“What happened?” La La asks.
“Started like a thousand other jobs,” Zev says. The lock pops open with a click, a sound that gives him pleasure and satisfaction even in the midst of his troubles. “Big house. Fresh paint. They take care of the outside, there’s good stuff on the inside. I’d seen an RV there, but it was gone, so I figured they were on vacation. But I was still careful. I rang the bell a million times.” Zev squeezes the shackle closed and goes to work on the lock again, telling La La how he jimmied the back door. “It was quiet inside. First thing I see is a painting of an old lady. She’s giving me the evil eye. Should’ve known then the place was trouble. But I was sure I was gonna get a good haul. I grabbed the silver. A block of cash from the back of the freezer. Might as well tie a bow around it, but I’m not complaining. I thought about leaving then, but your tuition was due. I hate for you to take out all those loans.”
“It’s what everyone does,” La La says, but Zev ignores her.
“I started up the stairs. Next thing I know, an old man is at the top. Guy’s yelling. He sounds drunk. Must have been hard of hearing or something to miss the bell. Something’s wrong with him. His face droops. He tries to grab the banister and falls halfway down the stairs.” Zev’s hands freeze. He stares at the lock, which remains closed, then looks up at La La, as if she can explain how things went so terribly wrong in the house.
She would give anything to change the end of the story, which O’Bannon told her, but all she can do is listen until he comes to it.
“I knew I should get out of there. But I couldn’t. Not without calling nine-one-one. I’m not a murderer. I just wanted to rob the guy.” He describes how he pulled out his cell phone, then remembered he removes the battery when he’s working to prevent the police from tracking him. “I called from the guy’s phone in the kitchen. Just dialed and left the phone off the hook so they wouldn’t get a recording of my voice. Then I ran.
“Driving home, I felt good. I was glad I called. I figured the dispatcher would see the address of the house on his screen. He’d send someone and the old man would be okay.”
Zev rests the lock and pick on the polished coffee table. “Didn’t realize until I got home that I left my phone on the guy’s counter.” He takes his head in his hands, clutching the short, gray hair.
According to O’Bannon, the police traced the phone to Zev. Claude Thomas, the old man, had a stroke. The EMTs got him to the hospital in time to save his life, but he was in a coma, on life support. The DA was threatening to charge Zev with murder if he died.
“I got rid of the crowbar and the silver before the police searched the house.”
Pinching her worn cotton shirt—an old one of Clem’s that swallows her—away from her chest, La La fans herself with it. She should have stopped taking Zev’s money a long time ago. But until yesterday, she believed he owed it to her. “I could pay O’Bannon.”
Zev disappears into the kitchen. “Oh, yeah. How would you manage that?” he calls. Cabinets open and close, and he returns with a jar of metal polish, a rag, and a newspaper.
“The same way you would, if you weren’t stuck in the house.”
He spreads the newspaper on the coffee table. “Nope. No way. You have to finish school.” Dipping the rag into the polish, he goes to work on the lock though the steel already gleams.
La La lifts Mo onto her lap and strokes the cat’s belly. “If a public defender represents you, you’ll end up in prison.”
“I’ll end up in prison no matter what.”
“You saved the guy’s life. O’Bannon will make the DA see that. He’ll get you probation.”
Zev lifts the rag from the metal. “He said that?”
“No.”
He polishes the shackle. “I’m your father. I take care of you. You don’t take care of me.” He rubs the lock so hard, La La expects the rag to tear. “I’ll see if I can get a loan on the house,” Zev says.
La La sinks back into the cushions, relieved to keep her own ambitions alive, so close to fulfillment she smells sterile wipes when she breathes. She’ll return to the veterinary hospital on Monday as if no call ever came from O’Bannon.
As Zev pads into the kitchen, one white tube sock bunched below the ankle monitor, the other pulled taut, La La eases Mo from her lap and follows. She heads for the chair that has always been hers, the one pressed against the far wall and too close to the table. Its rubber-tipped metal legs have erased the star pattern in the linoleum. The vinyl seat cover is cracked. She sucks in her abdomen and slides in.
On the side of the yellowing refrigerator, below photos of her college graduation, hangs a castle La La drew in first grade. Gray crayon for the stones; blue for the moat; her mother looming over the turrets, a giant stick figure with brown hair; her father holding La La’s hand. She wonders for the hundredth time why Zev never packed it away.
Zev stores the polish and scrubs his hands. A pot of coffee is warming, and he pours a cup, sprinkling cinnamon on top. He adds a spoonful of Nestlé’s, stirs, and hands the cup to La La. Inhaling the rich smell, she takes a sip. “Little-known fact,” Zev says, “I invented the mocha latte. Starbucks stole it from me.”
“Maybe we ought to report the theft.”
Zev smiles, and La La is glad that despite everything, he still has a sense of humor.
“All I had to do to get a visit from you was to get arrested,” he says. “If I had known that, I would have walked into the precinct years ago.”
It’s been weeks since she’s seen him. Veterinary school keeps her busy. She warms her hands on the ceramic mug, whose fading decal reads WORLD’S BEST DAD. When she was ten, he suggested she buy it for him at a mall, and she did, though she was already becoming skeptical, wondering what her life would have been like if he’d just stuck to locksmithing.
His sweatshirt smells of laundry detergent. The floor reflects a muted shine. “Stay for dinner,” he says, as he wipes the counter.
“Sorry, I can’t.” She’s looking forward to eating with Clem and to pretending for a few hours that her life is normal.
“I guess the quack expects you.”
“Don’t call him that.”
“Why not? He pretends to be a doctor.”
“People choose to see him. They’re not always as happy to get a visit from you.” La La stands up and sets her cup in the sink.
“Even the people I rob need me,” Zev says, washing the mug. “I teach them about impermanence.”
“Where’d you pick that up? Some new-age magazine?”
“Maybe.” He dries the cup.
“I’m sure whatever you read didn’t suggest stealing other people’s stuff.”
Taking out a broom, Zev sweeps the pristine floor. “Not exactly.”
He hands La La a dustpan. She lowers it, catching the invisible dirt Zev pushes into it, going through the motions of emptying it into the trash. “I have to get home.”
“You used to call this home.”
She buttons her coat.
“You’re always welcome back. If it doesn’t work out with the quack.”