Recognition (11 page)

Sometimes, in the middle of dinner, in the
middle of a conversation, in the middle of one of Mother’s long,
long sentences, Daddy would leer toward me, laugh maniacally and
attack the air between us with the tip of his fork. While Mother
paused briefly, to sigh, Daddy would interject a warning. It was,
more or less, the same lecture each time.

“They’ll try to run you out of business and
out of town,” he would say, menacingly, “and I’m just trying to
make sure you’re man enough to take it. That’s all. It’s love, doll
face, it’s just love. If I didn’t care, it would be different.”

“How different?” I once asked, trying hard
not to reveal my acute interest in a condition, any condition,
different from mine.

While Mother continued sighing, Daddy would
swallow whatever he had in his mouth, take a large gulp of wine or
water, and point that damn fork at me again.

“Trust me, doll face, someday you’ll thank
your ole Daddy.”

“But Daddy!” I’d cry, “You’re ruining me!
You’re the
only
one trying to run me out of town!”

“You got that right little fella! Now, let’s
see how you handle it.”