My Old Man

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My Old Man Page 30

by Amy Sohn


  I mixed it and passed it to her. She gave me nine dollars on seven. Not bad. Maybe I could make Jasper less picky.

  “These guys are sitting around complaining about how they don’t get any,” I said. “I’m trying to explain that they need to lower their standards. Jasper over here wants a girl with high arches.”

  I pointed to him and he blushed a little even though he said he wasn’t interested. “I have really high arches,” she said. “I used to have to wear corrective shoes!”

  “You do?” Jasper said. “I mean, you did?”

  “Yeah,” she said. “You want to see them?”

  He walked over and she began untying her vintage Sauconys. She peeled off her sock and put her leg in his lap. She did have beautiful feet, shapely and long, and her arches were so high it almost looked uncomfortable.

  “Oh my God,” he gasped. Octavio came over more slowly and gave a wolf whistle when he saw. She gave a giggle and wiggled her toes around but even when the skinny boys came over she didn’t take her eyes off Jasper. I couldn’t believe she was so attracted to him but maybe she knew about fat guys and clit stim.

  “It’s too bad you like your girls to be at least a hundred forty pounds, Jasper,” I said.

  “He said that?” the girl said, shaking her pigtails.

  “Yeah—they also have to be built like Midwestern girls, and wear a D cup or bigger.”

  “That was ballpark!” Jasper shouted.

  “I can’t believe you’re so picky,” she said.

  “I’m not,” he said. “I swear.” He leaned over and kissed the back of her hand. “I’m Jasper.”

  “Delia,” she said, and flipped his hand over to kiss the back. The peanut gallery let out a collective moan of jealousy.

  “That’s Octavio, Jim, Dave, Rob, and Matt,” I said, pointing to the other guys. Between twenty-five and thirty-five they all had monosyllabic names.

  “Have you thought about being a foot model?” Jasper said. “Because I have seen a number of high arches in my life and yours really rank up there.”

  “That’s sweet of you,” she said.

  “What do you do?” Octavio said.

  “I’m the activity director at a nursing home,” she said.

  “Lord Almighty,” Jasper said. “That’s so noble.”

  “Not really,” she said. “They need help. Society is really cruel to older Americans.”

  “Another round,” Matt called with a growl, as they made their way back to their seats.

  As I went over to the tap I smiled. All it took was a little nudge and only the bartender had the power to do it. Maybe I wasn’t meant to be a rabbi but a yenta. If my parents were about to divorce I could make up for it by bringing some more people together. Maybe it would all even out in the end. The best part was, there was no God necessary. Just a little faith.

  A COUPLE days later the phone rang at eleven. “I need to see you,” my dad said. It was loud—there were a bunch of cars in the background—and I was worried something awful had happened.

  “Are you OK?”

  “Yeah, I’m fine,” he said. “I want to talk to you about some things. I was hoping we could go for a bike ride.”

  “But I just woke up.”

  “Please, Rach,” he said. “I know things aren’t right between us and I want to fix them.”

  I sighed. If he wanted to try to patch things up I had to give him a chance. Maybe he was going to tell me he’d decided to get back together with my mom. “OK,” I sighed.

  “Oh, I’m so happy!” he said. “Wear sneakers and comfortable clothes.”

  “Did you think I was going to wear heels?”

  “Meet me at the corner of Congress and Hicks,” he said. “Where the playground is.”

  “You want to bike on the BQE?” I said. “You wanna kill us?”

  “I have a route in mind. Can you be here in fifteen minutes?”

  When I arrived at the playground, the seat of my rusty ten-year-old Columbia cutting into my ass, I didn’t see anyone. It was just a bunch of tennis courts. Then I heard a whistle from the court and when I came around the gate I saw my father, Powell, and Liz, whacking practice balls back and forth. Liz tossed me a wave and said, “Hi honey!” and then slammed one across to Powell, who didn’t get it.

  “Nice one!” he called.

  “Thank you, Mr. Powell!”

