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Back Devotion Save as PDF
Chapters (47)
  1. Cover
  2. Prologue
  3. 1
  4. 2
  5. 3
  6. 4
  7. 5
  8. 6
  9. 7
  10. 8
  11. 9
  12. 10
  13. 11
  14. 12
  15. 13
  16. 14
  17. 15
  18. 16
  19. 17
  20. 18
  21. 19
  22. 20
  23. 21
  24. 22
  25. 23
  26. 24
  27. 25
  28. 26
  29. 27
  30. 28
  31. 29
  32. 30
  33. 31
  34. 32
  35. 33
  36. 34
  37. 35
  38. 36
  39. 37
  40. 38
  41. 39
  42. 40
  43. 41
  44. 42
  45. Acknowledgments
  46. About the Author
  47. About the Publisher

He whispered something desperate and sad about always liking me. He said please, but I wasn’t listening. I’m not quite sure how I got away from him or whether my pitiable image of him watching me go is imaginary or not. In my mind I was already underground, racing beneath the foul expanse of the East River on a hard plastic seat, thinking about how we love alone.

42

MY DAD WAS NOT A RICH MAN, BUT HE WORKED STEADILY OVER the course of his life, first in auto restoration, then briefly as a truck driver, and finally in construction. The only time he’d been unemployed was during the first two years of my life, during the tail end of the recession of the eighties.

He’d been on his feet, using his hands every day, which meant his salary had never risen very far, but he hadn’t spent what he did earn on anything unnecessary. His house, like my Crown Heights bedroom, had stayed empty. He never bought basic furniture beyond beds for the two of us, a sofa, and a small kitchen table. He didn’t travel. He drove that busted pickup for nearly twenty years. We watched bad movies on that same box TV for my whole adolescence.

He did, however, pay off his little house in the woods and save for retirement. What I received was enough, if I lived like him in my empty little bedroom with cheap clothes, to support me for a while.

Nearly every day is the same. It’s not unlike unemployment, though I afford myself enough food and the luxury of alcohol at night. I get up early. I grab a notebook and walk. It’s funny; at one time I would’ve gone straight to James and asked for my job back. Or I would’ve let him stay over that night he showed up drunk to tell me the news of Lonnie’s departure, but I no longer trust him. I no longer trust myself. I don’t want to become Lonnie anymore. The seasons have changed.

I stop at a rotating selection of cafés and order a black coffee. Sometimes I pull out my notebook and other times I just sit and watch, my hands cradling the cup, trying to stay warm. I’ll recognize a certain feature or mannerism—that upturned nose, the way she shrugged her shoulders, and I’ll have to look again, just to be sure.