Today’s Dallas Cowboys–New York Giants game definitely would not make my top-ten list, even if my father were here to see it with me. For a moment, I think it’s better that he’s not here, but that makes me feel bad. I think Dr. Buckley would say that it’s only football and that I ought to have more perspective about things. Dr. Buckley is a very logical woman.
But even someone with perspective would say that the Cowboys are terrible today. I wish Tony Romo would hurry up and get better from his broken pinkie, because the guy who is playing in his place, Brad Johnson, cannot play very well. The New York Giants are a very good team, and I don’t know if the Dallas Cowboys could beat them even if Tony Romo was healthy—how could anyone know such a thing? But maybe if Tony Romo were playing, the Dallas Cowboys wouldn’t be trailing 21–7 at halftime, with the seven points coming only because the Giants did something uncharacteristically sloppy.
The way the Cowboys have been playing lately, it is not much fun to pull on my blue or white Tony Romo jersey and root for them.
The knock on the front door comes while I am rummaging around in the freezer for that Häagen-Dazs chocolate sorbet, only to remember that I tossed it out after my father died, a decision I am now regretting. I head across the living room to the front door and peek through the spy hole.
It is Donna Middleton. Holy shit!
I consider backing slowly and softly away from the door and pretending that I am not here, but now Donna Middleton is saying, “I heeeeaaaar you, Edward.”
Holy shit!
I open the door.
Donna Middleton is not wearing her nurse’s scrubs, even though Sunday is a day she works. She is wearing a jacket and gloves. Behind her, Kyle is sitting on the Blue Blaster.
“Hi, Edward,” Donna says. “I’m off today. We thought you might want to come outside for a while.”
“I—”
“No way!” Kyle says, standing up and pointing at my chest. I look down at my white Tony Romo jersey.
“The Cowboys suck. Denver rules.”
“Kyle!” Donna Middleton snaps, looking over her shoulder at him. She then turns back to me. “I hate it when he says ‘sucks.’”
“You don’t know, Kyle!” I say. “Dallas doesn’t suck. Dallas has won five Super Bowls and gone to eight. Denver hasn’t done that.”
“Edward! You’re fighting with a little boy,” Donna says.
“He started it by saying Dallas sucks,” I say, and then I shout again at Kyle, “Dallas doesn’t suck!”
“He started it? Edward, he’s nine.”
“So what? What are you doing here, anyway?”
“We thought you might want to come out and watch the Blue Blaster, but that was obviously a bad idea.”
“Yes, it was. I’m busy, and you shouldn’t be here.”
Donna looks shocked, and then she looks mad. “Don’t worry about it, we’ll leave.”
“Good.”
“Let’s go, Kyle.” They leave, hand in hand.
The Blue Blaster stays.
I sit down for the second half of the Dallas Cowboys’ game against the New York Giants, but I don’t really watch. What difference does it make? The Dallas Cowboys are stupid. Donna Middleton is stupid, and her stupid kid says stupid things. The whole world is stupid.
By 10:00, I’m still frustrated, but I decide that I’m calm enough to at least try to watch tonight’s episode of Dragnet. It’s called “The Big Bookie,” and it’s one of my favorites.
This episode, which originally aired on April 13, 1967, is one of the few in which Officer Bill Gannon isn’t Sergeant Joe Friday’s partner. This is because the case that’s being worked is in North Hollywood, where Officer Bill Gannon apparently worked for many years, and so there is concern that he will be identified if he is working undercover.
For this episode, Sergeant Joe Friday is paired up with Sergeant William Riddle, who is also the department’s chaplain.
Sergeants Joe Friday and William Riddle are investigating a bookmaking operation, and they’re posing as surveyors who frequent a bar, where they try to win the confidence of the bartender, who sets up the bets. Meanwhile, Officer Bill Gannon stakes out the home office, where the bets come in.
Eventually, the gambling ring is busted, and Sergeants Joe Friday and William Riddle take the bartender, Richard Clinger (played by Bobby Troup), to jail.
It turns out that Richard Clinger has a little girl with a bad heart, and she dies while he is in jail. He calls Sergeants Joe Friday and William Riddle and asks if they can help him make the funeral arrangements, since he is in jail.
He says he wants a nice service for his little girl and asks if they know anyone who can do that for him.
Sergeant Joe Friday tells him, “We have someone,” then gives him a nice pat on the arm.
And so it is that I am sitting here, in the living room, crying. And I cannot stop.
Donna:
I wish I could tell you why I cannot speak to you. I suppose I could, but somehow, I think you would think less of me if you knew that I had signed an agreement not to. Perhaps it’s better that you just think I am mean.
I wish I had not yelled at Kyle. You were right: That was childish, and when I tell Dr. Buckley about it, I bet she will tell me the same thing. I am not feeling very secure about the Dallas Cowboys these days, and I overreacted.
It would be easier for me if you would just quit coming around here. Then I would not have to be mean and I would not have to see the disappointment in your face. And perhaps I would not be so disappointed in myself.
Maybe you could think about this the next time you’re tempted to come over and knock on the door.
Just before midnight, I slip outside and see the Blue Blaster still sitting in my front yard. I quietly roll it up the driveway and put it inside the garage.
MONDAY, NOVEMBER 3
Donna Middleton and Kyle have just told me the funniest story, and we are all laughing hard. I don’t think I have ever laughed so much.
I glance out onto Clark Avenue from the front porch, and I see my father’s Cadillac going by. My father rolls down the window as he passes and looks at us there, and he shakes his head disapprovingly.
I stop laughing.
“What’s wrong?” Donna Middleton asks.
I don’t say anything, but I reach into the mailbox and fish out today’s letters. There is only one.
It says Lambert, Slaughter & Lamb, Attorneys at Law, on the envelope.
I open the letter.
Mr. Edward M. Stanton Jr.:
You have broken the agreement set forth with your father regarding fraternization with Donna Middleton. This will have serious consequences.
A wrecking ball crashes into the house my father bought for me to live in, destroying it with a single swing.
It’s 7:38 a.m.
I am awake.
I am out of breath.
I have been awake at 7:38 a.m. 226 times out of 308 days this year (because it is a leap year).
I am not looking forward to day number 308, the fourth full day without my father.
I reach for my notebook and pen to record my data. The pen does not work. I reach for backup pen number one. It does not work. I reach for backup pen number two. It does not work.