writing doodle - chiromancer's new beginnings

"No." My father's answer was short, sweet, to the point, and his favorite word.  Matthew Doyle was convinced that God only blessed him with 436,000 words to use with adult women and he'd used most of those before my mother left us.  Evidently when he used his quota, he was going to die.  Since he was only 52, the words he allowed himself declined each year.  As a result, he didn't mince words, engage in arguments, or even engage in conversations.  I think he got a special dispensation when he was at work, I heard a rumor once that he held conversations with co-workers and clients, but it was just a rumor.  He usually pointed at things he wanted me to do and tilted his head.

"You don't even know what I want to ask you," I said.  I put my hand on the center of his newspaper and  pushed down.  Looking him in the eyes seldom if ever made an impact, but where there's life, there's hope.

A lesser mortal would have been fatally wounded by the glare I received.  As a child, I developed armor that repelled his laser of potential destruction, now they glanced off and were absorbed by the potted herbs he kept in the kitchen.

Then again, I'm not fully realized and sometimes the looks caused more consternation than I'd like to admit.  If it hadn't been before seven o'clock, I would have inserted emergency chocolate.  You know the kind, it placates the nerves, calms the emotions, and should simply be adhered to the hips since it would be faster.

"It's not like I'm asking you to do any of the work or put up any money," I said. "I just want-"

He flicked his newspaper back into shape, turned the page, and said, "No.  Now's not a good time, Bernie."

At least it was Bernie this morning and not Bernadette; he only called me that when he was either introduced me to someone or he was really steamed at me.

This was day thirty-seven on my campaign to talk to him about rehabbing my grandmother's bungalow.  She'd been renting it out since I was a kid, my mom left, and she came to stay with us and provide a stable influence over my life.  The bungalow would have been perfect for Jacob and me to live in after he finished law school in three more months.  In six years there had been too many small, cramped, apartments with paper thin walls; I wanted to put down roots and live somewhere solid.  Not next door to the law library or the campus stadium.  Time had come to start to live like grownups and have a semblance of a real life.

All I wanted was him to talk to her about it, help me develop a punch list, and pass on his contractor's discount with some of his suppliers.  I got my first bubble level, hammer, and toolbelt when I was seven and my dad and I built the first of a housing development of birdhouses.  My first electrical drill was for my thirteenth birthday.  My own chop saw when I was eighteen.  Every summer, I worked side by side with him.  In the beginning, we were thrown together since after school programs were expensive and summer camps were prohibitive.

I knew the place was empty right now, the last tenant moved out two weeks ago and no one had been inside to do any prep work for new renters.  She hadn't done any advertising, talked to the property management company, or even seemed interested that the place was sitting empty.

"I really want to talk to her about letting me rent the house, update it just a little.  I'm not asking you or any of your crew to do any of the work, I just want your opinion on the punch list."  I took a deep breath and used the words that always reengaged eye contact, "Please, Daddy."

He folded the newspaper, took a sip of his coffee, and gave me a tight nod.  "Do you want to do this  for you or for Jacob?"

The real answer was both, but Dad never did like Jacob, neither did his dog.  I wanted to finally be more than spitting distance away from campus.  I worked two jobs since graduating college so that we wouldn't have to carry any student loan debt from law school.  I had enough of a nest egg that could be used to buy furniture that didn't come in flat boxes, scatter rugs, and matching dishes.  Or I could use all of that money and take him on a celebration vacation before his job started at the firm.  Of the two choices, I really wanted furniture that was made from wood and didn't have a picture of woodgrain stamped on it.  A vacation can be fleeting, but a real wood headboard could last for years. In one more year of renting, we'd have money and stability enough to finally marry.

"Me.  I want this for me."

"You know she doesn't like to do business with family."

My great-grandfather had been horribly taken advantage of in the first third of the last century by his own family members. Joseph O'Brien had a small farm and saved his pennies.  His brothers speculated on small retail stores that hadn't fared well.  Rather than see his own nieces and nephews go hungry, he lent money to his brothers.  Money borrowed was never repaid and when he needed the money, each had declared it to have been a gift.  He would have been better off giving them produce from the farm, the children would have had full stomachs and he wouldn't have lost the farm due to tax burdens years later.  That lesson had been hard learned and subsequently taught to all of his children.

I nodded.  I knew the chances weren't great, but I had hoped.

"I'll talk to her tonight, pumpkin.  Don't be late for work."

I leaned over the kitchen table, kissed my father on the cheek, darted out the door for the bus stop. Maybe things would go smoothly with Grandma.  Maybe the punch list wouldn't be too long.  Maybe I'd be home tonight before eleven o'clock and actually see Jacob before I went to bed.

Maybe this was a new page in a new chapter in my life.