not to admit
the lie. I know better. “Yes, that’s right,
but I’m already running late. I don’t
have time to change now.”
The lunatic levels me.
No daughter of mine goes out in public
like that. Go change. I’ll drive you.
I Back Up the Hallway
Eyes firmly planted on Daddy,
who follows. Why does it have
to be just the two of us here?
I want my sister. I want my mom.
Surely he won’t trail me into
my room. Won’t watch me undress.
Won’t stop me from transforming
from hippie to soc. Right? Right?
Please tell me I’m right!
I back into my room, start to close
the door, hoping he won’t push
inside. “I’ll hurry, okay, Daddy?”
I stare at him, try to measure
him, and the weirdest thought
flashes inside my head: He must
have been incredibly good-looking
once, before life crashed around
him. Took him down. He pauses.
Should I help you choose
what to wear? His voice
is soft as baby skin.
This can go a couple of ways.
Say no and face his anger?
Say yes and face…what, exactly?
Instinct tells me to accept his offer.
“Uh. Sure.” But I start to shake
as he steps through the doorway,
moves swiftly across the floor to my
closet, pokes inside, swaying back
and forth like an Indian cobra charmer.
This, he says, has always
been one of my favorites. You
look like your mother in it.
He Caresses
A pink angora sweater, pets
it softly, as if it were the bunny
the fur was stripped from.
He hands it to me, along
with a slim pair of burgundy
jeans. Daddy has good taste.
I take his offerings, start toward
the bathroom, but he stops
me with the force of his eyes.
I know what he wants. Sudden
nausea rocks me, but just as I think
for sure I’ll vomit right here,
the telephone rings, yanking
Daddy from his trance.
His head turns toward the door.
Oh. Been expecting that call.
Hurry and change. You don’t
want to be late for school.
The Jeans Rub My Cut
And painfully so, but the pain
reminds me that I’m still
alive, still in control
of at least one
thing.
Right now I need to feel more
in control, so I stash my
hippie clothes deep
in my book
bag.
Daddy is still on the phone.
I call “good-bye,” rush
out the door, down
the street, after
the bus.
I can see the flash of its tail
lights, breathe its greasy
exhaust, but I
can’t catch
up to it.
I watch it swing wide, onto
the highway and up
the hill toward
school. Now
what?
Behind me, I hear a well-
tuned car and know
without turning
it’s Daddy’s
Lexus.
He Pulls Up
Not quite scraping the curb.
The window lowers, and I wait,
expecting a hot wave of anger.
Instead his eyes sweep over
my body, assessing. He catches
something he doesn’t like.
Much better, except for your
hair. Take them out.
Take what out? Oh, the braids.
I do as instructed. Wait again.
That will do. Now get in. Why
didn’t you wait for me?
“You were still on the phone.
I thought I could catch the bus.”
I settle into the plush warmed
leather, unworthy of its comfort.
You know I hate disobedience.
I hope it won’t happen again.
“I’m sorry, Daddy. I was just
trying to save you the trouble….”
His head snaps in my direction,
and his hand flashes toward me.
It takes all my willpower not
to flinch, not to bloat his anger.
His fingers catch my cheeks,
pinch until my mouth opens.
I’ll decide what is or isn’t trouble.
You just follow orders. Understand?
Drool dripping from my open
mouth, all I can do is nod.
His hand falls away from my face,
and stress falls away from his.
That’s my girl. You’re the one
person in the world I can count on.
After That
He pulls carefully away
from the curb, turn signal
doing its obligatory thing.
To the casual observer,
I know,
we are quite a picture.
Judge Gardella, dashing
in tailored navy blue,
and his teenage daughter,
pretty
in pink angora. But what’s
underneath that sweater
is the antithesis of normality,
however that
the lie. I know better. “Yes, that’s right,
but I’m already running late. I don’t
have time to change now.”
The lunatic levels me.
No daughter of mine goes out in public
like that. Go change. I’ll drive you.
I Back Up the Hallway
Eyes firmly planted on Daddy,
who follows. Why does it have
to be just the two of us here?
I want my sister. I want my mom.
Surely he won’t trail me into
my room. Won’t watch me undress.
Won’t stop me from transforming
from hippie to soc. Right? Right?
Please tell me I’m right!
I back into my room, start to close
the door, hoping he won’t push
inside. “I’ll hurry, okay, Daddy?”
I stare at him, try to measure
him, and the weirdest thought
flashes inside my head: He must
have been incredibly good-looking
once, before life crashed around
him. Took him down. He pauses.
Should I help you choose
what to wear? His voice
is soft as baby skin.
This can go a couple of ways.
Say no and face his anger?
Say yes and face…what, exactly?
Instinct tells me to accept his offer.
“Uh. Sure.” But I start to shake
as he steps through the doorway,
moves swiftly across the floor to my
closet, pokes inside, swaying back
and forth like an Indian cobra charmer.
This, he says, has always
been one of my favorites. You
look like your mother in it.
He Caresses
A pink angora sweater, pets
it softly, as if it were the bunny
the fur was stripped from.
He hands it to me, along
with a slim pair of burgundy
jeans. Daddy has good taste.
I take his offerings, start toward
the bathroom, but he stops
me with the force of his eyes.
I know what he wants. Sudden
nausea rocks me, but just as I think
for sure I’ll vomit right here,
the telephone rings, yanking
Daddy from his trance.
His head turns toward the door.
Oh. Been expecting that call.
Hurry and change. You don’t
want to be late for school.
The Jeans Rub My Cut
And painfully so, but the pain
reminds me that I’m still
alive, still in control
of at least one
thing.
Right now I need to feel more
in control, so I stash my
hippie clothes deep
in my book
bag.
Daddy is still on the phone.
I call “good-bye,” rush
out the door, down
the street, after
the bus.
I can see the flash of its tail
lights, breathe its greasy
exhaust, but I
can’t catch
up to it.
I watch it swing wide, onto
the highway and up
the hill toward
school. Now
what?
Behind me, I hear a well-
tuned car and know
without turning
it’s Daddy’s
Lexus.
He Pulls Up
Not quite scraping the curb.
The window lowers, and I wait,
expecting a hot wave of anger.
Instead his eyes sweep over
my body, assessing. He catches
something he doesn’t like.
Much better, except for your
hair. Take them out.
Take what out? Oh, the braids.
I do as instructed. Wait again.
That will do. Now get in. Why
didn’t you wait for me?
“You were still on the phone.
I thought I could catch the bus.”
I settle into the plush warmed
leather, unworthy of its comfort.
You know I hate disobedience.
I hope it won’t happen again.
“I’m sorry, Daddy. I was just
trying to save you the trouble….”
His head snaps in my direction,
and his hand flashes toward me.
It takes all my willpower not
to flinch, not to bloat his anger.
His fingers catch my cheeks,
pinch until my mouth opens.
I’ll decide what is or isn’t trouble.
You just follow orders. Understand?
Drool dripping from my open
mouth, all I can do is nod.
His hand falls away from my face,
and stress falls away from his.
That’s my girl. You’re the one
person in the world I can count on.
After That
He pulls carefully away
from the curb, turn signal
doing its obligatory thing.
To the casual observer,
I know,
we are quite a picture.
Judge Gardella, dashing
in tailored navy blue,
and his teenage daughter,
pretty
in pink angora. But what’s
underneath that sweater
is the antithesis of normality,
however that
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