by Carla René
As she said this, something to the left caught her eye. There, staring out the front window, was Harold. He had his nosed pressed against the glass and was blowing on it, making his cheeks puff out so you could see all of his teeth. Before he continued, however, Martha's hand came from the shadows over his shoulder, yanking him out of the window.
It's going to be a long two hours, Dolores thought, as she slammed her door.
Martha met her inside. "'Bout time you got here. I said fifteen minutes—you're five minutes late."
Dolores looked at her watch. "Martha, I am never late. In fact… "
"… you're cute, nobody cares, take it outside. I've got to go."
"You will be back at ten o'clock, on the dot, yes?"
"Yes, Doe. For crap's sake. Okay, listen. You're to give daddy his bath. He's eaten, had his medications, and I've done up the dishes, so all you need to do is make sure he's clean. You can handle that, can't you?"
How hard could it be? "Of course I can handle it. I run a successful company, and… "
But Martha was already in the car, backing out the driveway.
Dolores shut the front door, and turned to her father, who was now slugging on the sofa. She stood still, arms folded neatly in front of her, clutching her DayPlanner, a polite smile on her face.
The room was silent.
A full minute passed, with only the sound of the mantle clock.
Another minute passed.
Finally she cleared her throat. "He… hello, daddy. H… how are you?"
He turned to look at her. "Hey, baby girl! Come give daddy a kiss."
Dolores walked up to him, and shook his hand. "You're looking very well, daddy. Er, that's a lovely T-shirt."
Silence.
"Why you sitting here in the dark? Don't you know the neighbors across the street have trouble seeing you through their telescope if you don't turn on a light?" She clicked the side table lamp as she chuckled at her own joke.
"I have popcorn."
He had an old bag of popcorn he was picking the kernels out of.
"Yes, you do, daddy, and a nice bag of popcorn it is."
Time to speed this task along so she could rest at the kitchen table and get some proof-reading done. "Daddy? It's time for your bath."
He looked at the popcorn. "Big kernels"
"Yes, they are. Daddy? Look at me."
He tossed the kernels into the air and laughed like a girl when they came showering back down on the sofa.
"Oh, daddy, look what you did!" she barked, as she moved to pick up the mess.
"I'm Orville Reddenbacher!" he said, as he crumpled up the bag.
She finished picking up the kernels and sat down beside him on the sofa. "Okay, daddy, listen to me."
Harold turned to her. "Well, hey baby girl! When did you get here?"
"Do you see this? I have allotted exactly twenty minutes for your bath. And we're already… " she looked at her watch, "… three minutes behind schedule. So let's go to the bathroom, okay?" She helped him off the sofa and into the bathroom. "I'll just sit here and let you get your bath. Go ahead and get undressed and I'll run your water. Where are the rubber gloves?"
"Did you know that they sell hair in a can on the television?" he said, as he looked at his own thinning, gray mass.
She checked the water. "Yes, daddy, I've seen that. I don't think it's supposed to be a serious product, though… "
She could hear a spraying sound coming from behind her. She turned to see Harold spraying not only his head, but the hand-towels and toilet-paper cozy. "Daddy, no!"
He jerked at the loud response and stopped spraying. He looked like a scolded puppy.
"I'm sorry, daddy, I just don't want that stuff all over the house. Now. Let's get out of your clothes and into the bath. I'll be right here." She sat down on the toilet again.
After an hour and a half, with soap bubbles and aerosol hair now scrubbed from every surface in the bathroom, Harold had soaked clean, and an exhausted Dolores helped him back out of the tub and into clean clothes.
"Well. What would you like to do now? How about some TV? Martha will be back any minute," she said, while silently thanking the Gods.
"Spray on hair," he said, giggling.
Dolores helped him back into the living room and into his spot on the sofa. After finding a channel, she eased back into the kitchen, where she pulled out her paperwork.
"Touchdown!" he yelled, from the living room.
