More stories from the past go around, all of them panoramic and warm as the Pacific Ocean. When I remind Dad of how we used to listen to Jimmy Buffett songs in the backyard on summer evenings, his smile takes on a wistful curve. “Those were great, great times, Sutter,” he says, and I wonder if there’s not just a little regret in his voice. But then his smile goes back into overdrive. “You know what? They have Jimmy on the jukebox right here. We can listen to the whole CD.”
After he plugs the jukebox, he shuffles back toward the table with his hands stretched out toward Mrs. Gates. “You got your dancing shoes on?” he says, all sly-eyed, and Mrs. Gates is like, “Hoo-boy, you better believe it.”
“Come on, Sutter,” Dad tells me. “Let’s see if you and Aimee can keep up with us old folks.”
Now, to the right music, I’m not a shabby dancer, but Dad and Mrs. Gates are all about Texas swing dancing, which is not my specialty, and doesn’t exactly fit the music all that well. That won’t stop me for a second, though. I’m up for anything. And surprisingly enough, so is Aimee. I’m like, Who is this chick? What happened to the girl I practically had to crowbar out of her seat to get her to dance at the prom? Seems like just the fact that I actually took her suggestion to find my dad shot her confidence full of steroids.
So there the four of us are, on the little, patio-size dance floor, Aimee and I bouncing off each other in this spastic display of bad coordination, while Dad and Mrs. Gates, drunk as she is, whirl around like clockwork.
Taking pity on us, they decide to give us some quick lessons. We switch partners for the second song, and the next thing I know, Dad has Aimee twirling like she just graduated from the Grand Ole Opry or something. On the other hand, I nearly throw Mrs. Gates into the lap of a dude with a belt buckle the size of a cheese platter. She doesn’t care, though. “You are a fabalus dancer,” she tells me. “Just fabalus.”
Next thing I know, a slow song is playing and Mrs. Gates squeezes me to her substantial bosom and plants her hands in my back pockets. It would’ve taken a Molotov cocktail to blow me out of her grasp. Across the way, Dad has Aimee pressed close and scoots her smoothly around the edges of the dance floor. We smile embarrassed smiles at each other, but I can tell she really likes the old man.
You know what? I tell myself. I’m not even going to ask him about what happened with Mom. Better just to ride the smooth breeze and see where that takes us instead. No need to force anything. Tonight’s about reconnection, not solving mysteries.
But when we get back to the table to relax with some more brews, Aimee has to go and ask the question that turns our party time completely inside out. You can’t blame her for what happens, though. It’s a reasonable question. She has no way of knowing that she’s setting off a string of firecrackers right in the middle of Larry’s Bar and Grill.
Chapter 60
“So, Mr. Keely,” Aimee says, still glowing from our dance-floor heroics, “what have you been up to all this time since you left Oklahoma?”
See? It’s perfectly innocent and well intentioned.
Dad starts off vague. “A lot of traveling,” he says. “Here and there, up and down. I was always restless, I guess.” Then the glint sparks in his eye and you know he’s conjured a good memory. “One of my favorite places was Key West, Florida. Oh, man, you should see the sunsets. Like a big butterscotch sundae with swirls of strawberry mixed in, melting into the ocean. Time’s different down there, slower, more relaxed. I bet if I’d stayed there I’d still be five years younger.” He laughs, but I think, in a way, he believes it.
“Why did you leave?” Aimee asks. All evening, she’s listened so hard to every word he said, you’d think she expected him to accidentally reveal the meaning of life at any moment.
“Why did I leave?” He takes a pull on his beer. “Man, that’s a good question. You know, I guess it boils down to that great old American dilemma—the paycheck. Or the lack thereof. The powers that be expect you to get one if you want to eat, drink, and find lodging. That’s the eleventh commandment, man. Thou shalt pay thy debts in a timely manner.”
He finishes his beer and pours another. “But I’ll bet Sutter’s not so interested in why I left Key West as in why I left Oklahoma. Am I right?” He looks at me, one eyebrow raised.
I have to admit the question has crossed my mind.
“And it’s a fair question,” he says. “No doubt about it. Let me start with this—I did want to be there for you and Holly. Man, did I ever want that. I mean, the two of you were more important to me than anything in the world. But apparently, I wasn’t cut out to be a family man, not in the traditional sense anyway. Your mother sure didn’t think I was. And things got to be so uncool between her and me that it seemed better if I wasn’t around. At least for a while. Problem is sometimes a while can turn into an era before you know it.”
This answer doesn’t sit quite right with me, but I don’t get a chance to let it fester. Yet.
“So,” Mrs. Gates pipes up. “What happened between you and your wife?” This contribution surprises me. From the way she’s been staring at the tabletop, I thought she’d passed out.
“The old story,” he says. “Irreconcilable differences. Thing was, she always wanted a future, and I just didn’t have one to give her.”
“Ha!” exclaims Mrs. Gates. She throws her head back, but she’s like a bobblehead doll—her head instantly springs forward again. “In my experience irreconcyclical differences means that the husband and wife have one huge disagreement. She thinks he shouldn’t cheat and he thinks he should!”