hated his guts for losing all his money and forcing her to have to work (as my agent and promoter).
And once I got old enough to go by myself, I was too broke ever to make it to Florida. Dad and I were never that close, anyway…more like polite acquaintances, really, than parent and child. Thanks to Mom.
“Wow,” I say, looking in the cardboard box to see how much dark meat is left. I am determined to save the breasts for Cooper, since they’re his favorite. “That’s great, Dad. So, where are you now?”
“Funny you should ask. I’m actually calling you from down the street—the Washington Square Diner. I was wondering if you wanted to get together for coffee.”
Seriously. I just don’t get it. I go for months—literally—where nothing at all unusual happens to me. My days are a blur of dog-walking, work, andGolden Girl reruns. And then WHAM! In one day, I find a head in a pot on a stove; get asked to play my songs at Joe’s Pub with none other than super-mega-rock-star Frank Robillard; and my dad gets out of jail, shows up in my local coffee shop, and asks to see me.
Why can’t things happen a little at a time? Like one day I find the head; another day Frank asks me to jam with him onstage; and another day my dad calls to let me know he’s out of jail and in my hometown.
But I guess we don’t get to choose how things transpire.
Because if we did, I definitely wouldn’t have eaten all that chicken before going to see my dad. Because the sight of him sitting there in that booth—before he notices me, so I have a chance to study him before he knows he’s being observed—causes my gut to twist. Not in the same way it twisted when I saw Lindsay’s head in that pot—that was horror. The sight of my dad just saddens me.
Maybe becausehe looks sad. Sad and thin. He’s not the robust golf player I knew from two decades ago—the last time I saw him outside of Camp Eglin’s visitors’ center—but a sort of shell of that man, reed-thin, with graying hair and the even whiter beginnings of a beard and mustache.
Still, that face transforms when he glances my way and finally notices me in the doorway. Not that he is overcome with joy or anything. He just plasters a grin on his face—a grin that doesn’t reach his sad, tired eyes—every bit as blue as my own.
And every bit as cautiously guarded.
What do you say to the father you haven’t seen for so long, with whom your relationship has always been…well, nonexistent, even when you lived together?
I say, “Hey, Dad,” and slide into the booth across the table from him. Because what else am Isupposed to say?
“Heather,” he says, and reaches across the table to squeeze my hand, once I’ve stripped off my gloves.
His fingers feel warm against mine. I squeeze back, with a smile.
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“So this is a surprise,” I say. “When did you get out?”
“Last week,” he says. “I thought about calling you then, but…well, I wasn’t sure you’d be too happy to see me.”
“Of course I’m happy to see you, Dad.” Dad’s not the one I have a beef with. Well, not really. I mean, it wasn’t exactly cool of him not to pay taxes all those years. But it wasn’t MY money he wasn’t paying taxes on. Or, in the case of Mom, stole. “When did you get here? To the city, I mean?”
“This morning. I took the bus. Lovely way to see the country.” The waitress comes up as he’s saying this, and he looks at me questioningly. “Have you had dinner?”
“Oh, yes,” I say. “I’m good. Just hot chocolate would be nice”—I say this last to the waitress—“with whipped cream.”
Dad orders chicken noodle soup to go with his coffee. The waitress nods and goes away. She looks distracted. She’s probably worrying about the impending snowstorm, which a weatherman on New York One, playing on the TV hanging over the counter, assures us is due at any
And once I got old enough to go by myself, I was too broke ever to make it to Florida. Dad and I were never that close, anyway…more like polite acquaintances, really, than parent and child. Thanks to Mom.
“Wow,” I say, looking in the cardboard box to see how much dark meat is left. I am determined to save the breasts for Cooper, since they’re his favorite. “That’s great, Dad. So, where are you now?”
“Funny you should ask. I’m actually calling you from down the street—the Washington Square Diner. I was wondering if you wanted to get together for coffee.”
Seriously. I just don’t get it. I go for months—literally—where nothing at all unusual happens to me. My days are a blur of dog-walking, work, andGolden Girl reruns. And then WHAM! In one day, I find a head in a pot on a stove; get asked to play my songs at Joe’s Pub with none other than super-mega-rock-star Frank Robillard; and my dad gets out of jail, shows up in my local coffee shop, and asks to see me.
Why can’t things happen a little at a time? Like one day I find the head; another day Frank asks me to jam with him onstage; and another day my dad calls to let me know he’s out of jail and in my hometown.
But I guess we don’t get to choose how things transpire.
Because if we did, I definitely wouldn’t have eaten all that chicken before going to see my dad. Because the sight of him sitting there in that booth—before he notices me, so I have a chance to study him before he knows he’s being observed—causes my gut to twist. Not in the same way it twisted when I saw Lindsay’s head in that pot—that was horror. The sight of my dad just saddens me.
Maybe becausehe looks sad. Sad and thin. He’s not the robust golf player I knew from two decades ago—the last time I saw him outside of Camp Eglin’s visitors’ center—but a sort of shell of that man, reed-thin, with graying hair and the even whiter beginnings of a beard and mustache.
Still, that face transforms when he glances my way and finally notices me in the doorway. Not that he is overcome with joy or anything. He just plasters a grin on his face—a grin that doesn’t reach his sad, tired eyes—every bit as blue as my own.
And every bit as cautiously guarded.
What do you say to the father you haven’t seen for so long, with whom your relationship has always been…well, nonexistent, even when you lived together?
I say, “Hey, Dad,” and slide into the booth across the table from him. Because what else am Isupposed to say?
“Heather,” he says, and reaches across the table to squeeze my hand, once I’ve stripped off my gloves.
His fingers feel warm against mine. I squeeze back, with a smile.
Page 49
Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv erter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html
“So this is a surprise,” I say. “When did you get out?”
“Last week,” he says. “I thought about calling you then, but…well, I wasn’t sure you’d be too happy to see me.”
“Of course I’m happy to see you, Dad.” Dad’s not the one I have a beef with. Well, not really. I mean, it wasn’t exactly cool of him not to pay taxes all those years. But it wasn’t MY money he wasn’t paying taxes on. Or, in the case of Mom, stole. “When did you get here? To the city, I mean?”
“This morning. I took the bus. Lovely way to see the country.” The waitress comes up as he’s saying this, and he looks at me questioningly. “Have you had dinner?”
“Oh, yes,” I say. “I’m good. Just hot chocolate would be nice”—I say this last to the waitress—“with whipped cream.”
Dad orders chicken noodle soup to go with his coffee. The waitress nods and goes away. She looks distracted. She’s probably worrying about the impending snowstorm, which a weatherman on New York One, playing on the TV hanging over the counter, assures us is due at any