He insisted on taking me on a tour of the filly’s sleeping quarters. Mom would have given up the ghost years earlier if she’d foreseen the conversion of her beloved sewing room into a stall complete with a manger. Sugar followed Dad like his shadow, her hooves clicking on the faded linoleum and ears pricked forward within scratching distance of his gnarled fingers.
Once again, I was the Tin Man, condemned to stand in the forest of confusion planted by my father, with my jaw rusted open in perpetual surprise. Upon seeing that Mom’s Haviland china soup tureen had been pressed into service as a water bowl, I mumbled some excuse about a dentist appointment and fled.
As Eric brushed his teeth that evening, I shouted my woes over the sound of running water.
He came out of the bathroom toweling his face dry. “I don’t see the problem, Char. The horse is smaller than a Great Dane. Be thankful he didn’t fill the backyard with sand and raise ostriches.”
“A horse is snoring next to Mom’s sewing machine and you’re making jokes?”
My understanding hubby slipped under the blankets. “I don’t know why you’re so upset. I had the guts to marry you, even after your father released a live ‘dove of peace’ during the ceremony. Remember how that bird made a direct hit on the pastor’s shiny black hair?” He started to laugh.
Remember? My wedding album contained an action shot of the incident, the last picture ever taken with that particular lens. The photographer had chortled so hard that he’d dropped his camera ...
After her introduction to Dad’s new live-in companion, my sister reported that Sugar was adjusting nicely to suburban life. “She’s adorable, Char. Just be thankful he didn’t invite a sumo wrestler to share the house.”
“But a horse, Ellen? Why can’t we have a normal parent—I’ve always wanted a father who checked his investments in the Wall Street Journal each morning and spent his afternoons on the golf course.”
“I grew up thinking other fathers were dull. You can’t confine Dad inside the rigid lines of respectability.”
“Respectability? I’ll settle for a little bit less eccentricity ...”
My sister ignored my mutterings. “Dad’s built a cart and gets his exercise giving the neighborhood children rides. Pudgy little Beth Armstrong’s mother is thrilled—until Beth loses ten pounds she’s been limited to only grooming Sugar, and last night, Beth refused cherry pie at supper. She’s a motivated little girl”
“Great. Beth Armstrong can’t eat and I can’t sleep.”
Ellen chuckled. “To me, having Dad around is like living on a fault line. You never know when the big quake is going to hit ...
I soon discovered that I couldn’t show my face in public, either. Dad, resplendent in baggy pants, a rubber nose and grease paint, was a regular entertainer at a local children’s hospital. By some bizarre slicing of red tape, he managed to receive permission to make a joint appearance with Sugar.
The duo’s picture appeared on the front page of the Variety section of the Minneapolis Star Tribune Sunday paper, with Sugar tapping out the days until his birthday for a little boy with a big cast and equally huge eyes. The caption read, “Putting Their Best Foot Forward to Make Others Laugh.”
I cringed, guiltily grateful that the grease paint and rubber nose concealed Dad’s features. My beaming father presented me with a framed copy of the photograph which I hung in the dining room, a constant reminder of my wretchedness in wanting to subdue his free spirit.
Of course, rain was bound to fall on this happy parade. Somehow it always did—Dad had a knack of bringing the thunder. The first shower came from Dad’s neighbor, Mrs. Johansen, a sweet-faced widow in her late sixties. My private fantasy has been to see her and my father rocking in synchronized rhythm on his front porch—Mrs. Johnsen knitting while Dad held the yarn and extra needles.
If Mrs. Johansen cherished any romantic dreams, however, she pursued them on the level of a third grade boy putting a frog in the desk of his beloved. When Dad hired a Jamaican band to celebrate his birthday, Mrs. Johnsen called the police and complained about the heathen orgy next door. She baked Dad’s favorite meal, deep dish beef and onion pie, and left the pie cooling on her window sill where the tempting aroma drifted into a bachelor’s home and spoiled the taste of a solitary hamburger.
“She leaves the sweet pickles out, too,” Dad grumbled. “I sneaked a piece once and told her the crows must have done it. She yelled so loud she blistered the paint on my house. That old battle-axe could sour cotton candy.”
My curiosity regarding her reaction to the stable next door was answered by an early morning call from Dad. His voice shook and for a moment I thought something had happened to Ellen.
“Dad? What’s wrong? Please, tell me what’s going on!”
Eric was on his way out the door, but paused in response to my frantic arm motions. When at last I hung up and cradled my head in my hands, my husband headed for the medicine cabinet and the antacid tablets.
He swallowed two. “Give it to me straight, Char. I can take it.”
“Mrs. Johansen complained to City Hall about Sugar and Dad received notice that he must get rid of her within thirty days. I promised him you’d look into it.”
My wonderful attorney husband cancelled two appointments and spent the morning at City Hall looking for loopholes before calling me with his findings. Black clouds of gloom trailed my car like exhaust fumes as I drove to a nursing home where Dad and Sugar were performing, wondering how I could break the news.
