The Particular Sadness of Lemon Cake: A Novel by Aimee Bender Page A
Authors: Aimee Bender
Ads: Link
son! he called to all the cars driving by. Mom dripped blood onto the floor. Dad lit up a cigar, passed out extras to pedestrians.
16 After I talked to Eliza, after my mother had left to go on her errands, I parked myself on the other side of the sofa, in the TV room. My father held that red leather ledger in his lap, and he was inputting numbers into new columns. The TV muted across the room. For a while, I just sat and watched him.
Yes? he said, after a few minutes. May I help you?
No, I said.
He had a striking forehead, my father: long with a slight slope at the hairline that lent him an air of officiality. His hair--thick, black, streaked with gray--gripped closely to the top of the forehead, making a clear and assured arch. He looked like the head of a corporation.
Just the previous night, George had been over for dinner and had started asking my father questions about his time in high school. That my father had ever been to high school was funny, and that he was willing to talk about it? Shocking. Somehow, with George there, asking, lightly, the tight box of Dadness was open for looking. I was the lead in my high-school play, Dad said, sipping his water. I dropped my fork on the floor. What? Oh sure, Dad said. Everyone did it, he said. A musical? George asked. Of course, Dad said. Even Mom laughed. Dad filled his mouth with yam. What musical? I asked, and we all waited while he went through the process of chewing, and swallowing, and dabbing with his napkin, ending in the new word Brigadoon .
Who was he? That night, the romance in the roast beef had so excluded him, even as he ate it, every last bite of it, and maybe for that reason, he just seemed a little more approachable than usual. I leaned closer, from my end of the couch.
Yes? he said, from his seat. Rose?
Hi, I said.
He put down his pencil.
Don't you have homework?
Yes.
He raised an eyebrow. And why don't you go do that?
Can I bring it in here?
He coughed, a little, into his hand. If you're quiet, he said.
I ran and grabbed my notebook and textbook. While he worked on the details of his schedule and budget, I did California history on my side of the couch, dutifully answering the questions at the back of the chapter before I'd read the chapter. It was so easy to locate the sentence referenced in the question, and I plugged in the appropriate lines like a good little lab rat, looking up occasionally to see the muted actors arguing on-screen, their eyes emphatic. We worked in silence together. With him sitting there, lightly writing those numbers with his slim mechanical pencil, I seemed to get my work done about twice as fast as usual.
Dad? I said, looking up, after writing in the five reasons that the gold rush built up the Californian economy.
Yes?
Where'd Mom go?
On errands.
When will she be back?
Soon, he said. I imagine by ten, at the latest.
Dad? I said.
He raised his eyebrows again. Yes, Rose?
Never mind, I said. Nothing.
He continued his work. I finished up my assignment and went ahead to the next chapter, since our teacher did not believe in homework variety and gave us the identical task for each week. The clock ticked along.
After another while, I looked up again. Across from me, in the red ledger, my father had written many neat new numerical rows. It seemed he was getting more work done too.
Can I ask you a question? I said.
He kept his eyes on the page, deep at the base of the latest column. Then laid down the pencil.
Knock yourself out, he said.
The couch creaked as he resettled himself. It was an open doorway. I could hardly remember the last time I'd sat across from my father without anyone else nearby. I really had no idea what to ask, so I just blurted out the first thing that came into my head.
Did you ever know something? I said.
Excuse me?
I took a breath. Sorry, I said. I mean, did you ever know something you weren't supposed to know? I asked.
He tilted his head. What do you mean?
Like--did you ever walk
16 After I talked to Eliza, after my mother had left to go on her errands, I parked myself on the other side of the sofa, in the TV room. My father held that red leather ledger in his lap, and he was inputting numbers into new columns. The TV muted across the room. For a while, I just sat and watched him.
Yes? he said, after a few minutes. May I help you?
No, I said.
He had a striking forehead, my father: long with a slight slope at the hairline that lent him an air of officiality. His hair--thick, black, streaked with gray--gripped closely to the top of the forehead, making a clear and assured arch. He looked like the head of a corporation.
Just the previous night, George had been over for dinner and had started asking my father questions about his time in high school. That my father had ever been to high school was funny, and that he was willing to talk about it? Shocking. Somehow, with George there, asking, lightly, the tight box of Dadness was open for looking. I was the lead in my high-school play, Dad said, sipping his water. I dropped my fork on the floor. What? Oh sure, Dad said. Everyone did it, he said. A musical? George asked. Of course, Dad said. Even Mom laughed. Dad filled his mouth with yam. What musical? I asked, and we all waited while he went through the process of chewing, and swallowing, and dabbing with his napkin, ending in the new word Brigadoon .
Who was he? That night, the romance in the roast beef had so excluded him, even as he ate it, every last bite of it, and maybe for that reason, he just seemed a little more approachable than usual. I leaned closer, from my end of the couch.
Yes? he said, from his seat. Rose?
Hi, I said.
He put down his pencil.
Don't you have homework?
Yes.
He raised an eyebrow. And why don't you go do that?
Can I bring it in here?
He coughed, a little, into his hand. If you're quiet, he said.
I ran and grabbed my notebook and textbook. While he worked on the details of his schedule and budget, I did California history on my side of the couch, dutifully answering the questions at the back of the chapter before I'd read the chapter. It was so easy to locate the sentence referenced in the question, and I plugged in the appropriate lines like a good little lab rat, looking up occasionally to see the muted actors arguing on-screen, their eyes emphatic. We worked in silence together. With him sitting there, lightly writing those numbers with his slim mechanical pencil, I seemed to get my work done about twice as fast as usual.
Dad? I said, looking up, after writing in the five reasons that the gold rush built up the Californian economy.
Yes?
Where'd Mom go?
On errands.
When will she be back?
Soon, he said. I imagine by ten, at the latest.
Dad? I said.
He raised his eyebrows again. Yes, Rose?
Never mind, I said. Nothing.
He continued his work. I finished up my assignment and went ahead to the next chapter, since our teacher did not believe in homework variety and gave us the identical task for each week. The clock ticked along.
After another while, I looked up again. Across from me, in the red ledger, my father had written many neat new numerical rows. It seemed he was getting more work done too.
Can I ask you a question? I said.
He kept his eyes on the page, deep at the base of the latest column. Then laid down the pencil.
Knock yourself out, he said.
The couch creaked as he resettled himself. It was an open doorway. I could hardly remember the last time I'd sat across from my father without anyone else nearby. I really had no idea what to ask, so I just blurted out the first thing that came into my head.
Did you ever know something? I said.
Excuse me?
I took a breath. Sorry, I said. I mean, did you ever know something you weren't supposed to know? I asked.
He tilted his head. What do you mean?
Like--did you ever walk
Similar Books
