Pacific Avenue (21 page)

That year’s winter was a cold one, wet and windy. We hauled
our puppets around under tarps, struggling against our heavy clothes and
slickers. The Christmas performances of
The Snow Queen
had been white-and-silver enchantment—now we were
working through the New Orleans history pieces, traveling from one school to
another.

We were looking forward to opening
The Legend of
Savitri
at the New Orleans Recreation
Department Theater on the fourth of May. And that was the day Dad chose for his
long-delayed visit.

We knew he was coming, of course, but there was nothing
we could do about it. The
Savitri
production demanded every one of the puppeteers. Francine, the troupe’s
babysitter, was the only one to greet him. When we got home at eight, Francine
let us into her living room, where Jamie was asleep in Dad’s lap.

“Dad, how are you?” I whispered, wanting her to go on
sleeping. “Thanks for helping with Jamie. Want me to take her off your hands?”

Dad stood, snuggling Jamie close. “Oh, no, I’ll carry
her over to your place. Back in a bit, Francine.”

“Thanks, Francine,” said Richard as we filed out, Dad
still holding Jamie. He carried her to our house and laid her in her crib,
pulling up the blankets and tucking her in.

“She talked to me for about an hour and showed me her
toys. Quite a girl,” Dad said with a goofy look on his face.

Jamie’s “talk” was all baby noises, of course, at nine
months, but she was very expressive. I could see she’d made a conquest.
I
love you, Dad. It’s so good to have you back.
I hugged him, suddenly and hard.

He smiled as we stepped apart. “I’ll see you two in the
morning. Don’t want to keep Francine up.” The door closed softly behind him.

“Kathy, you are something else. You can stay mad at
someone until one second after they admire Jamie,” said Richard.

“The whole problem was about Jamie in the first place.”

“I’m glad you made up with him.” Richard didn’t sound
all that enthusiastic.

We got ready for bed, and I turned out the light and
slipped in beside him, overlain by a rectangle of sweet spring moonlight.

I woke to Richard shouting, thrashing, in the worst
nightmare I’d seen him have yet. He was wound in a sheet, struggling to get
free. He was so frenzied, I didn’t dare touch him, but I fumbled across the
room and turned on the light. Jamie woke and added her crying to the din. As I
picked her up and soothed her, Richard sat up, blinking.

“Is she sick?” he asked after a few moments of
unwinding the blanket and rubbing his face.

“No, you were yelling. You woke her up.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

Jamie had fallen asleep again, and I laid her in the
crib. Richard straightened the covers and stretched out, and I turned off the
light and lay down.
It won’t help to nag about the nightmares. But they’re
getting worse.
I scrunched over and put my
arm over him. We fell back asleep together.

Breakfast was ordinary—coffee and toast for us, in between
spooning oatmeal and mashed banana into Jamie. A lot of Jamie’s breakfast ended
up on the floor, on her face, and on me, but she got enough of it. She didn’t
look upset by our bad night. I was, but it wasn’t a good time to talk about it.
Someone, probably Dad, was knocking at the door.

When I let him in, Jamie squealed with delight and held
out her arms. He went right to her and lifted her high above his head. Banana
and oatmeal smeared over him in several places, but he didn’t wipe it off. I
sponged myself off with a dishcloth, poured another cup of coffee, and set it
on the table for him. I handed him the dishcloth too, but he ignored it. He set
Jamie back in her high chair, and I hugged him. Richard started some more
toast.

“I was wondering if Jamie needed anything. I mean, you
have your furniture and so on, but what about clothes?” Dad asked.

“She’s growing so fast, we don’t even try for anything
fancy,” I told him. “Just diapers and T-shirts from the Sally Army.”

“Do you have clothes for cold weather?”

“We won’t need those until November, at the earliest.”
Now
we have something to talk about. He can be my father because I’m Jamie’s
mother.

“Well, at least I want to get some good pictures of
her. Is there a photographer anywhere close?”

“Francine would know.”

“Why don’t you give her a call? I only have today for
shopping—all next week is medical appointments.”

When I called Francine, she said her cousin was a photographer.
His studio was in Gentilly.

“Why so far?” asked Dad. “It would be nice to patronize
Francine’s cousin, but there must be someone local.”

He checked the phone book and found a photographer in
Algiers, about a mile away. I called and made an appointment for noon.

“She needs a cute outfit for the picture.” Dad was
starting to take charge more than I liked.

“Dad, it’s a waste of money. She’ll grow out of it in
two months.”

“Baby pictures are important,” he insisted.

We finished eating, chivvied along by Dad’s impatience.
There weren’t any baby stores in the neighborhood, so Dad drove us over to New
Orleans. We got to Maison Blanche as it was opening, and spent an hour in the
children’s department, looking at everything. Nothing was good enough to suit
Dad. Richard stood away from us, ignoring the merchandise, even when Dad asked
him what he thought.
He looks sulky. Is he embarrassed?

Jamie was starting to whine and squirm by the time Dad
picked out a white eyelet dress with a pink sash, and a pair of pink shoes.
Then he dashed over to the toy department and bought her a Raggedy Ann. He was
almost as keyed up as Jamie.

“We’re going to be late for the photographer, Dad.”

“Okay, let’s go.” He tried to hurry, but he couldn’t
seem to stop fingering fabrics, considering toys. Richard followed slowly, like
someone who had nothing to do with us. I changed Jamie into the eyelet dress in
the car.