  I hopped on my bike and started riding away but my dad chased after me and grabbed the seat. “Rach! Just let me explain!”

  “There’s nothing to explain. You tricked me.”

  “I knew if I told you I’d set up a doubles match you’d never play. Can’t we all just get along?”

  “Who are you, Ronald King?” I said.

  “Just listen for a second,” he said. “I’m going to be living with Elizabeth for the indefinite future. I think if you get accustomed to things being a little different it will make it easier for everyone.” He was wearing a baggy T-shirt he’d bought at Shakespeare and Company in the Berkshires that said, “Theres many a man hath more hair than wit.—Act Two Scene Two, The Comedy of Errors.” How could she live with him when he wore things like that?

  Powell drove a ball long to Liz and as she panted and missed she called out, “You’re something else, Mr. Powell!”

  “I’m too old to fall for flattery!” he said.

  I threw my hands up and pointed to the court. “Why would I want to do this?”

  “To make me happy. Liz feels terrible about all of this. She wants the two of you to be able to be friends again.”

  “She does not feel terrible.”

  “She does! She told me so just the other day.”

  I eyed the court. I didn’t like how flirtatious Powell was being; it made me think if things didn’t work out between Liz and my dad she’d go right into Powell’s arms.

  “I barely even play,” I said.

  “Yes you do!” he said. “You got very good that summer at Camp Eisner.”

  “I was nine! There’s no retention!”

  Just then Powell jogged over, with Liz trailing behind. “You made it,” Powell said.

  “Could you excuse us?” I said, dragging him a few steps away.

  “You let him trick me,” I said.

  “He knew you wouldn’t come if he told you. I think this is a good idea.”

  “You thought having sex after we heard them having sex was a good idea.”

  “That’s true.”

  “Why should I do this? Why did you even let him set this up?”

  “You can’t go on hating him forever. Eventually you’re going to have to come to terms or it’ll be more painful for you in the long run.” He eyed me up and down. “You look good.” I was wearing cargo pants, thick heather-gray socks, and a T-shirt that said “GI Joe” and had very gay-looking action figures standing in a row raising their fists.

  I softened at the compliment. I was too easy. “How was your J.Lo meeting?”

  “She’s very interested. She may attach herself to The Brother-in-Law now that I’m writing it.”

  “That’s great,” I said, trying to put a little pep into it.

  “Don’t go,” he said. “Try to have a sense of humor about this.”

  “How come you only want to see me when my father’s around?”

  “Are you guys in a fight?” Liz said. “Because the game could be really good for that. I think it could be really good for everyone. My analyst thinks that healthy channels for aggression are essential to harmonious relationships.”

  “You wouldn’t know a harmonious relationship if it bit you in the—”

  “Ladies,” my dad said.

  I wasn’t exactly sure how it was possible but ten minutes later Powell and I were positioned on one side, the dog and the bitch on the other. Liz was serving and she looked out for blood, like a Jewish Venus Williams. She was in a white mini and a sleeveless black top that said HEAD. “I don’t want to do this,” I called over my shoulder to Powell.

/>   But he wasn’t paying attention; Liz had already slammed it viciously to his backhand, the ball whistling past my ear. Powell lunged to return. He and Liz hit it back and forth a few times and just as I was beginning to feel relieved the game was not involving me she drilled one right to me. I cringed and covered my body with my arms, whimpering like a boy who’s soiled his pants, as the ball hit the edge of my racquet and bounced into the net.

  “Fifteen–love,” Liz called out.

  “Good one, babe,” my dad said, flashing her a thumbs-up. I couldn’t believe he had the nerve to call her “babe” in front of his own daughter.

  They won the next three points straight. My dad cried out, “That’s my girl!” and sashayed over to give her a hug and a kiss.

  “Who are you two?” I said. “Andre and Steffi?”

  “I’m so much hotter than that German bitch,” Liz said.

  “You gotta try a little harder,” Powell hissed as we moved to the net. “Put something into it! Pretend you care! Didn’t you say you had lessons?”