Standing in back of an obstacle course of wheelchairs and canes, I waved at Dad, who was sporting fire engine red suspenders dating from his honeymoon, baggy pants and a battered derby. Sugar, looking like she’d stepped down from a kiddie carousel, stood at his side.
“This fantastic filly will now astound you with her mathematical abilities. Do I have a volunteer?”
A man whose wrinkles indicated he could have been a boyhood chum of Herbert Hoover raised a palsied hand.
“This young man wishes to have Sugar, the Wonder Horse, guess his age,” Dad barked in his best W. C. Fields tones. There was a faint chuckle here and there, a ripple moving through those assembled like a breeze through reeds by the water’s edge.
“Sugar, take a good look at this man.”
Sugar studied the man with an intelligent gaze.
“Wonder Horse, count his age.”
Sugar blew through her nostrils in a snort of obvious disbelief. Her little knees quivered, buckled and suddenly she was lying on her back with four tiny hooves waving in the air.
“Ah, yesss. The prospect of counting all those years has caused the Wonder Horse to pass out.” Dad’s face mirrored exaggerated disgust.
The ripple became a wave of mirth, frail shoulders shaking, wrinkled hands held to mouths, white heads bobbing.
The pat phrases I had been assembling in my mind, “A horse isn’t a practical pet, is it?” and “You’ll have to face facts,” crumbled along with my composure, and I hurried outside to shed a few tears over the azalea bushes.
Dad and Sugar appeared half an hour later. “I had to pry her out with a crow bar,” he apologized.
I gave him Eric’s findings and he stood silent. Unable to bear the pain in his eyes, I looked at the little mare who had dropped her head to snatch a mouthful of grass and found myself sniffing.
Dad put his arm around me, and I drew comfort from the strength of his bear hug. “’Tain’t fair,” he muttered, kicking at a crack in the sidewalk. “She’s no bigger than Dick Thompson’s Great Dane and don’t yap like Miz Percy’s poodle.”
“Eric says the city ordinances prohibit livestock in a residential area. Horses, no matter how small, are currently classified as livestock.”
Jealous, Sugar nuzzled Dad’s hand for attention. He fingered a velvety ear. “There’s more than one way to fatten a hog. I read in the paper last week that the mayor’s kids have themselves a pet monkey.”
I hated to dash his hopes. “A monkey is
classified as an exotic animal—permitted if the owner obtains the consent of his neighbors and the City Council. But Sugar is a horse—not a zebra.”
Dad snapped his suspenders against his chest. “Keep your chin up, Sweet Charlotte. I’ll think of somethin’. The old brain box ain’t short-circuited yet.” He gave me a final hug before trudging towards his van with its built-in stall, Sugar trotting on his heels like a well-trained puppy.
Although I had longed for a more sedate parent, I couldn’t sleep that night, picturing a shrunken version of Dad slumped on the front porch and rocking the rest of his life away. I tried to punch my pillow and got Eric’s shoulder instead.
“I’ve been thinking, darling—”
“Try not to think so violently,” my husband mumbled.
“If Dad loses Sugar, it will break his spirit.”
“Relax, Char. You’re talking about a man whose own father single-handedly captured ten German soldiers and, by the time reinforcements arrived, had them singling “The Star Spangled Banner” in four-part harmony. You come from tough stock. This is a minor setback.”
“Maybe he could board Sugar at a stable—”
“If push comes to shove, Char, we’ll explore that possibility, but tonight I need my sleep.”
So did I. Eric called me from the office the next morning. “Brace yourself, honey. Your dad asked me to get him on the agenda for tonight’s City Council meeting. He’s got a ‘surprise’ for them.”
We arrived at City Hall just before 7:00 p.m., after a stop at the drug store to pick up another package of antacid tablets for Eric’s stomach. Ellen’s youngest now had the chicken pox, but she had made a solemn vow to light a candle in the window and keep vigil until we returned.
We found Dad seated in the front row, dressed in the blue suit purchased for my wedding more years ago than I cared to remember. He hugged me and audibly cracked Eric’s ribs before allowing us to take our places on the chairs he’d been saving.
“What’s your strategy?” I hissed across Eric’s shirtfront as my husband checked to make sure his antacid tablets hadn’t been crushed.
Dad shrugged. “I’ll just appeal to their better natures.” He watched the members file in and take their places at the council table, nary a smile or a laugh wrinkle among the lot of them.
He added soberly, “Course, I might need a steam shovel to dig through them layers of orneriness—that one woman looks like someone mixed quick drying cement in with her face powder.”
The agenda was crowded and we had a long wait. At intervals I glanced over at my father in his ill-fitting blue suit, the hands gnarled from years of labor resting in his lap. I reflected on how Dad’s education had never progressed past his junior year in high school because his own father’s death had made him the family breadwinner. Dad was a simple man pitted against the brick wall of bureaucracy. A simple man ... After a few more memories, I began to pity the council members.
