by Claire Adams
It took me an hour to trim the branches and clean up the mess I’d made, and by that time, Nina was up and moving around.
“Hey, sleepyhead, you wanna get some breakfast in town?” I asked, as she sat at the counter drinking a cup of hot tea. She nodded but said nothing. Unlike me, she wasn’t a morning person, so I was used to her silence as she moved from sleep to wakefulness. I patted her shoulder and said, “I’m going to go grab a shower and get dressed. Can you be ready in a half hour?”
She nodded again and stared into the her mug. I smiled and went to get ready. A half an hour later, I stood in the kitchen as my 16-year-old daughter came strolling out of her room with a serious look on her face as she stared at her phone.
“Well, good morning, sunshine!” I said, as she entered the kitchen. “It’s good to see you back in the land of the living!”
“Dad, please,” she said, rolling her eyes and tucking the phone into her back pocket.
“What? Are you nixing all of the pet names I have for you?” I asked, as she walked across the room and stood on tiptoes to kiss my cheek.
“In a word, yes,” she said, as she put out a hand to keep me at a distance. “No offense, Dad, but those names are so 7th grade. I’m 16 now.”
“Oh, I see,” I said, hanging my head in mock shame. “Your old man is no longer good enough to call you by your beloved childhood pet names. I guess I’ll just go sit out back and eat worms.”
“Don’t be so dramatic, Dad,” Nina said, rolling her eyes. “That’s not what I mean; I’m just saying. Can’t you treat me like a grown-up?”
“Because you are one?” I asked.
“Well, I’m not a baby anymore,” she said, as she tugged on her coat and looked at me expectantly. “Well? Are we going to go eat or what? I’m starving!”
“Yes, madam,” I said, bowing as I pointed to the back door. “Your carriage and your servant await.”
“You’re crazy; you know that, right?” she said in a testy tone as she breezed out the back door and headed for the truck.
I drove us into town to the local diner we’d been having brunch at every Sunday since Remy and I divorced. The Sunny Side Up was a bright, cheerful place full of a mix of Waltham residents who were intent on filling up on the pancakes and waffles that the place was well-known for. Judy waved us toward our usual booth as I grabbed two rolls of silverware and a couple of menus. Nina shed her jacket and slid into the far side of the booth before taking a menu from me and quickly deciding on eggs, bacon, and waffles.
“You sure you’re ordering enough food?” I asked. Remy had told me that Nina hadn’t been eating much at home during the week and that I should keep an eye out for any behaviors that might indicate she had an eating disorder. I wasn’t entirely sure what that meant or what I should be looking out for, but I did know that I needed to encourage her to eat.
“Dad, why are you picking on me?” she asked, as she slid the menu to the end of the table and took a sip of water.
“No, I’m dead serious,” I said. “Your mother said you’re not eating very well at home, so I’m supposed to fill you up while you’re here, I guess.”
“I eat fine at home,” she said, rolling her eyes. “It’s just that Mom buys that gross organic stuff and I hate it, so I wait until I’m at school to eat real food. I’ve told her a hundred times I don’t want to eat quinoa or tofu or whatever crazy micro greens she’s bought this week, but she never listens.”
“Ah, I see,” I nodded, hesitant to add any more to the pile of kindling that Nina was building under her mother. Remy and I might not have gotten along very well, but I wasn’t keen on waging war against her using our daughter as the ammunition. However, Remy had no reservations about it, and that often worried me.
“Okay, well, if we need to go to the grocery store and stock up on regular supplies for you to take back to your mom’s, then we can do that this afternoon.”
“Nah, it’s no biggie,” she shrugged.
“Speaking of communication,” I said, just as Judy came to the table ready to take our order. We both ordered, and then I returned to my question, “Anything new on the boy front these days?”
“Dad, you know I can’t talk to you about that stuff,” she said, shutting down the discussion.
“Why not?”
“Because it’s weird, that’s why,” she retorted. “Besides, do you want to talk to me about your love life and when you might consider dating again?”
