Protecting Marie (9 page)

Twice, Henry's eyebrow rose and dropped. “Don't you trust me?” he asked. But before
Fanny could respond, he added, “You don't have to answer that.”

Be intrepid. “
May
I? Have it in writing?”

“Have I ever asked you for a contract? For you to write something like this down?”

“You don't have to,” Fanny whispered. “You're the parent. I'm just the kid.”

Their eyes connected, and Fanny almost smiled a nervous smile.

“Listen,” said Henry. He dragged his hand through his hair, then pointed to the couch. “Sit for a minute.” As Henry lowered himself to sit, his coat bunched up around his waist in thick folds, making him appear overweight. There was a weariness to his voice, and the lines beneath his eyes and those that stretched to his ears seemed sharper and deeper. “Where to begin . . .” said Henry.

Fanny shivered. All of a sudden, her toes were cold. She flexed them inside her clunky boots, trying to warm them up.

“Nice shirt,” said Henry.

Fanny shrugged. Now, she wished that she wasn't wearing her father's old shirt. She was
playing with a loose button. It was tortoiseshell. Loops of thread formed an X that kept the button in place, but just barely. Fanny turned the button as far as it would go in one direction, then turned it back.

“Soft as chamois,” Henry remarked. Absently, he rubbed his fingers together as if he held the shirt between them. “It's strange how some things happen at the same time—the birthday thing and Dinner—as if there were some freak law of nature causing it. Anyway . . .” he said, then licked his lips. “There's a lot I could say, but for now this will suffice: I'm not going to discuss whether I was right or wrong about last night, but I was wrong before. There was no possible way for me to live in the same house with Nellie, but I know that giving her away undid you. And that undid me. It's really been getting to me lately, and, well, with Christmas . . .” Henry crossed his arms against his chest and leaned back into the cushions. “Feelings are so complicated. They run so deep and go so far back. I know you've been upset with me for months. When you
were little, my shortcomings were small enough that all I needed to do to be forgiven was to tickle your toes or plant kisses behind your ears or give you a glass of milk with a piece of red licorice to use as a straw. It's not that easy anymore.”

Fanny's mouth became an O. She felt a small tremor of recognition. “You remember that?” she asked.

“What?”

“Milk with licorice. I'd forgotten all about it.”

“Of course I remember. I remember more than you think.”

It only took Fanny a matter of seconds to recall how her fingers would circle the glass of milk, her head bent over it in anticipation. Then, using the licorice as a straw, she would sip the milk and blow bubbles into it. Soon the milk would taste faintly of cherries and turn a dusky shade of pink. “Red licorice,” said Fanny vaguely.

The dog had inched her way over to the couch. She plopped her head down between
Henry and Fanny. Give me some attention, please, was the message her moony eyes seemed to be sending.

“Lie down,” Henry commanded, and immediately Dinner's head disappeared with a doleful sigh and the rattle of her tags. Henry sighed, too, and Fanny couldn't tell if he was imitating Dinner or not. He took one of Fanny's hands and sandwiched it between his. “I couldn't begin to count how many times I've kissed your little fingers, your little nose, your little toes. I hope somehow you're aware of that, even when you're doubting me.” His voice was perfectly even. “Your toes used to be pudgy and pale like white jelly beans.” Henry nodded toward Dinner, then leaned closer to Fanny. “And
her
toes are hairy and wet and somewhat stinky. But she's yours.” He paused. A long, lingering pause. “That is, if you want her. . . .”

The magnitude of the situation was becoming clearer and clearer to Fanny. My whole life could be changing right before my very eyes, she thought. While she considered how
to answer her father, she had to remind herself to breathe.

“Henry, we need to talk,” Ellen said, suddenly and simply. It seemed as if she had materialized out of nowhere. She was standing in dim light near the front door, holding two bags from Burger King and a bottle of wine. On the floor, a shopping bag teeming with parcels rose up to her knees like a small, sturdy house. Snow dusted her shoes and clung to her hair. Fanny hadn't noticed her until she spoke, and she was curious as to how long her mother had been waiting there.