Dolores smiled. He was watching a cooking show.
The phone rang.
"Doe? It's me. Listen, I'm gonna need you to stay a little while longer. The bank screwed up the paperwork for my loan."
"What?!" she said. "But, you promised!"
"I know, and I'm really sorry. Listen to me. It's time for him to eat, so I need you to fix lunch. You can cook, can't you? All of the foods that he can eat are there in the refrigerator, labeled. I'll be back within the hour." She hung up.
She could feel her stomach tighten again. After a quick call to her secretary, she looked at her father, now watching the Anna Nicole show. She winced. "Oh dad, c'mon, you can find something better than that. They're not even real."
"Mmmmm, big boobies."
Dolores giggled, then marched into the kitchen and began rustling pots, pans, dishes and plates, all again, while cursing Martha. She’d gotten rather good at cursing Martha. After an hour, with flour, milk, sugar and salt all over every surface, and her hair, she placed a hot meal in front of her dad.
"You look like an albino."
She laughed. "Yeah, daddy, I guess I do." Martha had told her he lapsed in and out of lucidity.
While they ate, she found herself talking to him as if he knew what she were saying. She told him about all of her future plans of finding the right man, of wanting to have children, and how her life was right where it was supposed to be. It was a comforting feeling she'd never had with him, and the longer it went, the more she enjoyed it.
Harold just kept eating his peas on his knife, one at a time.
By the time they were done with the meal, she felt much closer to him. She also marveled at how his cancer therapy hadn't weakened him the way it did so many other people.
*****
That afternoon she spent cleaning the kitchen, while he napped. She smiled at her progress. "Wait'll Martha sees this. All she needs is just a little discipline."
She was interrupted by her cell. "Dolores? Hi, it's Amy, from the office. Listen, you'd better get down here, and quick. This René contract is blowing up in our faces, and they refuse to talk to anyone but you."
"You can't be serious. But Amy, you know I'm here care-taking for my father while my sister is at the bank. I can't leave him!"
"I'm sorry, sugar, but you're going to have to if you want to keep your ass out of a sling."
"Can't they get Rob to handle it? It's why I have a Vice-President."
"Nope. Rob's been called to Minneapolis on emergency business and can't be reached. You're it."
Dammit, not now!
She had it. "All right, Amy, here's what we're going to do. Set up a NetMeeting conference between René's team and myself. I'll get on the computer here at my dad's and we can video-conference this thing. We're not out of the game yet."
Twenty minutes later, she was online, staring at all the faces in her own board room, Amy at the ready for dictation.
"Hello, gentlemen, Ms. René. I'd like to thank you for your patience and understanding. I have had a personal situation arise in which I could not get away. I hope that won't deter you from our original goals."
It was at that moment, that Harold awoke from his nap, thus deciding that wearing underwear should no longer be the fashion. She nearly had a cow when he stopped in front of her web-cam and flashed the team.
She half-laughed at the monitor. "Gentlemen, let me assure you, this will not happen again. My apologies."
Jim Rittenour, Ms. René's literary agent, spoke up. "No problem. I
have one of those myself."
Everyone gave a nervous laugh, which didn't ease Dolores's tension.
As she resumed talks, however, M&Ms hit her monitor, and landed in her hair.
Harold cackled as he moved toward her. "Katy? Katy, honey, is that you?"
"What? Daddy, it's me," said Dolores.
"Ms. Johnson, I thought you said there would be no further interruptions. I'm beginning to wonder just where your loyalties lie," said Jim.
Dolores had to hide her fluster. One of the things René's team liked about her was her cool head under pressure.
"Gentlemen, really, this is just a fluke. My father is being cantankerous, but will soon settle. Can we get back to the contracts?"
"I think perhaps we may need to find another house with which to discuss this."
"Mr. Rittenour, if I may speak frankly, I don't think you're being fair. I have been put in a difficult position, that any rational human being should be able to sympathize with. I'm failing to understand just why you're having such a problem. One day's bumps doesn't mean I'm any less committed to publishing Ms. René's book."