“Now see here, young lady,” I began.
“See? You don’t want to talk about it either,” she said, in a tone that clearly drew the line. “You really need to get out and see someone, Dad. I mean, you’re a good-looking guy with a lot to offer, but you’re not getting any younger.”
“Are you telling me I’ve got a shelf life at 38?” I laughed.
“If the shelf life fits,” she shrugged. “Look, you and Mom have been divorced for more than two years, and she’s started dating again. Why can’t you?”
“I don’t have time for it,” I said. “Plus, you know my schedule; most women aren’t willing to put up with my weird hours and lack of availability.”
“Excuses, excuses,” she said. “If you found someone really interesting who shared your interests, you’d find a way to make it work. But to do that, you’ve got to get out in circulation!”
“Message received, can we move on to another topic now?” I asked, as Judy brought out steaming plates of bacon and eggs with waffles on the side. She put down the butter and syrup, refilled my coffee cup, and asked if we needed anything else before moving away to attend to the next table.
“How’d the game go yesterday?” Nina asked, with her mouth full of waffle.
“We kicked the PD’s ass to the curb, as usual,” I said, cutting up my waffle and smothering it in syrup.
“How’s Uncle Tony doing?”
“He’s a major pain in the ass, as usual,” I laughed. “Maybe I’ll call and see if he wants to join us for pizza and beer tonight. He’s having a rough time at home right now.”
“Maybe if he didn’t act like a 15-year-old boy he wouldn’t be,” Nina offered, as she dug into her eggs.
“Not my circus, not my monkeys,” I said, stuffing a forkful of waffles into my mouth and chewing.
We finished breakfast, then headed over to the hardware store on Lexington so I could get a new saw blade, and then hit the grocery store where we picked up frozen pizzas, beer, and, despite her protests, a bag full of granola bars and snacks that she could take back to Remy’s with her. We spent the afternoon popping popcorn and watching the Patriots kick the Redskins’ asses before I called Tony and invited him to dinner. He and his wife were busy entertaining her parents, and he told me he’d see me at the station for our shift.
Nina and I cooked the pizzas and then settled in to watch a couple of goofy Christmas movies that she loved. It was well past 9 when I realized she had school in the morning.
“Time for bed, young lady!” I called from the kitchen.
“Awww, Dad! One more movie, please!” she protested. I was tempted to let her stay up and watch one more, but I knew that if she was late to school in the morning, there would be hell to pay when Remy found out.
“Nope, sorry, Punkin; it’s time to shut down Chez Gaston and call lights out,” I said, feeling like an ogre.
“But Dad,” she began.
“Don’t ‘but Dad’ me, young lady,” I said, a little more sternly than I’d intended. “You’ve got to get your grades up before Christmas break, and getting a good night’s sleep is an important part of that process.”
“Oh my God, you sound just like Mom,” she said, as she rolled her eyes dramatically. I winced as the words hit my ears, but I knew that Nina was searching for the words that would give her an advantage. She’d become an excellent manipulator since the divorce and knew exactly how to play Remy and I off of each other. Tonight, I wasn’t having any of it.
“That’s probably because we bot
h want you to do well in school, kiddo,” I said, moving back into the living room and shutting off the television. “Bedtime.”
“Fine,” Nina pouted. “You’re so mean.”
“I know I am, but I love you enough to let you think that,” I said, leaning down to kiss the top of her head. “I’m doing it for your own good. Now, get up and get moving, young lady!”
She reached up and wrapped her arms around my neck, and I stood up, pulling her up off the couch so that she was hanging around my neck like an albatross. I loved this ritual. We’d been doing it since she was a tiny girl, and I knew it wouldn’t be long before I no longer had the opportunity to do these things. It made me smile to know that while she might be mad at me for enforcing bedtime, she wasn’t mad enough to skip our ritual. I wrapped one arm around her waist and did an exaggerated Frankenstein walk down the hall to her bedroom. Nina giggled the whole way as I growled and grumbled like a monster. In her room, I reached up and untangled her fingers so that she fell backward onto her bed, bouncing once or twice until she was still.
