Bret Anthony Johnston

For the two years between my mother's leaving and my father giving me the Cadillac, he intentionally left the keys in the ignition and the doors unlocked. He said he wanted someone to steal the car so he could file an insurance claim. I'd believed him at the time, but after La Cocina closed, I found myself thinking more about it and doubting him. He'd never put an ad in the paper or a FOR SALE sign in the window, so I suspected that he wouldn't have reported the car stolen or tried to claim any money; I think he wanted the car gone, but couldn't bear to get rid of it. My father, I think, was an idealist.

I worked at Blue Water until school started up again. I loaned thieves and addicts money for mounted javelina heads and leather jackets and leaf blowers; I sold stolen pistols to cops and widows and preachers. I listened to men lie about women and fishing, brawling and hunting, and my father taught me how to study a diamond through a jeweler's lens, to see how its imperfections determined its beauty. He quizzed me on how much to pay for solitaires, how low to sell princess cuts. We spoke in code. We skirted the topic of the Fleetwood's roof. In September, the heat relented and troughs of cooler air brought bands of rain in from the Gulf. If I saw thunderclouds carpeting the sky through Blue Water's windows, I'd run into the parking lot and cover the Fleetwood's interior with a tarp. I weighted the corners with barbells someone had pawned, and after the rain dispersed, I wadded the tarp into a ball and shoved it in the trunk.

One Friday night — Blue Water's busiest because everyone needs loans for the weekend — I pulled out my tarp and uncovered a bag of tortillas from the wedding Mrs. Martinez had catered in Portland. The tortillas had slipped under the spare tire and were fuzzy with gray mold. My stomach went whispery, my ears burned. I wanted to throw the bag into the street or on top of the pawnshop's roof, but I left it where it was and slammed the trunk shut and drove home.

The phone was ringing when I got to the house, but I didn't answer it. My father had barged into Blue Water's parking lot as I was accelerating away, and I didn't want to hear how I'd disappointed him again. He called a second, third, and fourth time, but I only stared at the receiver, unable to will myself answer. He'll tell me I'm irresponsible, I thought. He'll say I lack discipline. When I finally picked up, his voice was tight and deliberate. “Stay there,” he said. “We need to break bread.”

“Will do, professor.”

Five minutes later he called back. I answered by saying, “Still here, professor.”

“Julian? This is Carlos. Maybe you remember me. I used to work — ”

“Where are you?” I asked. Then I was out the door.

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