If the point of meditation is to clear your mind, erase all the spinning thoughts and words, then Mindy's question is far more effective. Danny's speechless, mouth dropping open like a fish gasping on dry land. "I don't- it's just... There are things-" He stops and starts, eventually blurting out, "I don't know."
"Yes you do."
He grinds his teeth, muscles in his jaw knotting as he fights the answer. "I need someone to... to go with me... because if it's just up to me, I'm turning around right now and driving back to New York."
"Why are you visiting him?"
"He called a couple weeks ago. He sounded weak and old, not at all like the person I remembered."
"Not really an answer."
Danny grinds his teeth, wishing he weren't so desperate for her company. He should just get back in the car and take her back to L.A. Instead he takes a deep breath, blowing it out slowly. "Because it just occurred to me that he's mortal, and probably going to die eventually... maybe even soon."
There's a tickle on the back of his hand, the tip of her index finger tracing the line of his knuckle down to his wrist. "You make fists when you talk about him. Still planning to rearrange his face?"
"It's what I told myself when I was packing my bag, when I plotted out the trip. I wouldn't have come otherwise."
"But?"
"But no. He's seventy. He'd probably have an aneurysm, drop dead at my feet." Danny can picture it, and derives no pleasure from the scene.
"Then what do you want?"
"Answers? Not bullshit excuses, but answers, finally." It is answers he wants, but fear of what those answers may be is another reason he needs to tote Mindy along with him. He can't fall apart with her watching, the stitches holding him together can't unravel while under such bright eyed observation.
"You know, you probably won't get that."
"Great. I thought you were supposed to be helping."
"You might get closure though."
Danny snorts in derision. "Closure. There's no such thing. It's an invented term tossed around by scam artists, life coaches, and sweaty yogis. No offense."
"None taken. I'm not the sweaty one here."
He ignores her jibe. "No one needs closure."
She's basking in the sun like a pleased feline, face turned upward, eyes closed. Danny wishes her sopping poncho wasn't lying in a damp heap in his back seat, because now she's only wearing a thin cotton dress, spaghetti straps like two strands of iridescent fairy floss glowing white against her dark skin. He finds himself staring at the embellishment around the neckline, a hand stitched border of tiny little flowers, each one cerulean blue with a nearly microscopic green leaf. The floral pattern trembles slightly each time she lets out a long breath.
"Helloooo, earth to Danny!" She pokes him gently in the ribs, and he shies away from her touch. "Did you hear what I said? Saying your piece can't be a bad thing. Whether you call it closure or some other 'made up' word doesn't matter."
"I guess."
"Want to practice?"
"No."
"Oh, come on. We could role play. I've always been into that." She wiggles her brows at him suggestively.
Her irreverence has the intended effect, and his lizard brain is supplying a host of inappropriate images. His heart thumps wildly in his chest, sending blood coursing through his veins. Suddenly he wants her, desire kicking him in the gut. He hopes she's oblivious to the flush he can feel heating his skin. He tries to focus on the conversation at hand, and the idea of her pretending to be his father cools his ardor somewhat. "No, somehow I don't think you'd be very convincing as my father."
"Why not? I'd make a fine grumpy old Italian geezer." She pooches out her bottom lip, hand gesturing emphatically in front of her as she deepens her voice. "I'm making you an offer you can't refuse."
"What is that?"
"Charles Brando… The Godfather… Are you even a guy? Everyone knows that."
"Marlon Brando, christ. Don't do that, it's offensive."
They're both sitting now, turned slightly toward one another. The space on the hood is limited, and Mindy's knees keep bumping into his when she wiggles. "Offensive to who?"
"Marlon Brando? Italians? Actors? Pick one." He's laughing now, at the outraged expression on her face.
She shoves at him playfully, but the waxed hood is slippery under him and he goes flying off into the dusty road, the air whooshing out of his lungs in a pained wheeze.
