to work as a waitress. I bet if Mr. Paulson lost his job and had to work as a bartender or something, he’d tell Portia. Mr. Paulson was always trying to explain bonds and debt origination to Carter and Portia, no matter how much they whined to him that they didn’t get it. He thinks it’s worth his time, sharing stuff about his job with his kids.
It’s funny, how Mr. Paulson always knows those details about my basketball and guys and whatever’s going on at Bradshaw. He’s a really great dad; I always feel bad when Portia acts rude to him, and I like to think that part of Mr. Paulson secretly wishes that I were his daughter.
The man sitting across from me wears a slouchy gray hat that keeps slipping over his eyes. His face in profile seems tired but friendly. I imagine him turning around. Our eyes lock and there’s a moment of recognition.
“Danny,” he says. His throat catches in a laugh of disbelief. “My darling daughter, I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”
“Didn’t you get my letter?” I falter.
“Ah, no, my horrible second wife must have ripped it up. She’s insane with jealousy over my persisting memories of Susan. No matter, I’ll be getting rid of her soon.” He smiles cryptically. “It’s so good to see you.”
“Dad, Mom and I could seriously use your help right now.”
Gray-hat man suddenly shifts and looks over at me, startled. “Did you say something?”
“Oh! No, I mean,” I shake my head quickly, “I just wondered if you had the time.”
“It’s seven fifty-eight,” he says, obviously relieved to stare at his watch and not me.
Mom’s not at the apartment when I get home, but messy traces of her presence remain. The stereo’s on; a half empty can of Coke and a new bottle of aspirin stand next to a crumpled paper bag on the table; and all the cupboards are open from her last-minute dinner search. I look inside the refrigerator and find a note:
Danny,
I’m at Bellmont but won’t be home till late. There’s ten dollars on my bureau for pizza. Study for math!
Love, Mom
I call Bellmont.
“She’s on for tomorrow, not tonight,” says Patsy “You want her whole schedule?”
“Yeah, okay.”
I write out the schedule and fold the paper in my pocket. Then I tug out the phone book, which we’d been using to steady a missing leg of the couch, and dial the number for the Greenhouse.
“Susan Finzimer, please.” I disguise my voice low like a guy’s.
“Jusasec, hon, I’ma transfer you over to the kitchen.” There’s a click and another breathless, “Hold on.” The background noises sound like someone’s crashing plates and silverware to the floor and then, blaring close enough in my ear so there’s no doubt in my mind, Mom’s voice is shouting,
“Hello? Hello? Hello?”
I hang up.
She doesn’t want to tell you because she’s ashamed. She doesn’t want to tell you because she’s afraid you’ll be ashamed. The thoughts cyclone through my brain and refuse to die.
I punch in Gary’s number. This is one of those times when I really need to have somebody say, “Oh, you know your mom; that’s just the way she is. She can be a bit nutty.” But instead I get his answering machine. I don’t leave a message.
“It’s so incredibly stupid of her.” I lie, stomach down, on the couch. “Not to tell me. Like I can’t handle it or something. What is she thinking?” And even as I’m saying all these things out loud, I’m wondering what I do think about it. Because it’s flat-out awful, this image of Mom at the Greenhouse. I see her running around slopping food in front of other people, having to be nice to them if parts are burnt or cold or too spicy, counting tips against our rent.
“She’ll quit in a week,” I predict, addressing the photograph of Rick Finzimer. “You know Mom. She’s scheming up a better plan.”
But there’s no one here to assure me. Rick Finzimer just smiles carelessly, keeping his thoughts, as always, to
It’s funny, how Mr. Paulson always knows those details about my basketball and guys and whatever’s going on at Bradshaw. He’s a really great dad; I always feel bad when Portia acts rude to him, and I like to think that part of Mr. Paulson secretly wishes that I were his daughter.
The man sitting across from me wears a slouchy gray hat that keeps slipping over his eyes. His face in profile seems tired but friendly. I imagine him turning around. Our eyes lock and there’s a moment of recognition.
“Danny,” he says. His throat catches in a laugh of disbelief. “My darling daughter, I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”
“Didn’t you get my letter?” I falter.
“Ah, no, my horrible second wife must have ripped it up. She’s insane with jealousy over my persisting memories of Susan. No matter, I’ll be getting rid of her soon.” He smiles cryptically. “It’s so good to see you.”
“Dad, Mom and I could seriously use your help right now.”
Gray-hat man suddenly shifts and looks over at me, startled. “Did you say something?”
“Oh! No, I mean,” I shake my head quickly, “I just wondered if you had the time.”
“It’s seven fifty-eight,” he says, obviously relieved to stare at his watch and not me.
Mom’s not at the apartment when I get home, but messy traces of her presence remain. The stereo’s on; a half empty can of Coke and a new bottle of aspirin stand next to a crumpled paper bag on the table; and all the cupboards are open from her last-minute dinner search. I look inside the refrigerator and find a note:
Danny,
I’m at Bellmont but won’t be home till late. There’s ten dollars on my bureau for pizza. Study for math!
Love, Mom
I call Bellmont.
“She’s on for tomorrow, not tonight,” says Patsy “You want her whole schedule?”
“Yeah, okay.”
I write out the schedule and fold the paper in my pocket. Then I tug out the phone book, which we’d been using to steady a missing leg of the couch, and dial the number for the Greenhouse.
“Susan Finzimer, please.” I disguise my voice low like a guy’s.
“Jusasec, hon, I’ma transfer you over to the kitchen.” There’s a click and another breathless, “Hold on.” The background noises sound like someone’s crashing plates and silverware to the floor and then, blaring close enough in my ear so there’s no doubt in my mind, Mom’s voice is shouting,
“Hello? Hello? Hello?”
I hang up.
She doesn’t want to tell you because she’s ashamed. She doesn’t want to tell you because she’s afraid you’ll be ashamed. The thoughts cyclone through my brain and refuse to die.
I punch in Gary’s number. This is one of those times when I really need to have somebody say, “Oh, you know your mom; that’s just the way she is. She can be a bit nutty.” But instead I get his answering machine. I don’t leave a message.
“It’s so incredibly stupid of her.” I lie, stomach down, on the couch. “Not to tell me. Like I can’t handle it or something. What is she thinking?” And even as I’m saying all these things out loud, I’m wondering what I do think about it. Because it’s flat-out awful, this image of Mom at the Greenhouse. I see her running around slopping food in front of other people, having to be nice to them if parts are burnt or cold or too spicy, counting tips against our rent.
“She’ll quit in a week,” I predict, addressing the photograph of Rick Finzimer. “You know Mom. She’s scheming up a better plan.”
But there’s no one here to assure me. Rick Finzimer just smiles carelessly, keeping his thoughts, as always, to
Similar Books