When they called Dad’s name, he rose and grabbed the microphone like a veteran entertainer. Stating his name, he handed over a stack of permission slips signed by every resident on his block.
“How did he get Mrs. Johansen’s signature?” I whispered.
Eric winced inside his suit and fumbled for another tablet. “Don’t ask, Char.”
“Comparin’ Sugar with regular horses is like saying there ain’t no difference whether you’re squeezing basketball players or babies into a phone booth.” My father’s voice boomed over the murmur of the audience, silencing those who had prepared to discuss other issues during his presentation.
But the council members were not as polite. Some doodled on scratch pads while others seemed on the verge of nodding off. As Dad finished his speech with an impassioned plea, a stout man leaned over to whisper a comment to the city attorney, who chuckled.
My fingernails dug into my palms, and I put the brakes on my rising blood pressure by mentally sketching campaign posters and composing slogans to boot the inconsiderate louts out of office.
The mayor lifted the permit application gingerly, as if the paper had been contaminated by a plague victim. “I’m sorry, Mr. Lloyd. Permission can only be granted for an exotic animal. The animal in question is a horse. This matter should never have been placed on the agenda.”
Bang! The gavel signaled dismissal of the man tugging at the too tight collar of an out-of-date suit. Tears sprang into my eyes, and I leaped to my feet to protest. Eric yanked me back down, apparently visualizing his legal career and community standing shot down in flames.
“Excuse me, Your Honor.” Dad looked as if he’d bitten into a lemon. I recognized that pucker—he was unsuccessfully trying to discipline a grin. “If I can prove that Sugar is an exotic animal, will you grant my permit?”
The city attorney tipped his chair back on two legs. “Mr. Lloyd, if you can prove that horse is an exotic animal, nothing stands in the way of your permit,” he drawled.
Dad said, “God bless America” for no apparent reason, saluted our nation’s flag hanging behind the council table and disappeared through the double doors at the rear of the room. Eric crossed himself, despite his ancestors having embraced Methodism, while I gripped the handle of my handbag.
The doors reopened.
Eric and I were on our feet with the rest of the audience, craning our necks at the spectacle of a miniature horse with a grass skirt draped across her middle and a lei of purple flowers encircling her dainty neck.
Dad led Sugar up to the long table. Sugar gazed at the council members; the council members stared back, their expressions as deadpan as gunfighters meeting on a dusty western street.
Dad released his grip on the bridle. “Shake, Sugar.”
Sugar broke into her bump and grind routine, shoulders and hips swaying to the beat of inaudible island drums, the grass skirt fluttering and lei bobbing.
My father’s eyes gleamed in triumph, a modern day John Paul Jones shaking his fist in the teeth of enemy fire. “Well, folks? Name me an item that’s more exotic than a hula dancer!”
For a heartbeat, the silence was so profound you could have heard a spider cough.
Then the city attorney choked and his chair crashed backwards to the floor, taking him with it. The mayor’s lips twitched. One of the younger council members dissolved into giggles, putting her head down on crossed arms in a spasm of helpless laughter.
Dad’s hearty bass led an avalanche of sound as men slapped each other on the back, chortling and pointing, while women tee-heed behind matronly hands. I sagged against my husband, who mopped his brow and grinned. The city attorney’s careless promise had given Eric better grounds for a suit than a Mr. Coffee if the permit was refused.
But the wall of bureaucracy recognized the overwhelming force of the wrecking ball. His Honor waved the gavel in a feeble arc, a wooden flag of surrender, and gasped between chuckles. “Permission granted, Mr. Lloyd.”
The reporter covering the proceedings rushed up to take a picture of the “exotic” animal. The mayor held Sugar’s bridle, heroically refraining from wincing when a sharp hoof mashed his toes, while my father beamed in the background.
Swallowing the lump in my throat, I pushed my way through the milling throng and threw my arms around my father. “I’m proud of you, Dad.”
“Watch that bear hug, Sweet Charlotte! You could hurt a man.” He felt his ribs with tender concern.
Dad was Dad. He’d always been and would be until the day he no longer enlivened my humdrum existence.
The lump was back in my throat and I spoke with difficulty. “Ellen wants us all to come over for coffee and cake, Dad. We’ll have a victory party.”
He looked sheepish. “Gotta take a rain check, honey. Ms. Johansen’s fixin’ me a deep dish beef and onion pie with sweet pickles. A man needs a little variety in his life.”
THE END
About the Author
Lori Ness wrote her first novel when she ran out of books that she liked to read. Rosemary for Remembra
nce, published by Harper Paperbacks under the pseudonym Christine Arness, was nominated for a Romantic Times Award for Best Contemporary Romantic Novel. Her second book, Wedding Chimes, Assorted Crimes, was a hardcover published by Five Star. Lori has also published numerous articles, short stories, newspaper articles and essays.
www.christinearness.com
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Love Has The Best Intentions Page 11