I become quiet around my dad. Oh, we yell like anything at the television when some referee makes a call that we don’t like, and I have no problem hollering when our team makes a point. But none of that is really talking. I don’t do very well at the talking part. It’s almost painful.
And now Quinn will be there to see how withdrawn I can be.
Oh, well, like I said—maybe Quinn won’t come. After all, he’s already used up most of his day off, and, it wasn’t a complete day off because he gave a speech to some schoolkids this morning before he and Lizabett stopped at Carly’s. Once he drives Lizabett home, he probably won’t want to come back, even though he said he would.
And, there’s always the possibility that Lizabett will get up enough nerve to ask him if he deliberately tried to ruin the ballet production so she couldn’t dance. If he needs to talk to her, that would certainly keep him away.
Yes, there is any number of things that could keep the afternoon from being a disaster, so I’m just going to put my cap on my head and go meet my fate.
Uncle Lou is in the room where we have the big-screen television, and he looks up when I walk in. Business is good this afternoon, but everyone is just having something to eat in the main part of The Pews. No one else is in the television room.
Uncle Lou nods his approval at the cap I am wearing, and I can’t help but compare him to Quinn. I wonder if all oldest children spend their lives making sure everything is okay for their younger siblings. I’ve never experienced any of that since I am an only child. All of a sudden, I envy Lizabett.
“I got some pistachios,” Uncle Lou says as he points to a bowl of nuts he’s placed on the counter by the chairs. “Your dad always liked pistachios.”
“You spoil us.” I smile at Uncle Lou.
Uncle Lou swipes at the counter with a cloth. “He’ll be here any minute now. The program starts in a few minutes, and he always likes to get the introduction on programs like that.”
It occurs to me that Uncle Lou knows my father even better than I do.
“Did my dad know about my cancer when he left us?” My mouth opens, and the question is out before I even realize I’m going to ask it.
Uncle Lou stops swiping at the counter and darts a glance at me. “Your dad never left you—he left your mother, but not you.”
“I just wondered if he knew,” I say. Once I asked the question, I realized how very much I wanted to know the answer. It was as though all of the restraint for the past six years was pushing me to finally get the answer.
Uncle Lou moves the bowl of nuts closer to the edge of the counter. “Your dad loves you.”
I close my eyes. “Wouldn’t he have stayed with us for just a little longer if he knew I had cancer?”
I don’t need to open my eyes to know someone has entered the room. Uncle Lou scrapes a chair on the floor as he moves it into place. “We’re all set up for the program.”
I open my eyes and see my dad walking toward one of the chairs Uncle Lou has set out. My dad had to have heard my question, but he doesn’t say anything. I can see him stuff the baseball cap he brought back into his pocket, though. Usually, the first thing he does is put the new cap on my head.
“Maybe you’d like a sandwich while you watch the program today,” my uncle says to my dad in this upbeat voice. “Marilee makes a great tuna sandwich. It only takes a minute.”
“That’d be nice,” my dad says. “I didn’t get a chance to have lunch.”
My dad hasn’t looked either me or Uncle Lou in the eye, and he seems tired.
“I’ll be right back with it,” I say. I guess I’m not going to get an answer to any of my questions. Besides, I could use a minute or two in the kitchen before I have to face my dad again. Not that I’m crying or anything. My eyes are just a little watery from the eye makeup that I have on.
The program has been on for a good fifteen minutes, and my dad has finished his sandwich by the time Quinn comes back. I haven’t been able to find the enthusiasm to cheer for the old teams that are shown on the “best of baseball greats” so I am glad Quinn is here.
Quinn sits down in a chair next to me.
“Quinn, this is my father. Dad, this is Quinn,” I say.
My dad frowns at Quinn as though he needs to decide if he’s okay or not.
“Pleased to meet you, sir,” Quinn says as he holds out his hand to my father.
My father grunts, but he shakes Quinn’s hand. “You a friend of Marilee’s?”
“I’m working on it,” Quinn says.
“We’re just getting to know each other, Dad,” I say.
“What does that mean?” Dad says as he squints at us.
My father hasn’t been a father to me for the past six years, so I can’t think of one good reason why he’s decided to act like one now.
“We’re doing a few things together, that’s all,” I say. I can’t help it if my voice is a little formal. I don’t like it that my father is interfering. He probably hasn’t noticed that I’m twenty-five years old now.
“My intentions are honorable, if that’s what you want to know,” Quinn says with a quick smile.
My dad ignores Quinn and looks at me. “What sort of things are the two of you doing?”
My only excuse for saying what I do next is that I was at the end of my patience. “We’re going to church on Sunday.”
“Oh.”
Well, at least that makes my father stop asking me questions. Knowing how he feels about churches, I’m surprised he doesn’t stand up and leave. Instead, he turns to look at Quinn more closely.
“You one of those Christians?” my dad finally asks Quinn.
Quinn nods. “Sure am.”
I have to give Quinn points for bravery under fire. My dad scowls at him for a few minutes, but Quinn doesn’t let his enthusiastic expression fade.
“It was the Christians who killed all those people in the Crusades,” my dad says.
