“Post-Contact Zapotec, the children in particular, and how, if they survive, they process the high infant and pre-school mortality rates.”
I see Mr. Bridgeton shoot a look at Harold, who trots right over with their drinks.
“Okay, Margaret Mead,” my father says. “Let them sit down.”
“How long are you here for, dear?” Mrs. Bridgeton squeezes my hand.
“Until Sunday.”
“We’ll take good care of him once you’re gone. Not to worry.”
Harold leads them to their table and my father and I sit back down. “One more minute and you were going to start in on the floppy vulvas, weren’t you? And I should have warned you not to tell her when you were leaving.”
“Why?”
“They were coming over every night after Catherine left. Quiches, soups, some sort of goulash. I had to toss it all down the pig. Even the dogs wouldn’t touch it.”
“But that’s so nice of them to be thinking of you.”
“About the only ones, too. That bitch has told so many lies about me. All over town.”
I have to get him off the topic of Catherine. “Did you coach Scott or Hatch?”
“Both. Six years of that woman yak-yak-yaking. Remember I got her that Assistant Manager cap and she wore it all summer? She didn’t even get the joke.”
Our salads come. Iceburg lettuce, mealy tomatoes, and one skinless slice of cucumber with creamy Italian slathered over it. The Main-sail is its own time capsule. But I know better than to make fun of it.
My father pokes his fork into it once and then sets the salad aside.
“So what happens? You drive out there and they have a place for you to live?”
“I found a place. A little cottage.” It’s so silly, what rises inside me, a swell of warmth, of good feeling, a flood of endorphins — all because my father is asking me a question about my life.
“Near the school?”
“Five or six blocks.” I want to tell him about the eucalyptus tree out front and the color of the door but I know I’ll lose him. I have to sound blasé, as if it doesn’t mean much to me.
“Expensive?”
“No, it’s pretty reasonable, for California.” It’s actually a great deal, four-fifty a month. “Probably pretty beat up.”
“You haven’t seen it yet?”
“No. I had a friend out there take a look at it for me.”
“And this job of yours, how long does it go for?”
“I hope it’s permanent, if I get tenure.”
“And how do you make sure you get that?’
“I don’t know.” But of course I know. I just have to get the right tone with him, not too cocky, not too flaky. “I’ll have to publish steadily, get consistently good student evaluations, make nice-nice with all my coworkers, and lead at least one team in fieldwork somewhere.”
He watches Harold’s tray as it passes, scotch and sodas for the people behind us. “You got it all figured out, don’t you?”
Too cocky.
I coach myself to stay upbeat, not react. The man wants a drink. Of course he’s going to be irritable.
“No, I don’t. But I like having a goal. Something to move toward.” Too transparently preachy. He’ll know I’ve shifted the conversation to him. My insides weaken, wait for the cut.
But he nods. “Good to have your eye on something.”
I’m grateful when Harold arrives to remove the salad plates and replace them with the filet mignon and the steamed vegetables. I’ve had enough of talking with my father about my life.
Later that night, when he starts snoring, I call Jonathan.
“Six days and six nights,” I boast.
“And tomorrow morning you’re driving away.”
“Sunday morning.”
“You said Saturday.”
“No, it was always Sunday.” Wasn’t it? “I never really believed he’d be able to do it. But he trudges down the little walkway to his meeting and he comes out again all spry and bolstered up.”
“Sunday at the crack of dawn.”
“Stop worrying.”
“You’re getting sucked in. I can hear it in your voice.”
“I’m not sucked in.”
“I think we should go camping at Crater Lake next weekend.”
“Aren’t we going to want to unpack a little?”
“I got this guidebook. You should see the pictures. I’m not sure I can wait.”
The next morning, I call Garvey.
“Hmmm,” he answers after a lot of rings. I’ve woken him up.
“I know you don’t want to hear about Dad but—”
“You’re right.”
“Garvey, he’s quit drinking.”
A huge muffled laugh.
“He has. Six days and six nights.”
“Oh, Hermey, you gullible titmouse.”
“I’ve combed the place, believe me. There’s nothing hidden. He’s doing it. He goes to AA every night at the Congregational Church.”
Another huge laugh. “I don’t believe you.”
“I drive him there. I watch him walk in. He gets all dressed up in his summer pants and blazer.”
“And I’m sure he walks right out the back door.”
“No, Garvey, I see him come out. He’s chatting with people, shaking hands.”
“He might be doing this for you for a few days, but the man can’t change his ways now.”
“He can if he has help. Couldn’t you come here for a few days next week after I’m gone? Just to help him along a bit.”
“Fuck no. Daley, you don’t get it. God, for all your education you really don’t have much smarts.” He said smaats, Boston accent, just the way Dad would.
“Oh, shit, it’s nearly ten. He’s calling me. Please think about it, Garve.”
“I won’t. Where are you going?”
“Just out with Dad.”
“Hmmm. Ten A.M. on a Saturday morning in July. Could it possibly be to the Ashing Tennis and Sail Club?”
“I lost a bet.”
“I want a photo.”
“I have to go.”
“You’ll have to wear one of those little pleated skirts.”
“I have some white running shorts.”
“How quickly we forget. You’re over eighteen and you have to wear a skirt.”
“That was in 1972.”
“But it’s 1952 in Ashing. And it always will be.”
He is right. I have to have sneakers, a skirt, and a shirt with a collar. My father takes me to the pro shop and a woman my father calls H puts me in a dressing room with saloon doors and keeps sticking her bony sunfried arm in and out until I’ve chosen a skirt with navy stripes and its matching polo shirt. Then she fits me into some very cushiony tennis sneakers.
“Hey, hey,” my father says when I come out. He hands me a brand new racquet. Before I can protest, H has put my hair in a high ponytail. They both beam at me. In the mirror across the room, I look eleven again.
My father makes a point of saying hello to everyone we pass on the way to court five, of introducing me with much more enthusiasm than normal. “Look at my Daley, all grown up,” he says to several people.
Look at Daley, fucking out of her mind.
I want a father who doesn’t get drunk. He wants a daughter to take to the club. It’s a deal with the devil for both of us.
He hits a few soft ones to me at first, perfectly placed so that all I have to do is swing. The first few go way out, and the next few into the net, but my father shows me how to follow through on the stroke, finishing with my weight moving forward, and my next shots are decent ones.
“Holy smokes,” my father says, reaching the ball easily. “I’ve got to stay on my toes today.”
It feels great to move with my body, think with my body. I haven’t exercised in months. I copy his movements. My focus is pure. I feel my father’s desire for me to play well but it doesn’t disable me like it used to. For the first time I can fully appreciate what a beautiful player he is. No matter where I place the ball he is there in a few steps, having anticipated its direction as soon as it leaves my racquet. His strokes are fluid, graceful, deceptively strong. There is nothing that looks like effort in his game. He sweats more eating a steak.