"Ms. Johnson, first, I don't appreciate the tone. And second, your private life is your business, that is true, but when it comes to a deal and you bring us into it, then it's our business, too, and I'm beginning to see that perhaps you just don't have time for this. We'll be in touch."
"Just a minute. I am the president of this company, and you know what? I'm taking care of my ill father. I never had a hell of a lot of time with him recently, and he's dying. Yes, that's right, he's dying. So excuse the hell out of me, gentlemen, if I suddenly have better priorities than your damn deal. In fact… "
She paused, looked over at her daddy, who was now picking his toenails with a shrimp fork. The love she felt for him, along with the realization that perhaps spending more time helping Martha take care of him is a far nobler goal than worrying over someone else's messes, hit her at once, and glided over her like warm water. Yes; it just felt right.
"… Amy? Take a note: I quit. G'day, gentlemen."
Yes, it was certainly impetuous, but she felt better at that moment than she had in many months—there was a freedom that fluttered through her chest, and made her giddy.
Just then, pots and pans hit the kitchen floor.
Dolores ran into the kitchen. Harold began chasing her around the table. "Oh, baby, you sure look good in that nightie. Give your cupid a kiss."
"Dad, it's me, Dolores."
He ran toward her with his arms outstretched, making kissing sounds.
"Dad, cut it out! That's it, I will not tolerate this behavior any longer. Now, you are going to sit down, leave me alone, and act like you had some sense. I did not make a contingency plan for this," she said.
Harold picked up speed, getting closer. "Katy, I want a real good spanking."
"I think my ears are bleeding!" she said, as she ran through the living room. "This is not on the schedule, daddy! For the next fifteen minutes, we should be having quiet time!"
Harold laughed harder as he chased her behind the sofa.
She looked over at the computer monitor, and saw that the web connection had been broken by the office.
She felt her cheeks flush, and tried to run back over to get the connection again, but Harold intercepted her, still trying to get a kiss out of her.
He chased her back into the kitchen, where she slipped on some water that had leaked from the drain pan under the fridge, and fell flat on her ass.
Harold stopped and looked down at her, but said nothing.
At that moment, the stress of the day's events, the frustration at her sister and not being in control of things flooded her with a torrent of tears that she let go willingly. She laid in the water, sobbing.
Harold began laughing. "Aw, baby girl, get up."
Dolores turned to look up at him. "Wha… ?"
"C'mon, let me help you up. It's okay," he said, as he pulled her to him and held her in a long embrace. "Mmm, Katy, but my, you feel fine. How about that spanking now?"
Dolores pulled back to search his face, and he grinned at her. She laughed, and soon, the two of them cackled like hens in the hen house, and dissolved into a heap in the floor. Dolores dried her tears.
"You feeling better?"
Dolores nodded. "Yeah, at least it's not a pickle jar."
"I don't get it."
"Dad? I don't understand? You're lucid?"
He chuckled. "Of course I'm lucid. Have been all along."
"Then why the act?"
"Eh, I got sick of your sister treating me like an old person, so I figured, hell, if she's going to treat me like one, might as well have some fun. 'sides—I accepted my fate a long time ago. I knew if I ever could see the end of my days, that I didn't want to go out all doped up; that I wanted to live a little. And tell me, baby girl, just how many chances does one really have to run around with no pants and oogle Anna Nicole's boobies and have it be socially acceptable?"
Dolores laughed and shook her head in agreement.
"Plus, it's what she expected, so, I gave her what she wanted. Besides, it made her feel needed, and who am I to take that from her?"
Dolores put her arms around Harold's neck. "You know something? You're one, smart old coot."
He laughed. "Yeah, but don't let that get out to your sister, or she'll be having me cook my own dinner, mow my own lawn and run my own false teeth through the dish washer."
Dolores kissed him on the nose. "I promise."
