always here.”
“Thank you.”
“Thank you,” he said, and closed the door behind him.
That’s when I noticed the folded white envelope on the floor. It must’ve fallen out of his pocket when he stood to leave. I picked it up. On the back was written in neat, cursive pencil:
—teenager, curiosity, changes
—nature’s life cycle
—reproductive system of plants: pollen, stamen, pistil, ovule
— “ “ “ humans // plants: uterus, ovaries, fallopian tubes, cervix, vagina
—lovely event
—respect for women
My father’s notes on the science of love. I tucked the envelope into my desk drawer, where it stayed. I never consulted it again. But after that night, I could barely look at a girl without picturing a tiny man resembling my father standing inside her belly with his feet together and his arms outstretched, saying solemnly,
“Women are special. Always respect women. Women are like flowers.”
At fourteen, I still believed that this was true. But I also had the nagging suspicion that the natural, lovely event to which my father referred was more powerful, more dangerous and wild than his science would admit.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHRISTINE was washing dishes in the kitchen when I wandered back downstairs.
“You’ve been quiet. Where’ve you been?”
“Upstairs. Reading.”
I dipped strawberries in melted chocolate from a pot on the stove while I peeked through the doorway at the adults in the next room. The hi-fi played jazz, and they were talking animatedly, laughing loudly now and then.
“Sounds like they’re enjoying themselves,” Christine said.
“Sure does.”
She was a chubby-faced black woman with rust-colored hair and oversized glasses. She wore a full-length white apron, like what a chef might wear. We’d never had a maid in our house before, and I watched her curiously as she ran water in the sink, adding dish soap and stirring it with her fingers to raise the suds.
“Your daddy’s got that column in the newspaper, doesn’t he?”
“Yes, ma’am. Groovy Science, that’s right.”
“I thought that was him. The scientist. Your momma said y’all are going to look at the comet tonight.”
“We’ve got the telescope set up in the backyard.”
“I heard about that comet. I haven’t seen it yet, though.”
“It’s going to be huge.”
“That’s what I heard. That comet scares me. You’re going to get sick, you keep eating all that chocolate.”
I got myself a Coke and leaned back against the counter, listening in on the conversation in the next room. My father had started in on his old story about how he ended up in Terrebonne. He told about the accident of the recruitment fair at the university field house, and then his secondhand car with his five new ties and his temporary teaching credential, and the black snake in the middle of the road outside of Napoleonville.…
“Oh no, here he goes again,” said my mother. “Mr. Marco Polo, to the rescue.”
… and then his early days as a teacher, and how half his students used to come to school by boat, clomping into his classroom in their fishing boots. And the deplorable conditions at the school back then, with the doors falling off their hinges and the windows broken and the rain leaking in through the ceiling and dripping onto his papers … “Dreadful. Just dreadful. Even worse than it is now, if you can believe that.” He was starting in on his usual complaint about the neglect of sciences in the Louisiana public schools when my mother cut him off.
“Okay, Alan, that’s enough! Nobody wants to hear all that,” she said, and laughed anxiously.
“No, no, I’m curious,” Frank said. Sitting up, he asked my father if he’d seen much improvement in the local schools, because to be honest, they’d had some concerns about that when they moved here.
Barbara Martello, joining in, said that if it was up to her, they’d have sent Gabriella to a
“Thank you.”
“Thank you,” he said, and closed the door behind him.
That’s when I noticed the folded white envelope on the floor. It must’ve fallen out of his pocket when he stood to leave. I picked it up. On the back was written in neat, cursive pencil:
—teenager, curiosity, changes
—nature’s life cycle
—reproductive system of plants: pollen, stamen, pistil, ovule
— “ “ “ humans // plants: uterus, ovaries, fallopian tubes, cervix, vagina
—lovely event
—respect for women
My father’s notes on the science of love. I tucked the envelope into my desk drawer, where it stayed. I never consulted it again. But after that night, I could barely look at a girl without picturing a tiny man resembling my father standing inside her belly with his feet together and his arms outstretched, saying solemnly,
“Women are special. Always respect women. Women are like flowers.”
At fourteen, I still believed that this was true. But I also had the nagging suspicion that the natural, lovely event to which my father referred was more powerful, more dangerous and wild than his science would admit.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHRISTINE was washing dishes in the kitchen when I wandered back downstairs.
“You’ve been quiet. Where’ve you been?”
“Upstairs. Reading.”
I dipped strawberries in melted chocolate from a pot on the stove while I peeked through the doorway at the adults in the next room. The hi-fi played jazz, and they were talking animatedly, laughing loudly now and then.
“Sounds like they’re enjoying themselves,” Christine said.
“Sure does.”
She was a chubby-faced black woman with rust-colored hair and oversized glasses. She wore a full-length white apron, like what a chef might wear. We’d never had a maid in our house before, and I watched her curiously as she ran water in the sink, adding dish soap and stirring it with her fingers to raise the suds.
“Your daddy’s got that column in the newspaper, doesn’t he?”
“Yes, ma’am. Groovy Science, that’s right.”
“I thought that was him. The scientist. Your momma said y’all are going to look at the comet tonight.”
“We’ve got the telescope set up in the backyard.”
“I heard about that comet. I haven’t seen it yet, though.”
“It’s going to be huge.”
“That’s what I heard. That comet scares me. You’re going to get sick, you keep eating all that chocolate.”
I got myself a Coke and leaned back against the counter, listening in on the conversation in the next room. My father had started in on his old story about how he ended up in Terrebonne. He told about the accident of the recruitment fair at the university field house, and then his secondhand car with his five new ties and his temporary teaching credential, and the black snake in the middle of the road outside of Napoleonville.…
“Oh no, here he goes again,” said my mother. “Mr. Marco Polo, to the rescue.”
… and then his early days as a teacher, and how half his students used to come to school by boat, clomping into his classroom in their fishing boots. And the deplorable conditions at the school back then, with the doors falling off their hinges and the windows broken and the rain leaking in through the ceiling and dripping onto his papers … “Dreadful. Just dreadful. Even worse than it is now, if you can believe that.” He was starting in on his usual complaint about the neglect of sciences in the Louisiana public schools when my mother cut him off.
“Okay, Alan, that’s enough! Nobody wants to hear all that,” she said, and laughed anxiously.
“No, no, I’m curious,” Frank said. Sitting up, he asked my father if he’d seen much improvement in the local schools, because to be honest, they’d had some concerns about that when they moved here.
Barbara Martello, joining in, said that if it was up to her, they’d have sent Gabriella to a
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