“And it was Christians who put up leprosy colonies and built orphanages and visited prisons,” Quinn replies.
“I hope you don’t think Marilee will be doing any of those things. She’s had cancer, you know.”
“I know,” Quinn says.
“She’s not as strong as she used to be,” my dad adds.
“I’m just fine,” I say. “And, if you’re worried about me going to church, you can just—”
“—come with us,” Quinn interrupts. “There’s always room for one more.”
“Me?” my dad says, as if Quinn has suggested Dad go swimming with sharks.
Quinn shrugs. “It would be one way for you to know what is going on in church.”
My dad frowns. “Well, I’ve never—I mean—church isn’t—”
“I could pick you up here,” Quinn says. “Sunday at ten-thirty.”
“My dad wouldn’t—” I say to Quinn. “I mean, he’s not the type to—”
“I’ll go,” my dad speaks up.
“You will?” I pause. “Go to church?” I pause again. “Mom goes to church.”
“Not this one surely?” my dad asks.
“Well, no, not this one,” I say. My mom goes to a small church in Arcadia. Quinn has said the church he goes to is in Pasadena.
“Well, then, somebody needs to go with you, so it may as well be me,” my dad says as he pulls the baseball cap out of his pocket and hands it to me.
“Oh. Thanks.” I don’t know what else to say. I like that he finally gave me the cap, but being a father is about more than handing out headgear. If he couldn’t be bothered to worry about my cancer, I’m not sure he has the right to worry about things like me and church. Still, I kind of like the thought of us going to church together.
“I won’t wear a hat, though,” my dad says as he turns to Quinn. “A cap is good enough for me. I’m no executive or anything.”
“Not too many men wear hats to church anymore,” Quinn says.
My dad grunts. “They did the last time I went. Down South. I always t
hought it was a foolish thing. You just wear it to the door and then you have to chase it around on the pew for the rest of the time.” He pauses. “I could wear a suit, though. I wear one of those to work most days, so that’s no problem.”
“I could wear a dress,” I say.
“Anything is fine,” Quinn says. “Suits. Dresses. Slacks. It’s pretty casual.”
We’re halfway through the television program before I realize I have a problem. My Sunday date just evaporated. I’m still going to church with Quinn, but I’m pretty sure the Sisterhood won’t count it as a date if my father comes along with us.
I’m beginning to wonder for the umpteenth time if meeting these goals is worth it. I’ve lost some of my zest for getting a date with the grill guy, and I doubt I’ll get another date from Quinn, not after he takes me and my dad to church together. I can’t imagine I’ll be any fun to be with when my dad is sitting by my side. Quinn will likely be a one-function date.
I look over at Quinn. He doesn’t look as if he’s had a bad day so far. “Did you talk to Lizabett after you dropped me off earlier?”
Quinn shakes his head. “She’s coming down with something, so she didn’t feel like talking.”
“I thought she might want to talk about how disappointed she is that her ballet performance was canceled,” I say.
Quinn frowns. “The theater should never have let them book that production. They have a dozen violations to fix before they can have a performance of any kind there.”
I should stop myself right now, but I don’t. “Are you the one who found the violations?”
“No, that was the captain,” Quinn says. “I only wish he’d gone over there a week ago, so the girls wouldn’t be so disappointed—if they’d had a little advance notice, they could have found another place to have their ballet.”
“You should tell that to Lizabett,” I say. “That it was the captain.”
“What kind of a place do they need?” my dad asks.
I wasn’t aware that my dad was following the discussion between Quinn and myself, but I can tell now that both my dad and my uncle have been listening.
“Really all they need is a large space with slick floors for dancing,” Quinn says. “I think they only sold fifty or so tickets, so it wouldn’t need to be a theater. If they had a space to dance, they could put up folding chairs around it.”
“Well, there should be a place like that,” I say. I look around the diner. “If our rooms here weren’t so chopped up, we’d have room to host something like that.”
“Is this for one of your Sisterhood friends?” my dad asks.
I nod. I never thought my dad knew about the Sisterhood. Of course, he’s seen Becca sometimes when he’s here watching a game—and maybe he’s seen Carly and Lizabett once or twice, but I’ve never mentioned the Sisterhood to him. I look over at Uncle Lou. He must be the one telling my dad things about me.
“When is the ballet happening?” my dad asks.
Uncle Lou must be coaching my dad. He hasn’t been involved in my life since he left Mom. To listen to him now, though, you’d think he was the guy on that old television show, Father Knows Best. I’m beginning to wonder if he thinks that he can make up for his lack of interest in me for the past six years with a sudden intense involvement in everything surrounding me from my church date with Quinn to the Sisterhood problems.
“We could have a performance at where I work—in our main showroom,” my dad says. “We’d have to drive the show cars outside to the back lot, but we do that all the time anyway.”
“You could give Lizabett’s group a place to do their ballet?” I ask.
My dad nods. “I’m pretty sure. I’d have to clear it with the general manager, but he’s a good guy. If I tell him it’s for my daughter and her friends, he’ll understand.”
Understand what? I wonder. I’m surprised anyone at Dad’s work even knows he has a daughter.
