demeanor silenced my mouth, my brain.
Don’t you ever come in here again!
he yelled, flipping the pearls over
my neck and yanking the rings off
my fingers. I ran from the room, crying.
Why was Daddy so mad? He was the one
who told me it would be all right
to play dress-up with Rhonda’s things.
When I finally emerged, still confused, Dad and Rhonda were in the kitchen
talking about nothing in particular.
I let myself forget the awful experience, at least until Rhonda later came screaming about her emerald ring gone missing.
I denied. Dad denied. I swore I never saw the darn thing, knowing Dad had taken it from me. But neither of us mentioned that, and somehow Dad convinced her
some burglar must have stolen it.
We only stayed at Rhonda’s a few more
days, and after we left I saw that green stone ring exactly one more time— right before Dad pawned it. That night, as we enjoyed a steak dinner, I asked, “Daddy? Why did you tell me Rhonda
said it was okay to play dress-up with her stuff? I think it made her mad.”
Across the table, he lowered his eyes, and what I saw inside them made
me want to duck. You listen to me.
I never told you it was okay to go in that woman’s room. You’re making that up, and I won’t have my daughter turn into a lying whore like her mother.
Do you understand me? You’d better.
I Didn’t Know
Exactly what a whore was, but I understood him just fine, and never brought it up again.
Some things don’t need a detailed explanation.
But it wasn’t the last time he made me believe one thing, then yanked my certainty right out from under me. He’s sort of an expert, and even though I realize it, I always seem to give him the benefit of the doubt and heap blame on myself.
Does that make me crazy, or only sympathetic to his own eccentricities?
I think maybe he’s only testing my sense of loyalty.
I hope I rate an A-plus.
Especially Because
I need his cooperation now.
The coffee idea seems to have worked because he comes
padding into the kitchen,
wearing flannel pajamas
that have seen better days.
“God, Dad. Buy yourself
some new pj’s, would you
please? That material is so
thin, I can see your hairy
legs right through it.”
Didn’t anyone ever tell you it’s creepy to check out your old man’s leg hair? I didn’t raise a pervert, did I? Now, how about a cup of that coffee?
“I’ll pour it for you, but you have to decide if you want
sugar and cream in it. I’m not exactly experienced at
barista-ing. It could be gross.”
Maybe I should make you take a sip first, prove it’s not poison . . . or piss. Pretty sure that’s how they make it at the so-called coffee shop Zelda is so damn fond of.
I hand him a cup without tasting it first, and he takes a tentative slurp. His eyes fly open wide and his upper lip
snarls and I’m thinking I did something terribly wrong
until he smiles. Just kidding.
It’s not bad at all. If your little girlfriend was the one who taught you how to make coffee, please give her a big thank-you kiss for me. Did he really just say that?
Does that mean he suspects?
But, no. It must be another
of his not-so-funny jokes,
or else I would’ve heard
judgment in his voice.
He carries his cup over to
the table, sits. What’ve you got going on today? You planning on seeing that boy or what?
Uh-oh. This could go a number of ways, so I’ll head him off at the pass. “No. But now that you’ve asked, I’m hoping you’ll drive me into town. I want to go to the hospital and visit Hillary.”
He Looks at Me
Long and hard, but apparently
doesn’t discern anything
suspicious in my body language.
Still, he comments, I didn’t realize that girl was a friend of yours.
I avoid saying she isn’t exactly.
“She’s starting guard on our team.
I want to find out how she’s doing.”
He shrugs. Okay by me. I was going over to Zelda’s anyway.
Ka-ching. “I’m going to meet
Monica there and we’ll hang out somewhere until you’re ready
to come get me, if that’s all right?”
As long as the two of you aren’t picking up strange men.
No problem there, Dad, and
now I can quit worrying
that you’ve intuited our secret.
“When can we leave? I want
to give Monica a time frame.”
Time frame? How about when I’m damn good and ready?
To Be Fair
He answered my question.
I go shower,
brush my teeth,
dress in my usual
jeans and tee, this time a long-sleeved shirt in pastel teal.
The shade of a sunrise sea.
Monica likes this
color on me, says
it contrasts nicely with the quiet titian of my hair. Well, not in those exact words.
She said it en espa?ol.
I’m starting to like the Spanish language, not that I know much of it yet, but it’s soft and rolling and mostly logical, near as I can tell.
If I were more fluent, I’d make this call in Monica’s family’s native tongue. One day.
This Day
I manage a simple, “Hola,