“I love you, Nina,” I said, as I bent down and kissed her forehead.
“I love you, too, Dad,” she replied. “I just don’t love this bedtime thing. I’m not a kid anymore!”
“You’re my kid and, believe me, you’ll thank me for it later,” I assured her. “Now, you get some sleep and work on those grades.”
“Only if you get some sleep and find a date,” she shot back.
“I don’t know where you got this smart-ass streak from,” I said, shaking my head sadly.
“Better to be a smart-ass than a dumb-ass,” she retorted, as I exited the room, shutting the door behind me.
As I cleaned up the kitchen, I thought about what Nina had said about dating. I knew that it was probably time to get back on the horse, but after two years of being on my own, I’d grown accustomed to my routine and I wasn’t sure that there was room in it for someone else. I tucked the sponge behind the faucet and shut off the kitchen lights as I told myself that I could let it go for now and worry about dating tomorrow.
Chapter Four
Emily
When the alarm went off early the next morning, I groaned as I hit the snooze button and then rolled back over and closed my eyes. The air in the bedroom felt colder than usual, and I knew that the furnace had most likely gone out during the night — again. I’d told my landlady about the problem, and she’d assured me, numerous times, that she had someone coming to take a look at it, but the problem persisted. This made getting up on a Monday morning even more unpleasant than usual.
“Oh Christ,” I groaned, as I slammed my hand down on the alarm button as it began beeping again. Howard purred softly as he shifted his position under the covers. I reached out and petted him as I grumbled, “You’re living the life of Riley, and you know that, don’t you?”
I slid out from under the covers, and as my feet hit the hardwood floor, I knew that my assessment of the furnace situation had been correct. I could see my breath hanging in the air as I made a break for the bathroom and cranked the hot water on. Then, I quickly padded into the kitchen where I flipped on the small space heater I’d bought just for mornings like these. Back in the bathroom, the small room had warmed up as it quickly filled with steam. I shed my pajamas and stepped under the stream of scalding water.
Once I’d showered and done everything I could possibly do to get ready in the small, warm bathroom, I wrapped myself in a thick, terry cloth robe and shoved my feet into a pair of sheepskin slippers before heading to the kitchen to make coffee. I found Howard sitting in his usual spot at the counter on the middle stool, slowly grooming himself as he waited for me to serve him breakfast.
“I’m not sure what Edith is going to do about the heat today, buddy,” I said, as I scooped coffee into the filter and then flicked on the machine. I grabbed Howard’s bowl off the floor and opened the cabinet where I kept his food. “You’re probably going to have to tough it out in bed today. I’ll stop and pick up another space heater on my way home because one way or another, we’re going to have heat in this damn place.”
As if ignoring me, Howard sat staring out the window until I placed his bowl on the floor. Only then did he hop down from the stool and wander over to head butt my leg. I flipped on the news and saw that they were just heading into the weather report.
“You’re welcome,” I said to my furry companion as I began making breakfast and packing my lunch.
“There’s a northeast storm heading our way this week, and it looks like we’re going to be dipping down into the sub-zero temps overnight,” the local meteorologist said a little too cheerfully. “If you’ve got drafty windows or doors, I’d recommend putting something along the cracks to keep the chill out!”
“As if you’d ever lived in a drafty house,” I muttered, as I flipped the toast onto a plate and buttered it quickly. I took my coffee and toast to the counter and sat down.
Howard and I ate in companionable silence as I mentally ran through my lesson plan for the day. I knew the sophomore class was going to be rough once I handed back the papers, so I decided to wait until we’d finished the day’s lesson to give them out. The kids would grumble, but in the end, I knew it was the only way to go.
An hour later, I was at my desk prepping the assignments I planned to hand back and the ones that would be given as homework. The school was chilly, and I decided that another cup of coffee was in order, so I headed down to the faculty lounge.