"What are you going to do now? I mean, about your job?"
"Oh, that. Well, if I don't have another ten publishing houses ready to make me an offer within the hour, then something's wrong."
"You gave up everything just for me."
She chuckled. "How many chances does a daughter get to see her father spray paint on his hair, run around without underwear and have it be socially acceptable? If it hadn't been for you, I wouldn't have seen that life isn't all about maintaining control over things."
Harold hugged his daughter, and they spent the next moment in silent bliss. For the first time in a very long time, she felt relaxed, and happy.
Just then her phone rang. It was Amy.
"Doe, you are not going to believe what just happened."
"Slow down."
"Word got back to Penguin Books about what you did to Rittenour, and they called within minutes to offer you a position that pays better, has better hours, and more benefits. They're awaiting a response. What should I tell them?"
Dolores looked back at her dad. He intuited what was happening, and nodded his head.
"I'll take it."
Amy said, "What do I tell Finkle & Dinkle?"
Dolores didn't even hesitate. "Amy, tell them I've enjoyed it, but sometimes you gotta leave things as just water under the fridge." Then she hung up and laughed.
At that moment, Martha's car pulled up in the drive.
"Quick, dad, Martha's home." She escorted him back into the living room, put on the cooking show, and sat him down on the sofa. They looked at each other and winked.
At that moment, the door opened and Martha entered.
"Touchdown!" they both shouted.
We All Need Traditions
I kept feeling like I was committing a mortal sin if I sat down and wrote comedy about my family. I kept worrying that once this material hit the best-seller list, they were going to form a team, tag me and then release me back out into the wild to be disowned for telling the world the really dumb-ass things they did while we were growing up. Then it hit me: I had absolutely nothing to lose—they had already disowned me. Worry about me on Letterman? Hell, they barely recognize me in person: every five years I go home to visit and spend that “can’t ever get it back again” quality time watching my parents attempt to communicate with each other in their original set of grunts, whistles and hand gestures.
My family was always doing something stupid and the list extended for days: foolhardy,
stupid, foolish, silly, idiotic, retarded, inane, childish, moronic, genius… . In fact, my favorite episode of "The Azalea that Almost Was," continues to this day in syndication.
Every year for Mother's Day, my mother, an avid gardener, would ask for an Azalea bush from my dad. And since he lacks any creativity, is naturally happy to comply. I mean, that's how he completes his Christmas shopping for her, too: She gives him a list of what she wants and he goes and buys it for her. But at least he has the good taste to wrap it, and she has the good taste to act surprised.
Back to the Azalea. The day before Mother's Day, he always heads to the local garden store, chooses the one with the brightest pink buds, brings it home, hides it in plain sight in the basement (she always knows it's there so pretends to never have a reason to go downstairs), and eagerly awaits the next day's presentation.
After returning from church the next morning, we'd take mom out for her special lunch so she could show off the Ficus-tree corsage that the pastor gave to all the women with the stamina to survive the birth of their children, and then return home and spend the rest of the afternoon belching up the cheap hamburger meat. Then dad would present mom with her plant, acting as if he achieved some grand accomplishment because he was able to follow a grocery list, and she would act surprised as if she had no clue that he was incapable of following directions. When we were done oohing and aahing over both of their achievements, mom would march us all into the front yard to the place she had already pre-chosen for the plant.
Why was I always the one to stick my foot where it didn't belong? "Mom, isn't that where you put it last year?"
She'd look around with deep concentration, stand back, scratch the two post-hysterectomy hairs on her chin and say, "No, I'm positive it was a foot to the left. Now get that spade and start digging."
Now me, not thinking I was a particularly stupid child at the age of thirteen, apparently had a longer memory of past events than either of my parents. Not wishing to upset the delicate balance or the only look of bliss I'd ever seen on my mother's face since the time Luke and Laura from General Hospital really tied the knot, I kept my mouth shut and dug like I was on a chain gang.
