Page 58 -

The Disciple (continued from preceding page)
an uncomfortable lull in our conversation, he cast
his gaze around the bedroom and recommended the housekeeping agency along the river. I’m sure he was only trying to be helpful. At that time, coming so soon after my acrimonious divorce, the apartment was
still a bit—disordered. The piles of unwashed clothes scattered on the floor and the cardboard boxes stacked high against the walls and windows made the place feel claustrophobic, maze-like, purgatorial.
The next morning, while I took a scalding shower, my new friend promptly disappeared. After that he stopped coming to the cafe, but I always hoped he might return to provide some kind of explanation.
A silly thing for a woman my age to wish. If one day
a guilty-looking man bearing a bouquet of flow-
ers showed up at my door, would the housekeeper politely wave him inside? Would she offer to take his coat? Ask if he’d care for something to drink? Did she even know how to make a proper cocktail? Maybe while cleaning the loft, she’d gotten into the habit of fixing herself a stiff drink or two. I do not mark the bottles. Also, whenever I know my daughter is com- ing to spy on me, I lock the liquor in a storage unit in the basement, always making sure to re-set the elec- tronic code. Even someone as devious as my little girl can’t figure out how to get in there. It’s a pity when a mother can’t trust her own daughter.
Now, I picked half-heartedly at the chocolate crumbs scattered on the countertop and waited for my daughter to visit the lavatory. When she finally ex- cused herself, I rushed to the wet bar and gathered up the decanter of scotch, the bottle of bourbon, the bitters, even the ice bucket and stainless-steel shaker engraved with my initials. I hid everything at the bot- tom of a laundry basket in the back of my bedroom closet. Irritated by this inconvenience, I decided to call the housekeeping agency to lodge a complaint. But first a quick call to my ex-husband seemed to be in order. He had no business sending our daughter here to collect evidence against me. Cursing under my breath, I sat at the edge of my bed and dialed the number, but my call went straight to voicemail.
“Dad’s on a date.”
I looked up with a startled gasp.
Smiling in that infuriatingly cryptic way of hers, my daughter stood in the bedroom doorway, her arms crossed, a fresh cigarette dangling from the corner
of her mouth. It was now six o’clock. The loft was glowing red with a winter sunset, and I didn’t like the way the light played on her face. She refused to wear makeup, not even lipstick and eyeshadow. Four years ago, around the time she was starting to change, I voiced my concerns about her appearance. “She’s just experimenting with different expressions of identity.” That’s what my husband said, but to my ears this sounded suspiciously like ideological jargon, the kind of thing he’d picked up from listening to public radio during his morning commute to work.
After taking a deep drag on her cigarette, my daugh- ter showed me a modicum of courtesy by turning her head and exhaling out the door.
“Have you met her yet?” she asked.
I put my phone on the nightstand, calmly folded my hands in my lap, and told her with a smile that a mu- tual acquaintance from the gym let me know all about the yoga instructor. A fit and attractive young woman, if the rumors were true, but not someone you’d call an intellectual.
My daughter stepped into my room and ran her index finger along the dresser. Behind her the windows rattled from the icy gusts shrieking across the frozen lake, and for the tenth time that day, I dreamed of mov- ing away from this miserable midwestern city of sleet and snow and going someplace warm and sunny.
It then occurred to me that this surprise visit had nothing at all to do with my birthday. My daughter had been looking for an excuse to leave the house. Perfectly understandable, I said. A middle-aged man and a flexible yoga instructor must get pretty noisy at night. And what child wants to hear her father in the throes of passion, screaming out a stranger’s name?
I told my daughter she was more than welcome to spend the night with me. We could make popcorn, bake cookies, watch a spooky movie.
She inspected her finger for dust and walked into the master bathroom. She directed her gaze at the mir- ror above the sink and suddenly stiffened. I asked if everything was alright. She switched on the light and leaned forward, her reflection obscured by a line of dark red lipstick defacing the mirror.
Curious, I strode across the room and stood in the doorway. I’ve always been superstitious, an embar-
51