“Morning, Emily,” frowned 10th grade English teacher, Betty Paxton. She had a sour look on her face.
“Morning, Betty,” I said, as I tried to slide past her. Betty had a reputation for being difficult, and I found that staying out of her way lessened the chance that she’d bend my ear. Unfortunately, this morning I was the only other teacher in the lounge.
“Have you ever known a class of 10th graders to be so absolutely lazy as this one?” she asked, as I reached for the pot that had just finished brewing.
“Lazy, really?” I said, without looking up. “No, I haven’t found that to be true.”
“Oh please, you know that this group of students is so completely unmotivated and utterly slothful!” she protested, as she leaned against the counter and wound up to let loose with her list of student sins.
“Actually, I’ve found that all they really need is some gentle guidance,” I said, knowing full well that I was understating the problem. I’d actually had quite a bit of trouble keeping the 10th graders engaged in History lessons, but then, I was also able to recall what it felt like to actually be a 10th grader. I doubted that Betty was able to go that far back in her memory in order to conjure up some empathy for the hormonal drama that teenagers experienced on a daily basis.
“Gentle guidance, my ass,” she muttered, as she turned and grabbed the powdered cream, pouring it into her cup. “More like a slap on the ass and a good grounding.”
“Different strokes for different folks,” I said a little too cheerfully as I returned the pot to the warmer and grabbed my mug. I knew that I’d pay for this later when Betty began gossiping about how I was entirely too lenient with the students, but I also knew that, like me, most of the faculty found Betty’s assessment unkind, to say the least. She was two years away from retirement, and there was nothing anyone could do until then. I headed for the hallway calling, “Have a great day, Betty!”
Thankfully, the door closed behind me before I could hear her reply. Back in my classroom, I prepped for the first class of the day. As the students filtered in, I said good morning and reminded them to pull out the assignment so we could go over it. Several students groaned as they realized they’d forgotten the homework and a few others shrugged to indicate they’d never intended to do it to begin with. At the back of the room, a few students bent across the aisle whispering and laughing as Nina Gaston entered the room and slid behind her desk.
“All right, let’s get started on Massachusetts history!” I said, as enthusi
astically as I could. The class let out a collective groan, and in a good-natured voice, I said, “Aww c’mon, this is some scintillating stuff, folks! You read it for homework, so I know you know what I’m talking about, but we still need to fill in some of the details.”
I launched into a short lecture about Irish immigration to Boston in the wake of the Great Potato Famine and talked about how Bostonians viewed the new immigrants as part of the servant class.
“Keep in mind that this allowed employers and landlords to exploit the fact that the Irish had no economic or social standing,” I said, as I used a handheld device to click through the PowerPoint slides I’d organized to show the dire conditions of the new immigrants. I quickly moved through a series of photos that showed newspaper headlines, flyers, and signs on businesses that all read “No Irish Need Apply,” and heard an audible gasp from the class as I stopped on the front page of the American Patriot, a mid-19th century newspaper devoted to the task of excluding all immigrants from participation in the labor force, schools, and social activities on the basis that they were depriving real Americans their rights as citizens.
“So, what do you think about this?” I asked. The class was silent. Students looked down at their desks as they tried to pretend that I couldn’t see them. I smiled a little as I waited. I knew I could out-wait them all.
“I think it’s weird,” a girl in the front finally muttered.
“Why is it weird?” I asked.
“Because it’s the Irish; I mean, what’s the big deal?” she said.
“But how did the city view them?” I pushed to get her and her classmates to further analyze what they’d learned.
“They saw them as totally different from everyone else who was already here,” a boy in the back said, without raising his hand.
“And what did that mean?” I asked, looking around the room. “Nina? What do you think?’
“Huh?” Nina said, as she looked up and then averted her eyes.
“I wanted to know what it meant that the residents of Boston saw the Irish as totally separate from them,” I said, repeating the question.