“I think I already told you I don’t want your money and I’m fine where I am.”
More silence, this stretched longer, became scarier then my father said in a low voice, a voice I knew very well, the voice he used when he meant to be listened to and obeyed.
“We need to talk about Chavez.”
I fought against my conditioning to listen and obey and said, fake-breezily, “Talk away.”
“I don’t like you with him.”
“Well, I didn’t suspect you’d be leaping for joy but I also don’t care. I like him. He taught me how to make s’mores.”
Silence again, this time it wasn’t scary, it was something else.
“S’mores?” he asked and I could swear my always unruffled father sounded confused.
“Yes, those graham cracker sandwiches where you roast a marsh –”
“I know what s’mores are, Sadie.”
“Well, he taught me how to make them. He found out I’d never had them and always wanted to make some and he made sure I had them. And we sanded his floors. And his mother likes me. She’s going to teach me how to cook.”
The scary was back. “He’s got you, my daughter, sanding his floors?”
“I asked to do it. Hector wanted to watch a movie.”
“Jesus Christ,” my father muttered.
At this point, in order to speed things up and get the hell out of there, I channeled Hector and explained, “I know you don’t have a lot of time and you’re not getting this so I’ll give it to you. See, a good life is about sanding floors, making s’mores and laughing while you do the dishes. It’s about putting lip gloss on in the restroom with your girlfriends during a rock gig. It’s about being able to say things that aren’t smart or do things that are really stupid and people forgiving you. It’s about looking after each other. That’s a good life. Ralphie and Buddy, my friends, gave that to me. Then Hector came into my life and made it even better. I’ve had that life for…” I stopped, counted and then went on, “Five weeks and five days. I like it. I’m not giving it up. I’m not going to the Caymans and living the big life off your drug money, surrounded by pretty things, eating the finest foods, drinking champagne but being totally alone and utterly lonely. I’d rather paint Hector’s living room which is what I might do today, if he lets me. Now, can we stop talking so Jerry can take me home and good people can stop worrying about me?”
Apparently, he didn’t listen to a word I said.
“It’s my job to take care of you, I’m your father,” he told me.
“Well, if it’s your job, you’re fired,” I replied calmly, proud of myself.
Who would have known I had it in me?
But there it was.
Silence again, then, “This isn’t done, Sadie.”
It was my turn to sigh. “I didn’t figure it would be. But can it be for now? I need a shower.”
Then he surprised me again, he did this by giving in.
My father never gave in.
Ever!
“Give the phone to Jerry,” he ordered.
I smiled with saccharin sweetness (through my surprise) at Jerry and held out the phone.
“Daddy wants to talk to you.” I told him.
Jerry gave me a glare, took the phone, turned his back to me and walked out of the room.
Minutes later, he came back, holding a funny looking gun.