We were about five minutes late for our appointment. As
we came in, the receptionist gave us a startled look.

“I’m afraid there’s some mistake,” she muttered. She
went into the back of the shop. We waited several minutes before another woman
came out.

“When you didn’t come at your time, we gave your appointment
to someone else. Sorry,” she said. Her face was blank.

“Can we arrange another time?” Dad asked. The woman
looked coldly at him.

“I’m afraid we’re booked up,” she said.

Dad frowned. “We were only five minutes late! What’s
going on?”

“Sorry, can’t help you.”

Dad was breathing hard and his face was
splotched-looking.
I can see what Sharon means about his health.
I shifted Jamie to one hip so I could take his arm.

“Let’s go, Dad.” We walked out.

On the sidewalk, Richard stood clenching and unclenching
his hands. I wanted to yell at someone, to cry, to throw up. Instead, I pulled
the scrap of paper with Francine’s cousin’s phone number on it from my jeans
pocket. I marched to a phone booth on the corner and called him. If he was
Francine’s cousin, he was Creole. He wouldn’t take one look at us and throw us
out. He said we could come in forty-five minutes.

We scrambled back to the car for the long ride to Gentilly.
We were late there too, but Francine’s cousin was sweet to us and Jamie. He
took pictures of her alone, and with Richard and me, and with Dad. He promised
to mail them in a week.

“Can we go to a bookstore now?” asked Dad. “I want to
get a baby album.”

“I think Jamie’s had it for now,” I said. It was true.
She was starting to whine, and if she didn’t get a nap soon, a full-scale snit
was in the works.

“Could Richard maybe take her on home? I do only have
just the one day.”

“Take her home in what?”

“Oh, we’ll get a cab.”
Why is he being so pushy? Is
he covering up embarrassment about the photographer?
He flagged a cab and Richard got in with Jamie. He looked stiff and
upset when he saw Dad pay the driver in advance.

Dad and I went to a bookstore downtown, one that turned
out not to carry baby albums. But while he was there, Dad wanted to just about
buy out the children’s department.

“She won’t be able to read for years,” I objected,
feeling embarrassed by his largesse.

“But you have to start reading to her. You should start
right away, so she’ll love books when she grows up.” He was all teacher. He
turned to a salesgirl. “We need some children’s classics.
Winnie-the-Pooh,
The Wind in the Willows, Peter Pan.
”

Half a dozen books later, I pulled him out of the shop.
I got him about fifty feet along the sidewalk before he saw a stationery store.

“Maybe they have baby albums,” he said.

They did. He picked one out, but he browsed along the
aisle instead of going right to the cash register. He pulled a large book off a
shelf, and I went to see what he’d found. It was another album, white with
silver script on the front: Our Wedding. He put it back without comment and
bought the baby book.

He was exhausted by the time we got to Gretna in the
bridge traffic.
Is he sick? I don’t like this.
I carried the packages in from the car, and he didn’t try to help.
Richard had undressed Jamie and laid the new outfit on the bed. Dad sat down in
a chair with a thump. I hung up the dress and put the shoes away, sponged off
the table, and put her in her high chair.

I arranged a snack plate of fruit and sweet rolls and
started a pot of coffee. Richard cut up some fruit into tiny pieces for Jamie.
He sat beside the high chair and fed her, making goofy faces to get her to
laugh.

When the coffee was ready, I brought the pot to the
table and poured out three cups. I set a plate at each place and put the snack
plate in the middle. Richard took a sweet roll and sipped his coffee.

Dad sat up straighter in his chair and fiddled with the
handle of his coffee cup. “I was wondering when you two were going to get
married,” he said.

Richard went as still as the loser in a game of freeze
tag. After a moment, he shook his head. “Marriage isn’t necessary if things are
working, and it’s one more problem when they aren’t.” His voice was cold and
dismissive.

Dad adjusted the cup a millimeter. “Don’t you think Jamie
needs a father?”

“She has a father.”

“What about when she starts school, though? Children
can be cruel.”

“I doubt it will be an issue. Lots of couples don’t
marry.”

“I think most
parents
do. Even if it’s a little late.” He turned the cup a few more degrees.
“What about you, Kathy? Do you believe marriage is passé too? I didn’t think
your mom and I had raised you to think that.”

I couldn’t slam out, the way I had when he told me not
to move to New Orleans. I had nowhere to slam to, unless I went into the
bathroom.
It was pretty nice to feel like Dad’s daughter for a while. Didn’t
last long, did it?
I looked from one of
them to the other.

“You’re putting Kathy in a bad position,” Richard objected.

“I don’t think it’s
me
who’s putting her in a bad position,” Dad snapped. “Kathy doesn’t
believe marriage is a thing of the past. When she was little, she always used
to say, ‘When I grow up and get married,’ ‘When I get married and have
children.’ Those expectations don’t change, Richard. If Kathy isn’t saying
anything about them, it’s because you’ve made her afraid to. I think you’re
being unfair to my daughter.” His face was flushed with anger and
embarrassment.

Richard glanced at me. I couldn’t lie, so I looked
away.

“I’m sorry, Dr. Woodbridge,” said Richard, “but this is
none of your business.”

“It’s very much my business. You’re taking advantage of
my daughter, and I have an illegitimate granddaughter. I don’t know how it
could possibly be more my business.”

He touched Jamie’s head, and she said “Daaa.” Richard
motioned toward them, then pulled his hand back.