  “At a Jewish summer camp,” I said. “The athletic department was pathetic. And I had no acuity. My dad doesn’t like to admit it but there are some things I’m not any good at.”

  “That’s not true!” my dad said. “You’re a naturally gifted athlete! You’ve got perfect hand-eye! You just have to put your mind to it.”

  “I was thinking maybe we should switch it up a little later on,” Powell said.

  “Am I that bad?” I sputtered.

  “It’s a dog-eat-dog world,” he said, “and I can’t be shamed into getting trounced.”

  “I’m with Rachel,” my dad said. “I mean, Hank’s a much stronger player than I am. It’s got to be interesting and if we switch the girls it’s going to be too imbalanced.” My own father was begging off having me on his team.

  “I think it’s a great idea,” said Liz. “What fun is mixed doubles without a bit of…swapping?”

  She bounced from foot to foot like a demonic boxer. I noticed my shoe was untied and as I was stooping to tie it Powell served up the middle to Liz’s backhand. She returned it and Powell sent it back crosscourt. My dad stepped in and whacked it and before I was even fully aware it was coming it slammed into my thigh. “Jesus Christ!” I cried, rubbing it with my hand. “That’s going to leave a bruise!”

  “I’m really sorry, honey,” he said. “Are you all right?” But there was a glint in his eye like he cared more about the point than his own daughter’s welfare.

  “She’s fine!” Powell said. “Let’s keep going.”

  “You’re amazing, Richard,” Liz said, skipping toward him and planting a soul kiss on his mouth.

  “Could you cut it out?” I said.

  “You’re just bitter we’re winning,” Liz said.

  “I’m just bitter you’re fucking my father!” I said. One of the middle-aged guys on the next court looked over with a raised eyebrow.

  “This could be a reality show,” Powell said.

  On the next serve Powell and Liz went at it for a while and just as I was getting comfortable she shot one near me. I was caught off guard and hit it way off at an angle so it bounced far into the next court, where one of the guys tossed it back.

  “You gotta stay on your toes!” my dad said.

  “It was your point! You should be happy!”

  “You had enough time to get in position! Are you trying to lose because you’re not having fun?”

  “I wasn’t trying to lose at all,” I said, as my lower lip began to tremble.

  “You don’t have any discipline. You used to have a little competitive spirit! You used to be a fighter!”

  “Is she crying?” Liz called from the other side.

  “She’s fine!” Powell said. “You gotta calm down,” he whispered. “Make ’em nervous. Don’t let ’em intimidate you.”

  “I won’t,” I said, feeling like maybe I stood a chance at influencing the outcome.

  “Now cover the alley,” Powell said from behind me. I turned around. He waved me over. I moved a few steps further.

  “Shouldn’t I play the whole square?”

  “No.”

  Powell won the next three serves with no assistance from me at all. Forty–fifteen. He served the ball wide to Liz’s forehand, and though she got her racquet on it, it blooped up high and short over the net and bounced right in front of me. There couldn’t have been an easier shot. Liz was so far away I could barely make her out. In my peripheral vision I could see my father sliding toward me, looking very concerned. The ball was floating in the air like a scoop of lime sherbet, frozen in Matrix like suspended animation. I could hear Powell’s sneakers behind me as he called, “I got it!”

  My father was coming closer. I felt a rush of hatred well up in me as I saw the outline of his clean-shaven face. All this time I’d been reluctant to blame him but now it seemed so clear. He was the selfish one, not my mom. He was the one who had ruined everything. He had found Liz and chosen her. He didn’t fall into this, he wasn’t pushed. He’d thought it out and made a conscious choice to betray my mother, to betray me, to destroy the family. He’d given up everything that mattered for a piece of skinny ass.

  I hated him for what he’d done and who he’d been. I hated him from long ago for making me stay in the library too long and locking us out of the house. For pushing me to run for youth group president when I was happy being just the secretary. I remembered all the times when I was little that he took me out and tried to teach me to throw a ball and the way he never gave up even though it was clear that I would always, always throw like a girl. I thought about the time we’d all gone skiing in Vermont and over dinner out at a restaurant he’d gotten in such a bad fight with me over something stupid that he walked home alone in the snow and my mom had to drive next to him at five miles an hour. I thought about the times he yelled at my mom for losing things that she didn’t lose and made her feel inadequate and small when she had it together way more than he did.