Had her parents said
anything
to each other yet? Had they kissed? She must have met him at the door, then gone out to the car to retrieve the bags, Fanny reasoned. She probably knows as little as I do.

Ellen moved across the room purposefully, the bags clutched tightly in one hand, the bottle of wine propped under her arm. With her free hand she grasped Henry's sleeve and led him away.

Fanny watched as Henry and Ellen walked
to the kitchen. She thought that her father had never looked older and that her mother had never looked younger. Usually, they just looked like her parents.

Fanny followed her parents. And Dinner followed Fanny. The two of them only made it as far as the swinging door that separated the kitchen from the dining room. It was nearly always open (unless they had company); now it was closed. The creaky door was still swaying slightly on its rusty hinges, until Fanny stopped it with her shoulder. She slid down against the door, down to the floor, and extended her legs before her, straight as yardsticks. Dinner squeezed between Fanny's legs, shoving them as far apart as they would go, then turned onto her back, her belly pushed forward and upward, prominent as a roasted turkey.

“Okay, I'll scratch you,” Fanny whispered. “But only for a minute. And I can't really look at you or get to know you—yet. Not until I know it's safe.”

Dinner stretched and made a long, high,
moany sound that ended in a short bark.

“Shhh,” Fanny uttered faintly. “Let's listen.”

From behind the door, voices lifted and dropped, then became soft whispers—soft,
fierce
whispers. There were brief silences before they started up again, and during the absence of voices Fanny could hear plates and silverware being placed onto the table, keys being fiddled with, a napkin ring rolling across the counter, tap water running.

Fanny knew that her mother was collecting details, the pieces of the puzzle that had taken Henry away from them and returned him with a big, friendly dog.

Intermittently, the voices were clear. Ellen said, “But you're an adult! Imagine how confusing it must be for a twelve-year-old.” Later, she said, “I don't care what other people think,” and “Maybe you should see someone.” Most of the time, Henry was mumbling in a low tone that Fanny couldn't understand at all, except when he'd say, “Damn it,” which he did several times.

“Who cares?” said Fanny. Finally, trying to drown it all out, she singsonged, “La-la-la-la-la-la . . .”

Dinner's ears perked. One stood erect and the other shot off to the side, the tip curled over. The insides of her ears were pearly and pink with ridges and knobs that swirled into darkness. They reminded Fanny of seashells. She rested her ear against Dinner's and listened for the ocean.

Eating a piping hot Whopper and french fries at Burger King is one thing; eating a Whopper and fries that have grown cold on a winter night and been reheated in an oven at home is entirely another. The tomato slices and soggy lettuce leaves were especially unappetizing, even for a diehard fan. Using real china didn't help one bit. Fanny was amazed, however, at how much of the food her parents were eating.

Both of her parents were subdued, and their faces showed traces of postargument stress—tight cheeks, sharp eyes, flushed skin. Fanny hoped that her father would tell her all about
Dinner. But no one said much of anything.

Dinner was lying on the throw rug in the corner, close to the warmth of the oven. With her front legs crossed directly above her paws and her head held firm and even, there was a strange and humorous air of elegance surrounding her. Because of it, her collar and tags took on the appearance of flashy adornments.

Fanny hid her head and stifled a laugh. The stiffness that had descended upon the kitchen, overwhelming them, made it seem wrong to giggle, much less laugh. But holding it in was a difficult task. Each time Fanny glanced at Dinner, it struck her more deeply how comical she looked.

“Who does she think she is, Catherine Deneuve?” Ellen said, her voice bubbling. She had barely managed to get the words out before she burst into a lovely fit of laughter. Mockingly, she flipped one wrist over the other and barked once.

Now Fanny felt free to laugh, and so she did. Henry did, too.

Ellen's line about Catherine Deneuve was
more than a joke, and Fanny knew it. Madonna or Julia Roberts would have been better choices, in Fanny's opinion, but Catherine Deneuve was Henry's favorite actress, and by mentioning her, Fanny sensed that her mother was telling her father that everything would be all right. It was a signal. Fanny wasn't sure why, but sometimes this way of communicating seemed more direct than actually saying what was on one's mind, and easier.

