The day before Kristen left, we had a big barbeque in their back yard with his sponsor and her sponsor and all of their other AA friends to celebrate Stan’s two-year chip. We grilled fish and shrimp, tofu and tempeh burgers. Phoebe and I volunteered to circulate with the trays of sushi. The coolers were all iced up brimming with Calistogas and Martinelli’s, sodas and juices. Stan and Kristen seemed happy, arms around each other, all kisses and affection. (I’d never seen my parents hug). But the very next day, Kristen’s leotards and leg warmers and her rainbow array of high top sneakers were all packed into her duffel bags and gone. Since then Stan’s been drinking again. He’s barely picked up his trumpet. He doesn’t even finish his scales before going off for yet another drive.

Phoebe and Stan are talking about the Star Wars movies and she asks, “Dad, do you think I’m pretty enough to be an actress?”

He says, “You’d rule the world hon, if you didn’t let your own fears get in the way.”

Phoebe is looking into the night sky, dreaming stars and smiling. She says, “I wonder when the fireworks will start.” They’re huddled together and she puts her head on his shoulder. It is silent all around except for the chirring of crickets. It sounds like escaping in the middle of the night. It is the sound of hope and fear stuffed so deep it coos.

My father says, “Elle, your mother and I risked our lives to come here. I know you’ll make us proud. I know you’ll care for us when we’re old.” He massages his feet. He soaks them in a big pot of warm water and sits back on the couch. Often he’ll ask me, “How did I get reincarnated from a man to a mule all in a lifetime? Why go on at all?”

A warm wind passes and we sigh. We can see out past the Marin Headlands and then the very faint beam from the light-house on Angel Island. Right beside the old Russian forts is the island prison of Alcatraz. Beyond it is San Quentin and Stan just stares. He takes small sips and closes his eyes after each one.

He swigs from his bottle and sets it down with a chink. I watch his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down, up and down, two gulps total. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand then taps my knee. “Hold this will ya?” Stan hunches over and springs to his feet like a cat. He’s squatting with his hands on the ledge and butt in the air.

Phoebe says, “Stop, you’re not funny.”