child.”
“He doesn’t, Officer,” I cut in. “I have sole temporary custody.”
“Roger has as much right to be with his son as you do!” Surfer Girl blurted out.
“Who’s this?” Officer Navansky asked Roger.
“Not that I’m required to tell you, but the young lady is my friend.”
Surfer Girl scowled at Roger. “I’m his girlfriend, Officer.”
The cop shot me a sympathetic look. “I’m going to have to insist that the young lady wait outside.”
She tightened her grip on Roger’s arm. “I’d like to stay with my boyfriend, please. He needs the moral support.”
The cop put a hand on her arm. “I’m sorry, miss. There’s enough tempers flaring in this room as it is. Please wait outside.”
She released her grip and reluctantly skulked out. Officer Navansky guided her with a hand on her back and closed the door
behind her.
“Mr. Tisdale, is it true that your wife has sole custody of your son?”
“Temporary custody.” Roger flicked an imaginary lintball off his sleeve.
“Temporary or not, is it true, sir?” Navansky pressed. “You might as well be honest, sir. One phone call and I can find out
for myself.”
“Yes. It’s true.” He stared at me acidly. I stared back.
“Then I’m going to have to ask you to remove yourself and your friend there from the premises.” Officer Navansky reached for
Roger’s elbow. He jerked back and flailed an arm. The other cops put their hands on their guns and moved in toward Roger.
Officer Navansky withdrew his hands. “You can go of your own accord, sir, or we can help you. It’s your choice.”
Roger straightened his beret and shot me another corrosive stare. “Keep your hands off me. I’m going.”
“You can give me that ticket now if you want to,” I told Officer Navansky, aware of the guile in my suggestion. I knew he
wouldn’t ticket me.
“No, no, just forget about it.” He put a fatherly arm around my shoulder. “My own daughter has the same problem with her ex.
That creep left her for a younger gal and now he thinks he has the right to see his kid whenever he pleases. Let me tell you,
I would have killed the son of a bitch myself if I didn’t think I’d lose my pension.”
’Til next time,
V
July 16
I’m glad my family’s little reunion is over. What an emotionally draining day, and not only because my father is dying, but
because I could see how my mother has neglected her home (I found mouse droppings in the kitchen drawers) and, because Teresa
managed to eat every perfect dish I served without a single word of praise, and because Julia yet again made separate meals
for her spoiled twins yet never once asked how Pete and I are holding up since the divorce, and because Roger called in the
middle of dinner to say hi to Pete and Surfer Girl was on the line and told Pete that she can’t wait to give him a little
present, and because we’re leaving for Bosnia-Herzegovina in a week and I’m beginning to fear that our plane is going to nosedive
into the sea. Of all the ways to die, that’s got to be the worst. Now my stomach hurts. I’ve got to go to the bathroom.
I’m back.
The best thing about dinner was that everything I made was delicious, even if Teresa wasn’t big enough to admit it. The derby
pie (Pete’s favorite) was obscenely wonderful. I’ve decided to put the recipe down in this journal so I can’t possibly lose
it.
Derby Pie, also known as heart attack in a pie shell
1 stick melted butter
1 cup sugar
2 eggs, lightly beaten
½ cup flour
1 teaspoon vanilla
1 cup chocolate chips
1 cup pecans (I skipped the pecans since Pete hates nuts.)
Combine all ingredients and pour into frozen pie shell. Bake at 325 degrees for 1 hour. (I baked it for an extra fifteen minutes,
then chilled it outside on the deck. It’s supposed to be sort of runny.)
The other hit was my personal favorite:
Glazed maple sweet potatoes, also known as adult onset diabetes in a Corning
“He doesn’t, Officer,” I cut in. “I have sole temporary custody.”
“Roger has as much right to be with his son as you do!” Surfer Girl blurted out.
“Who’s this?” Officer Navansky asked Roger.
“Not that I’m required to tell you, but the young lady is my friend.”
Surfer Girl scowled at Roger. “I’m his girlfriend, Officer.”
The cop shot me a sympathetic look. “I’m going to have to insist that the young lady wait outside.”
She tightened her grip on Roger’s arm. “I’d like to stay with my boyfriend, please. He needs the moral support.”
The cop put a hand on her arm. “I’m sorry, miss. There’s enough tempers flaring in this room as it is. Please wait outside.”
She released her grip and reluctantly skulked out. Officer Navansky guided her with a hand on her back and closed the door
behind her.
“Mr. Tisdale, is it true that your wife has sole custody of your son?”
“Temporary custody.” Roger flicked an imaginary lintball off his sleeve.
“Temporary or not, is it true, sir?” Navansky pressed. “You might as well be honest, sir. One phone call and I can find out
for myself.”
“Yes. It’s true.” He stared at me acidly. I stared back.
“Then I’m going to have to ask you to remove yourself and your friend there from the premises.” Officer Navansky reached for
Roger’s elbow. He jerked back and flailed an arm. The other cops put their hands on their guns and moved in toward Roger.
Officer Navansky withdrew his hands. “You can go of your own accord, sir, or we can help you. It’s your choice.”
Roger straightened his beret and shot me another corrosive stare. “Keep your hands off me. I’m going.”
“You can give me that ticket now if you want to,” I told Officer Navansky, aware of the guile in my suggestion. I knew he
wouldn’t ticket me.
“No, no, just forget about it.” He put a fatherly arm around my shoulder. “My own daughter has the same problem with her ex.
That creep left her for a younger gal and now he thinks he has the right to see his kid whenever he pleases. Let me tell you,
I would have killed the son of a bitch myself if I didn’t think I’d lose my pension.”
’Til next time,
V
July 16
I’m glad my family’s little reunion is over. What an emotionally draining day, and not only because my father is dying, but
because I could see how my mother has neglected her home (I found mouse droppings in the kitchen drawers) and, because Teresa
managed to eat every perfect dish I served without a single word of praise, and because Julia yet again made separate meals
for her spoiled twins yet never once asked how Pete and I are holding up since the divorce, and because Roger called in the
middle of dinner to say hi to Pete and Surfer Girl was on the line and told Pete that she can’t wait to give him a little
present, and because we’re leaving for Bosnia-Herzegovina in a week and I’m beginning to fear that our plane is going to nosedive
into the sea. Of all the ways to die, that’s got to be the worst. Now my stomach hurts. I’ve got to go to the bathroom.
I’m back.
The best thing about dinner was that everything I made was delicious, even if Teresa wasn’t big enough to admit it. The derby
pie (Pete’s favorite) was obscenely wonderful. I’ve decided to put the recipe down in this journal so I can’t possibly lose
it.
Derby Pie, also known as heart attack in a pie shell
1 stick melted butter
1 cup sugar
2 eggs, lightly beaten
½ cup flour
1 teaspoon vanilla
1 cup chocolate chips
1 cup pecans (I skipped the pecans since Pete hates nuts.)
Combine all ingredients and pour into frozen pie shell. Bake at 325 degrees for 1 hour. (I baked it for an extra fifteen minutes,
then chilled it outside on the deck. It’s supposed to be sort of runny.)
The other hit was my personal favorite:
Glazed maple sweet potatoes, also known as adult onset diabetes in a Corning
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