Karen T Miller

Published in Lynx Eye, vol. 9, no. 1, 2002                                  Karen T. Miller

Daisy

 When Foster agreed to marry Daisy, the twenty-year-old girl who lived down the hall, he hadn’t counted on her getting killed in a drug bust three months later. But there it was, in the newspaper, on the TV, her blood-splattered body lying small and defeated on a stretcher, the ambulance lights flashing across her pale lifeless face. And there was her boy, Jordy, sprawled on the floor in Foster’s room, watching it over and over like it was some made-up TV show, not the real-life event that it was.

Foster should have known better than to get mixed up with Daisy, but Daisy was not a girl to take no for an answer, and who was he to say no. Foster was fifty-nine. He drank too much and smoked too much. He watched TV. He looked out the window now and then and grumbled about the people who were out there walking around like there was something to live for. And then Daisy opened his door, not timidly or apologetically, but with a boldness that  caused him to jump—that motion of the door being flung open and him sitting there half soused, waving back the smoke from his eyes, the TV blaring.

“Could you watch Jordy? I’ve gotta run to the Quick Pick,” she said without a hi, or I’m your neighbor, or I’m Daisy, this is Jordy. And it pissed him off, her busting in like that and him not knowing who the hell she was. Well, he did know that she lived in the building, although he couldn’t say which rattletrap door she lived behind or on what floor.

“Hell, no! Do I look like a babysitter?” he bellowed, a response that should have sent any right-thinking intruder out the door.

“What’s looks got to do with it?” Daisy yelled back. “Do I look like a frickin’ mother?”

And Foster had to admit that Daisy didn’t look anything like a mother. She looked like some skinny kid who shouldn’t be wearing that stripped-down T-shirt that barely covered her boobs and those cut-off jeans that would have fallen off had it not been for the yellow plastic rope tied around her waist to hold them up. She looked like some kid trying to be grown up. Her hair was thin and brittle, almost white, although he guessed she was attempting to be a blonde. Her face was caked with too much makeup; dark rings circled her eyes from lack of sleep, getting hit, or maybe just a bad batch of mascara. But what really made Foster think she didn’t look like a mother was the way she held the boy’s arm too tight, like she had just caught him in the act of performing some crime against her person and she was determined he was going to pay.

“Well?” she said, as though they were in the middle of a legitimate fight and she wasn’t backing down. “Ten minutes max and I’ll buy you some smokes.”

Foster didn’t think he had said yes, but there it was, the door slammed shut and the little boy sitting on the gunky shag carpet sniveling, hugging his bony knees like he was waiting to get hit. And despite the fact that Foster was loaded and the last thing he wanted was a boy in his room, he heard himself say, “There’s a Cola in the fridge if you want it,” and he could have kicked himself, because it was his last one and he had been counting on having that Cola for breakfast. But the way the boy looked at him, quick and sidewise, then darted to the refrigerator and gulped the Cola down in record time made Foster study him carefully. There was something animal-like about the boy, something wild.

In no time Daisy had reappeared, toting a six-pack of Budweiser and a carton of cigarettes. She opened one end of the carton, pulled out a pack of Winstons and whacked it into Foster’s hand without even a thank you or much obliged, grabbed the boy by the arm, and they were out the door.

A few days later, maybe a week, there she was like a flashback. She was holding the boy by the arm the way she had before, and Foster was drunk. There was no question about that.

“I think we should get married,” she said, and Foster felt sure that he was hallucinating. He waved away the smoke that was circling his head, but she was still there, her eyes locked on his. “I said, we should get married,” she repeated, as though she was saying something that was supposed to make sense. “Well?” she said. “Well?”

“Well, what?” Foster said. “Who gives you the right to come barging in here anytime you want, saying crazy things? Now, get the hell out and stay out!”

“Hey, listen, buster,” Daisy said, her hand on her skinny hip, her eyes shooting darts. “You’re not the only one that’s got troubles. Just because you got your arm cut off don’t mean you’ve got the market on troubles!”

“You listen, girl,” Foster said. “I said, get! Leave!” The boy was starting to snivel. Daisy was twisting his arm like she wanted to hear it snap.

“You’re telling me to leave?” she said. “You’re kicking Daisy out? Well, I just want to tell you one thing, if you don’t marry me you’ll always be the sorry son of a bitch you are. But if you marry me, Social Security will bump up your check and we’ll both be better off. I’m on my last month of welfare. My limit’s up or I wouldn’t be talking to your sorry ass. So there!” Then she whirled around and stomped out the door.

And so they had married. Foster’s Social Security did go up. Daisy and Jordy moved in with him to save on rent, and as much as he hated to admit it, Foster had been disappointed when Daisy started sleeping over at some guy’s place she met on the streets. He was no dummy. Theirs wasn’t a real marriage and Daisy had been right, he didn’t have the market on troubles. Daisy was one screwed-up girl. She could drink him under the table, smoked like a chimney and not just cigarettes, and he suspected she was doing stronger stuff, but he didn’t ask. She wasn’t spending their money for it, so what business was it of his? But Foster did wind up looking out for the boy more and more of the time. Not that he minded. Jordy wasn’t any trouble, really. In fact, Foster was beginning to suspect that the kid wasn’t all there upstairs. There was no way of knowing for sure, but it wasn’t surprising seeing how Daisy was his mother.

And now she was dead, her picture splashed all over the newspaper and TV, and Foster knew that the world was a shabbier place because Daisy had left it, and he was stunned by the realization that at the age of fifty-nine he had a son. Jordy, this half-wild creature that Daisy had begat to the world, was his and his alone. 