“Thank you,” Henry said, exchanging a look with Ellen. And Fanny's perception was confirmed.

The fact that Henry had brought two bags of Whoppers and french fries home from Burger King was another sign, an unspoken apology.

Henry had never liked fast-food restaurants, never took Fanny to Hardee's or McDonald's or Burger King on Saturdays or after school for a special treat.

“Mr. Dibble goes,” Fanny would say. “And so does Mom. Even though I know she
doesn't like the food.”

“I'm not Mr. Dibble. And I'm not your mother. I'm your father. And just thinking of eating that food churns my stomach and sets my teeth on edge.” Trying to lighten the mood, he'd often add, “I'd rather eat wind sauce and air pudding.”

Henry took her other places, of course, places Fanny enjoyed—small, dark taverns near State Street that served thick, rare hamburgers like the kind Henry made at home, or the Union Terrace behind the Memorial Union building on campus. They'd always get cheese sandwiches at the deli counter in the Union, and eat them outside if the weather was nice. At the Union Terrace, round metal tables and chairs painted in bright colors—yellow, green, orange—were scattered here and there near the shore of Lake Mendota like handfuls of M&Ms. Fanny always searched for an orange table, and she always situated her chair so that she would face the water. This way she could watch the sailboats skim across the lake. She could watch birds ride the wind, then swoop
down to peck about at the water's foamy edge. And she could watch the students. Students with pierced lips and noses. Students stooped from backpacks crammed with too many books. Students zipping by on Rollerblades, leaving musky trails behind them. Students folded together, their faces concealed, kissing. They all seemed so exotic to her.

Occasionally, they'd run into some of Henry's graduate students, and they'd share their table with them. The students would bring pitchers of beer and bags of popcorn. Although Fanny was shy around them, she'd lean into the table and listen to them talk about painting as if nothing else in the world mattered.
She
wasn't terribly interested in painting; she was observing. Observing how one student twisted strands of her hair and looked sidewise at anyone who walked by. Observing how another chewed on his paper cup until the rim was tattered and flakes of wax had piled up on the table in front of him. Observing how yet another spoke with her hands flapping rapidly so that Fanny didn't know if she should look at her face or her
fingers.

Fanny would pretend her lemonade was beer, licking her lips after every slow sip. Often she'd create stories about the students in her head—who was dating whom; who secretly had a crush on whom; who was so afraid of Henry she'd turn around and retreat if she saw him coming toward her in the hallway.

On their way home from these outings, Henry would invariably say something like, “Now, wasn't that better than McDonald's? One-of-a-kind places have much more character.”

And even if Fanny had had the most wonderful time, she would only go so far as to say something like, “It was fun,” because in her mind the issue wasn't the merits of McDonald's, but the power of Henry's will.

However, one Sunday last spring, on the road, driving home from a weekend of shopping and museum-going in Chicago, there had been nothing like the Union Terrace, no homey taverns to be found.

“I'm
so
hungry,” Fanny had said repeatedly. Eyeing a sign for a Burger King, she asked to stop. “Please,” she said. “Burger King is my favorite.”

“I'll find someplace better,” said Henry. “You know I won't eat at a place like that. Awful,” he said, shaking his head. “Worse than awful. I'd rather eat—”

“—wind sauce and air pudding,” Fanny cut in. “I know, I know.” She rolled her eyes. “Dumb. Not funny,” she whispered.

They passed the Burger King. And a McDonald's and a Wendy's and eventually another Burger King. Fanny watched each one whiz by, just a blur through the car window that passed out of sight completely in a matter of seconds.

Fanny was becoming more and more irritable. Her stomach growled and her head ached. Incessantly, she rolled the car window up and down, up and down, hoping that it would annoy Henry.

Miles and miles of attempting to annoy Henry.

Henry tried in his own way, taking a couple of exits that seemed promising. He found a diner that looked perfect from a distance, only to discover that it was closed on Sundays.

“Oh, well,” said Henry, “we're not far from Madison now. We can just eat at home. I'll make something special.”