Clandestine

nineteen

Someone knocks on my door, waking me from my sleep. For a second I think it is my father, but then I realize that he is dead. He's dead. He's dead. He's dead.

If it is not my father, who is it? A thief or or murderer certainly wouldn't have knocked on my door.

I hesitantly call out, "Who is it?"

"It is Mark Lindonia."

I relax. It is the same man from before that my father sent to check on me.

I crawl out of bed, knowing that my hair is a mop of tangles atop my head and my eyes must be bright red. I open the door. His eyes widen for a fraction of an inch before he manages to regain control.

He hurries into the room, and gently guides me to sit down. "What is wrong?"

I try to think of something to say, how I explain that my father is now nothing a corpse.

I end up just opening and closing my mouth.

He uncertainly asks, "Are you...are you on some kind of drug? You can tell me if you are. I won't tell your father."

"You couldn't anyway."

He frowns at my answer, probably thinking that I am very high. "What?"

"My father..." A choking sob racks my chest, "My father is dead."

He blinks at me, "I'm sure it's just a side effect of the drug..."

I slap him, surprising myself and surprising him even more. "I am not high. My father is dead. Marcia Tinsley herself called me to tell me what happened. Apparently he got into a fight at jail and was beaten to death or something."

The man sits down beside me. No, he doesn't sit. He collapses. "Alan...he's dead?"

I nod.

He shakes his head and lays it into his hands, "He's dead?"

"Yes, yes. He's dead. Stop making me say it. He's dead. He's dead. He's dead."

He lays a hand on my shoulder, as if he wants to comfort me but doesn't know where my boundaries are. I'm thankful enough for this. I don't know what I would do to him if this almost a stranger of a man hugged me.

My father trusts him though, so that means I should trust him.

I think.

I couldn't even trust my own father not to get into a fight. I would have thought he would have at least tried to stay out of trouble. But I know how my father is. He's very proud of his reputation. He doesn't allow other people to disrespect him.

But he should have controlled himself just this once, so that could return home. He was going to get out today.

I say, "If you didn't know he was dead, why were you here?"

"I thought he would be here. I brought some food for him. I thought it would be nice to prepare him some real food after all the jail food. But now, I guess..."

I just shake my head.

He says, "Do you have anywhere to go?"

No. I don't. Marcia Quintana was right about one thing. I am just a kid. I don't know how to balance finances or pay taxes or pay bills or try to run my own home or what to do with the staff members or what to say when my father's friends show up looking for a party.

I don't know what to do.

I'm only sixteen, almost seventeen. It's not old enough to legally live on my own. I have a little over a year, and then I can do whatever I want at eighteen. But until then?

I don't have a friend's house to go to. Earlier, I had told this man that I would go to a friend's house if I felt unsafe. He didn't know that I don't have many friends, at least not any my age or in this country. I doubt any of the people I've grown close to on the internet would allow me to come live with them after my father was killed in jail.

But I won't allow this man to care for me. He doesn't deserve that much responsibility over me. He was just supposed to make sure I was safe. Besides, he'd probably just have to put me in some child care services. I try to imagine bouncing from home to home of different strangers. A sour taste fills my mouth.

I say, "Yes, I can go to my friend's house."

"Are you sure?"

I nod.

"If you ever need anywhere to stay, know that you are always welcome at my home. I have more than enough space in my house. I have a son about your age. I'm sure you guys could become friends. Do you go to school with him? His name is James."

I shake my head. I don't want to explain how my father never made me go to school. He 'homeschooled' me. The funny thing is that I've probably learned more than most of those kids in those silly schools. My hours on the internet and buried in my books have taught me everything I need to know about life.

I managed to learn more than any of those kids, without having to deal with any of them. It was really a win-win situation.

The man says, "Well, do you need a ride over to your friend's house?"

"No, her mom is coming to pick me up in a few hours. I just wanted to get some things packed first."

"Are you sure you are happy there? If things don't work out, you are always welcome."

I force a smile, hoping that he can't see how much pain it takes to plaster it on my face. "Really, we are close friends. She'll probably let me live there until I'm eighteen. It'll be just fine."

He says, "Okay, then I guess I'll leave you to get packed unless you need anything. I'll leave the food I brought for dinner in, in case you get hungry. Or, if you want to bring it to your friends house, I'm sure she would enjoy it as a gift."

I nod. He stands to leave. "I'm terribly sorry for what happened to our father. He was such a good man, but he got screwed over too many times. His patience and goodness is really amazing when you consider his life."

I nod again and thank him because that's what's expected of me.

He leaves and I wait until I hear the front door slam until I get off my bed. I stumble downstairs to see what food he has brought me. I don't know where my father keeps all his money, so I don't know when I'm going to be able to go grocery shopping.

I don't know what I'm going to be able to do anything.

How much money is in my father's bank accounts? Is it enough to support me for a few months? A year? How much is left after his big party? Is there only enough to last a few weeks?

Fear settles into the pit of my stomach.

I don't know if I'm going to be able to survive on my own. I should run after that man, tell him that I really do need help. Maybe if I confess that actually don't have many friends at all, any actually, then he might take pity on me. Maybe he will let me stay at his house without turning me into child services. If I promise to work for him as a staff member or something, he might let me stay.

But I stay in the kitchen, staring at the groceries sitting on the counter.

I realized that my vomit is gone from the floor. He must have cleaned it up. Maybe that's why he thought I was high, too. I don't blame him. I would rather be on drugs than suffering through the sting ripping my heart apart.

If that man was willing to clean up my own vomit, surely he wouldn't be so bad to live with.

But the opportunity has passed.

Do I have the humility to go back to someone and ask them for help, after I've reassured them several times that I am just fine?

I wish I did, but I'm too stubborn. I would have to struggle to survive here first before I'd ever admit failure.

Perhaps Marcia Quintana is right. Maybe I am too much like my father.

The thought fills my heart with pride.