nervous and flittery. “Oh, Dad. I think you're doing it.”
“But I'm not doing anything.”
“You're here. That's more than you've done in decades.”
“Jesus, Mandy. I owe Pam one hell of a life debt. She raised you right.”
And then Leo's shoulders begin to shake, all pretense of holding it together draining away. His butt plunks down on his seat, the umbrella tilting slightly from the force. Head down, the bill of his hat covering his eyes, he rests weathered elbows on his knees and cradles his face. I'm sure he's crying.
Guys like this don't sob in public. I'm embarrassed for him.
Admire him a little, too.
The guy I thought I had to protect my wife from turns out to be more complex than I ever expected.
Maybe I'm the one who needs some lessons in all-or-nothing thinking.
Amanda's crying now, and gives me a look that says, What do I do now?
I shrug. I squeeze her hand. I look at Leo.
How the hell do I know?
Abruptly, he wipes his eyes with the backs of his hands and stands, red-rimmed irises the color of Amanda's own staring at her.
“Look, Mandy, I–I gotta go. Not to be rude or anything. I'm–I'm breaking patterns, you see? And right now, this is me making amends. Sorta. But I have to confess, I want a drink right now, real bad. Awful bad. And when I get like this, I have to go call my sponsor and talk it out. Do the work. So I need to leave. Not because I don't–I don't...” His voice cracks. “Not because I don't care, but because I do. I need to change, Mandy.”