“What day would you need the place?” my dad asks.
“They had planned on doing their production this coming Wednesday,” I say.
My dad nods. “I’ll ask. I’m sure it’ll be fine.”
“My brothers and I would be happy to help—we could set up chairs or move cars or anything,” Quinn says. “Lizabett has been looking forward to dancing in this production, and I hate to see her disappointed.”
“I’d appreciate it, too,” I say.
I’m not used to having my father do anything for me and I’m not sure what to make of it all. I look over and see Uncle Lou beaming at us both as if he’d just taught us to fly, so I figure he’s behind this sudden interest my dad has in my life. I wish I felt like beaming. I’m going to need some time to think about all of this, though, before I know what to make of it all.
Chapter Eight
Call me Diana, not Princess Diana.
—Princess Diana
The week after we had our crowns, Lizabett brought in another princess quote.
We giggled about what we would do if we were really princesses.
Lizabett wanted to knight her brothers and send them off to rescue other damsels in distress—with the added request that they bring her back a stuffed dragon or two. Carly said she’d build an all-pink castle by the beach in Malibu—something with turrets so she could look out to the ocean. Becca said she’d have real hot chocolate, none of the mix kind, brought to her every morning on a silver tray along with the New York Times. Becca likes to know any bad news right away in the morning.
Castles and chocolate were too rich for me, and I had no desire for any kind of news early in the morning, so I said I’d settle for having a butler. The others teased me about why I would want a butler, but I didn’t tell them. In the books I had read, a butler always seemed to stop any unpleasantness at the door. He didn’t let trouble into his mistress’s house. I figured a good butler could do that in my life. When I thought about it some more, I realized a butler was the closest thing to a father a grown woman can have and still be totally independent.
It wasn’t until after my father and Quinn left that Becca came through the doors to The Pews. I must admit things had been so hectic I hadn’t given a second thought to the fact that she hadn’t answered my call this morning telling her that Carly’s cat was still lost. As it turns out, Becca has problems of her own.
Listen to them.
“I can’t believe it,” Becca says. She sits down at the counter in The Pews and I place a tall glass of iced tea in front of her. It’s about nine-thirty at night, and there’s no one sitting close to us. Becca is speaking in a low voice anyway. “There just isn’t anyone more suited to that internship than me. I swear there isn’t. They practically admitted as much when I called.”
Becca takes a minute to just stare at the glass of iced tea.
“You called them?” I ask just to keep Becca talking. “The judge herself?”
“No, I couldn’t reach the judge,” Becca admits as she looks at me instead of the tea. She looks miserable as she puts her hand around the glass. “The only one who would talk to me was the law clerk who runs the internship application process. And he as much as admitted that I was the best candidate. He said there had been only one thing standing between me and getting the internship.”
“Well, if it’s only one thing, maybe you can change it and—”
“I’m not getting the internship,” Becca says. Her knuckles tighten on the glass she’s holding. “They’re discriminating against me.”
“Discriminating?”
Becca nods and lifts the glass of iced tea to her lips. She takes a drink before continuing. “Of course, they won’t admit it.”
“They can’t discriminate against you,” I say. By now I am indignant. “That’s not fair. Besides, a judge should be open to all religions.”
Becca grunts as she sets her glass down on the counter. “They’re not discriminating against me because I’m Jewish. It’s because of the cancer.”
“Oh.” This is even more shock
ing to me. “Can they do that?”
“Of course they can. They can’t come out and tell me that’s the reason I wasn’t chosen, but what else could it be? I have a 4.0 in my classes. The law clerk admitted none of the other candidates have a 4.0 average. Plus, I’m on the debate team. I’m perfect for the internship, and they’re not going to give it to me.”
Becca’s jaw is set.
“Maybe you misunderstood the law clerk,” I say. “Maybe he just can’t tell you who’s gotten the internship yet, and so he’s stalling.”
“They gave the internships to a Marcia Richards and a Paul Stone. There’s only the two. The congratulation letters have already gone out. The consolation letters go out tomorrow. I’ll be getting one of those.”
“But how would they even know you had cancer?”
Becca taps her fingers against the counter. “That friend of my grandfather who knows the judge called and talked to her. He told her about the cancer—said he’d recommend me for anything because he admired me for the way I faced adversity. The law clerk told me that. I suppose he thought it’d make me feel better.”
“But, that’s good, isn’t it? You faced adversity. I would think the judge would want that in an intern.”
“The judge wants interns who will live long enough to use what they learn in her court in career situations, and that’s after they live long enough to go through law school.”
“You’re going to live through law school—and longer. You could outlive those other two guys by years and years.”
Becca gives me a tight smile. “We don’t know that, though, do we?”
“Of course we don’t know,” I say. Will cancer always haunt us? “But no one really knows how long they have to live. Those other two don’t know how long they will live, either.”
“It’s the odds,” Becca says. “The judge was just going with the odds.”
“You listen to me, Rebecca Snyder,” I say. “You’re a fighter. You’ve beaten the odds. You know what you need to do to stay healthy. You’re already ten steps ahead of most people our age.”
The Sisterhood of the Dropped Stitches Page 9