  I hated what a hard time he’d given me about being a bartender while neglecting to inform me that he was unemployed. How when I’d confronted him about his affair, he’d had the gall to ask for my pity, when he was the two-timing lying asshole. How dismissive he’d been of my mom and all her groups, as though she was skirting her responsibilities when all she was doing was getting a life. I hated how he’d acted on Rosh Hashanah, and how he’d had the nerve to have sex right above my own apartment, how he’d stolen my boyfriend as his new best friend and acted generally in the last month and a half as though nobody else’s needs mattered but his own. It all hit me square and clear like a glorious epiphany from an otherwise silent God: my father was a shmuck.

  I raised my racquet above my head, like Judith about to slay Holofernes, and slammed the ball as hard as I could toward that bobbing bull’s-eye called My Father’s Head. Instead of bouncing crazily off the racquet, the ball shot out hard and clean like a bullet and nailed my father square in the eye.

  “Ahhh!” he cried, falling to the ground like he was shot, his knees in the air, his hands covering his face. The court was silent. I could hear the cars rushing down the expressway and behind it the distant waves of the East River lapping at the Brooklyn shore.

  It had taken me a quarter of my life but I had finally leveled my father.

  Suddenly everything started moving again. “Stay back, everyone!” Liz shouted, racing to his side. “I know first aid.”

  Powell dropped his racquet and hopped over the net. The two guys on the side court jogged over as Powell and Liz crouched over my dad. He rolled back and forth and whimpered, “The pain! The pain!” and though one entire side of his face was covered I could swear I saw him glaring at me through his one good eye.

  FIFTEEN minutes later, we were crossing the BQE on Union, my dad clutching a bag of frozen peas to his eye and insisting that despite his injury he was in good-enough shape to take us all to lunch.

  It had only taken me a second to s
nap out of my stupor and realize what I’d done. As soon as I saw the swelling I wanted to puke, like I was the evil one and not him. While Liz ran to get the peas from a deli and Powell shot me dirty looks, I hovered over my dad, apologizing so many times he finally had to tell me to just shut up.

  The restaurant was at the corner of Union and Hicks and looked like it hadn’t been altered since 1944. We pushed open the door and though there were no bells as we entered, it seemed like there should have been. It was dark inside, more like a bar than a restaurant, and the floor had original octagonal tile, like a barbershop from World War II. The wooden tables were empty except for a few white-haired men eating pasta.

  The woman behind the counter had a lot of black hair piled on her head and thin red lips. “Four for lunch,” my dad told her.

  “You all right?” she said, glancing at the peas. “We got some ice in the back.”

  “Oh, that’s not necessary—”

  “Ice would be wonderful,” Liz said.

  She led us to a table in the back, laid out the menus, and disappeared into the kitchen. I sat next to Powell, across from Liz and my dad. “So how’d that happen?” the waitress asked, returning with some ice stuffed in a cloth napkin.

  “His daughter hit him with a ball,” Liz said.

  “By accident,” I said.

  She nodded, looked at me, and then at Liz, and pronounced, “This is so sweet.”

  “What is?”

  “It’s not often you see two grown girls out with their fathers for lunch.”

  Liz burst into a smile. “That’s nice that you think that,” she said, “but he’s not my father.” She draped her arm over my dad’s shoulder and French-kissed him. I slumped in my seat.

  “Oh,” the waitress said, more confused than ever. “I just thought you and he—”

  “Save yourself the energy,” Powell said.

  Everything on the menu was in Italian and though I expected the prices to be World War II prices they weren’t. This was the nature of brownstone Brooklyn—you got a walk back in time, but you had to pay.

  “I think I’m going to get a Caesar salad,” Liz announced. “What about you, Richie?”

 

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