Body Language

Alexandra refolded the brochure and slid it back into its slot on the shelf.

Her father’s mist of white hair was wild, one side mushed flat, the top and other side aswirl with cowlicks. He carried a black suitcase in his right hand, and apparently he’d discovered the drawer where Alexandra had hidden his .38 service revolver. The holstered pistol high on his right hip.

‘Dad, what do you think you’re doing?’

He set the suitcase down and drew the pistol and aimed it across the breakfast table at Stan.

‘Call for backup,’ her father said. ‘We have an intruder, Alex. And he looks like trouble.’

‘Dad, no.’

Stan leaned back in his chair and held very still.

‘That goddamn thing better not be loaded.’

‘Dad, give me the pistol right now.’

‘All right, sonny, don’t move a muscle. Put the fork down and stand up and spread your legs. We’re just going to give you a quick pat-down for weapons.’

‘If that gun’s loaded, Alex, the old man is out of here today. Sunny Pines, Century Arms, whichever one is cheaper.’

‘There aren’t any bullets in the house, Stan. Just relax and let me handle this.’

‘You resisting arrest, sonny? That what we have here? A smart aleck?’

Alex rested a hand on her father’s shoulder and reached out for the pistol, but he shied away and kept his aim on Stan’s chest.

‘Dad, please. Put the pistol down.’

‘I believe I recognize this lawbreaker,’ he said. ‘Yes indeed. I put this one away back in the seventies. Armed robbery. Held up a gas station near the airport, wounded the attendant and two patrons. Went by the name of Frank Sinatra. Got a free ride to Raiford, thirty hard ones.’

‘Frank Sinatra,’ Stan said. ‘Jesus.’

With his eyes on the pistol, Stan bent forward, scooped up more of his breakfast, and patted his mouth with his napkin.

‘Okay, Frank, quit stalling. On your feet, and do it slowly, with your hands in plain view.’

‘Dad, stop it. This is Stan, my husband. He lives here.’

Her father swiveled his head and gave her a careful look.

‘You married this ex-con, this goddamn lowlife? Don’t tell me that, Alexandra. Don’t break an old man’s heart.’

‘Dad, this is Stan Rafferty. He’s my husband. You used to watch him play football in high school.’

‘What? You married a football player?’

‘Yes, Dad. You gave me away, remember? St Jude’s. It was July, a hot day. All the bridesmaids in pink. You and Mother were so happy. You remember that. I know you do.’

‘St Jude’s?’

The pistol began to sag. Alexandra put her hand on his arm and lowered it. Her wedding day was one of the moments he still recalled vividly.

‘Pink,’ he said. ‘All the bridesmaids. Yeah, and it was hot, and there was some damn bird in the chapel, a laughing gull trapped in there, flying around, squawking. We all thought that was a sign of something. But I never was any good at reading signs.’

Alexandra tried to pry the pistol out of his hand, but her father pulled away from her and holstered the weapon and buttoned the safety strap.

Stan shook his head and turned the page of the paper, folded it in half the way he liked, got the creases even, and continued to read.

‘You say his name’s Stan?’

‘That’s right, Stan.’

Her father narrowed his eyes, trying to catch her in this lie.

‘What position did he play?’

‘Cornerback at South Miami,’ she said. ‘He was allstate.’

‘Damn right,’ Stan said. ‘MVP in the regionals, too.’

‘Where are my grandchildren? They at school already?’

‘There aren’t any, Dad. Stan and I don’t have any children.’

‘No children? Nine years married and no children?’

‘That’s right.’

‘You got something wrong with you, son? You got a sperm problem, do you?’

Stan looked up from his newspaper. He stared at Alexandra for a few seconds and shook his head again.

‘He probably got adopted by one of those weight-lifting monsters at Raiford. Guy wants to have butt-hole sex five times a day. Before you know it, he’s banged your prostate to death. No wonder you two don’t have any kids.’

Stan slapped his paper down.

‘Hey, shut the hell up, Lawton. You hear me? Can you understand what I’m saying? Just shut the hell up about my prostate and the rest of that garbage.’

‘Don’t talk to him that way, Stan,’ she said quietly.

‘Yeah, yeah. So tell him to stop saying that trash to me, why don’t you?’

‘You know better. Just calm down, control yourself.’

‘Butt-hole sex,’ Stan said. ‘Jesus, I have to listen to this shit at breakfast?’

He was about to say something else, but Alex caught his eye.