The
Roses Were a Riot
by Pia Z. Ehrhardt
I only
meant to run some errands. All morning, I’d begged
my mom to send me places. My driver’s license was
a day old and collecting dust. My aunt stopped over
for coffee, so I appealed to her. I needed practice,
I argued, street variety -- some Interstate, a cloverleaf
exit, downtown gridlock. My aunt said, sure, take
her car. My mom shrugged, gave me her cell phone,
in case, and a list: Wal-Mart for Cokes on sale, the
library to return a book, Rite-Aid for lipstick that
would look good on both of us.
I’d changed into an aqua
halter-top, put on brighter makeup. My music was loud,
and I had one hand on the wheel and the seat tilted
back so I wouldn't look like a driver's ed honor student.
I was checking out other drivers to see if they looked
casual, too, when I spotted my dad. He was in his
car at the Carrollton intersection waiting for the
light, watching some girls cross the street. He had
on a baseball cap with a long bill, like a guy. He
glanced my way and smiled different, like I was a
hottie. It was weird and flattering being scoped out
by your father. I guess he wasn't expecting me behind
the wheel of my aunt's car. He looked up at the signal,
then pulled off. I followed him to see what things
he did when he was alone.
He headed down Jefferson
Highway, stopped at Michelin World and had his tires
rotated. That took thirty minutes. I stayed on the
other side of the lot. Then, he stopped at Texaco,
went into the little store and came out with a six-pack
of beer and a bag of Doritos. He drove down River
Road, uptown near Tulane University, and I stayed
a few cars behind. A van in front of me blocked my
view, but I caught his car turning left, onto Laurel
Street, and I turned, too, but I forgot my blinker
and the woman behind me slammed on her brakes. I flipped
her off behind my head and she blew her horn two times,
which in my world means "Eat shit". My dad pulled
in front of a yellow house with a gray porch, white
trim, shrubs, and went up to the door and inside without
knocking.
I pulled up, too, and
waited for him to come out. I waited forty minutes.
Eventually, I walked over to the mailbox and took
out envelopes. Valerie Wiesnyski. I didn't know her,
couldn't even pronounce the name. I put her telephone
bill in my purse, and called my mother on the cell
phone and told her I needed to know if dad wanted
our vacation photos picked up from the Fox booth while
I was out. Would she page him on his beeper?
I waited some more, opened
my window and smoked a cigarette. Every song on the
radio was one I hated so I turned it off. I called
my mom again, told a dirty joke about a debutante’s
version of the two biggest lies. The check's in
your mouth and I won't cum in the mail. She wanted
to disapprove, but laughed. I called her back to say
I was passing Tulane's campus. The rose bushes were
a riot. I might just live at home and go to college
there. She said I'd still have a curfew and mentioned
Dad hadn’t called her back. I beeped my father and
left mom's phone number with a 911 at the end. I called
my mom to keep her company, asked if Dad was what
she imagined when she was my age. She said I should
be so lucky. I beeped my father, punched in the number
to the cell phone, and put a 666 at the end.
This time he called back
and I got out of the car and walked around in front
of Valerie's house while we talked. I could see him
through the front window. I asked him where he was
and he said at a friend's, planning a surprise for
mom. I said mom’s birthday was six months away. The
neighbor next door started weed-whacking so I yelled
into the phone that it would be impossible to keep
this a secret. He said to be his baby girl, help him
out, please, and to use my blinkers next time or I
was going back to driving school. I'd almost been
back-ended. I said, “Sure Daddy, but what will you
do for me?” “Name it,” he says, smiling. “How about
your Exxon card for a year?” I said, and he nodded
his head, sure, and pulled it out of his wallet, waved
it at me through the window.
