Love Has The Best Intentions (15 page)

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 Remembrance, 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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