Foster got out of his chair and picked up the beer cans and partially eaten TV dinners that were scattered around the room. He scraped the mold off the plates, cups, and glasses piled high in the sink, washed the dishes, and stacked them in the drain rack. He shaved his four-week growth of beard, took a bath, and shampooed his hair. He even washed his dandruff-caked comb, something he couldn’t remember ever doing. Foster hadn’t been this ambitious in twelve years, since he got his arm cut off in a work accident.

 “Come on, kid,” Foster said, taking Jordy by the arm, pulling him up from the floor where he sat in front of the TV. “We’re going for a ride.” It surprised Foster when he said that. He hadn’t driven his pickup in nine months. It was hard for a one-armed man to drive drunk. When he needed food, beer, or cigarettes, he would just walk the block and a half to the Quick Pick, load up a stray shopping cart, then squirrel away in his room until his supplies ran out. Foster could go for three weeks sometimes without going outside. He hated having to leave his room, but when his last beer was empty, that would always get him out the door.

Foster rummaged through the magazines, partially empty packs of cigarettes, and junk mail piled high on the table until he located the keys. “Ready?” Foster said, and Jordy followed him out the door as if that was part of their daily routine.

The pickup was still parked in the alley, Foster was pleased to see. He raked the twigs and leaves off the windshield, rubbed the layer of dirt off the windows with his sleeve, got into the truck, and to his surprise after a few false starts, the motor turned over. Jordy sat on the cracked seat beside him swinging his legs.

“Where you wanna go, kid?” Foster said.

“Daisy,” Jordy replied, and Foster didn’t have the heart to tell him just then. But little did he know there was no need because they hadn’t been driving for more than five minutes when a white van pulled right out in front of them that had DAISY DELIVERIES printed across its side in bold black letters, and at that moment, Foster knew that even a bullet hole in the chest couldn’t keep Daisy down.

“Well, kid, I think you got your wish,” Foster said and sped after the van, whipping around corners, weaving in and out of traffic. He even ran a red light to keep on its tail. Finally, the van pulled over. Foster could feel his heart racing. He pulled up beside the driver’s door.

The driver was a young man, probably thirty or so, who looked very pissed off. “Roll down your window, kid,” Foster said, trying not to show his disappointment.

Jordy cranked the handle, using both hands, working hard, his face balled up in a frown.

“Well?” the van driver said when the window finally slid down into the door.

“Well, what?” Foster said.

“I’ve been seeing you riding my tail all over town. What the hell do you want?”

“Daisy,” Foster said, and the moment he said her name he knew she’d played him for a fool. He could see it now, rather, hear it. Those were Daisy’s words coming out of that mouth.

“Move your truck, old man,” Daisy said.

“Take a good long look, kid,” Foster said. “That’s Daisy there talking.” But Jordy didn’t seem to catch on. He looked at the driver, then at Foster, back and forth, back and forth.

“I said move your damn truck!” the driver yelled, and Foster grinned. It was Daisy all right.

“Okay, okay!” Foster said, chuckling. He put the truck in drive and drove Jordy back home. 

And that was just the first time Daisy came back, or rather, Foster liked to think Daisy had never really left. She was out there, just not easy to spot, but she kept surfacing, leaving clues. Sometimes she would appear on the TV screen or in a newspaper article. She would show up as a grocery clerk, or a homeless person begging for money, and even once as a little red-haired girl he and Jordy saw in the park. Foster tried to point her out to Jordy, because Jordy missed Daisy something awful despite how mean she had been to him, but he never seemed to figure it out. 

Meanwhile, Foster was proud to say, he was getting to be a pretty good dad. He quit drinking so much, kept his place halfway clean, and he was showing Jordy the things kids were supposed to see. Every day, Foster would drive Jordy around town, circling neighborhoods where there were lots of kids and dads, and Foster would observe. One day he saw a dad and his boy washing their car, so he and Jordy washed the truck. One day he saw a dad and his little girl playing in their yard with a kitten, so he got Jordy a puppy. One day when they were downtown, he saw a string of kids and some adults entering a large stone building. He pulled the truck over to the curb, fed the meter, and he and Jordy trotted after them. It was a museum, he discovered, with dinosaur bones and such. The whole afternoon he and Jordy had trailed after the group, stopping to look at the things the group looked at. He even repeated some of the comments he overheard the adults make such as, “The Brachiosaurus didn’t eat any meat, only grass and leaves,” but Jordy hadn’t seemed overly impressed.

While Foster was learning to be a dad, something was happening to Jordy, something Foster couldn’t quite put his finger on. It was a Saturday afternoon, and they were at the city park. Jordy had been sliding down the slide over and over, and Foster was getting tired. It was hard for him, at his age, to keep up with a four-year-old. But actually, what had been weighing on Foster that day was the fact that he hadn’t seen Daisy for almost a week. It was wearing him thin, all that looking, all that waiting.

“Come on, kid,” Foster said. “Time to go, now,” but Jordy ignored him. He bounced down the slide, and then raced back to the ladder. “Come on, boy,” Foster said, a gruff tone ruffling up his words, and that made Jordy stop short. He stood looking right at Foster, his dark eyes filled with defiance.

“Jordy,” Jordy said.

 It made Foster pause. Jordy rarely spoke and now he was speaking in a way that demanded to be heard.

 “Okay, okay. Just come on, now,” Foster said, trying to take in what was happening, feeling disoriented.

“Jordy. Call me Jordy,” the boy said. It was as though they were involved in a standoff of some kind. Jordy’s face had a hard look to it, one Foster had never seen before. Plus, for the first time ever, the boy had just spoken a complete sentence.

“Okay, Jordy. No problem,” Foster said, trying to figure out why this seemed so familiar, so very familiar.

“That’s better,” Jordy said. He had his hand on his hip now, his skinny hip. “And don’t you forget it,” he said. Just like Daisy.