Note: If you are new to Chicken and Sponge, go back and start with the first entry with this title. These are installments of a novel-in -progress.
The next morning, the frigid spring wind blew across campus, the sun shining preposterously in a bright turquoise sky. Hints of green were beginning to peek through the frosty brown grass that still had patches of snow here and there. A few buds were making an appearance on the trees. It was still so cold that tears leaked from my eyes and the inside of my nose froze the moment I inhaled a breath of outdoor air.
The University of Montana has one of the most beautiful campuses in the whole country—even in that transitional time between winter and true spring.
I was operating on automatic pilot, obediently attending all my classes, taking notes, eating, studying, sleeping.
On Monday there was no sign of Steven Kane. On Tuesday there was no sign of him. But on Tuesday nights I had a three hour night class and I was ready to throw up in a fit of nerves. But unbeknownst to me, Rebecca arranged an escort for me to and from class that night.
Wednesday dawned looking identical to the previous two days, but with a wind that was even more bitter. I was going across the Commons to the University Center after my last class. I looked around me at the crowds every time I was outside, always alert. I looked up. Steven was on the balcony outside the cafeteria, watching me intently. I instantly changed direction and joined one of the crowds sweeping down the walk like cattle. I let myself be swept along, hidden in their numbers, then cut through the Liberal Arts building . I headed toward the Jesse Hall parking lot.
I could feel Steven Kane coming my way, hunting me like an animal. I got in my car and started the engine, coaxing it and gunning it to life. I caught sight of Steven’s auburn hair as I pulled out of the lot and headed toward the South Hill and my dad’s condo.
Traffic was thick—2:00 being a busy time in the University area, prime class time ending. Pedestrians slowed the flow of traffic, their breath mingling with the car exhaust to form a thick, hazy, unhealthy canopy over the city of Missoula, a stage one air alert.
My heart raced as I caught sight of Steven’s bright hair again. He was following on the sidewalk, his gaze fixed ahead on my car, which was locked in traffic.
My mouth went dry and with shaking hands I locked all four doors on my ancient little Honda.
Steven was a car’s length away. The light turned green. I gunned the engine and shot through the intersection and took a right into the residential area. I quickly put distance between me and my predator. I got onto Higgins Avenue and headed toward the South Hills.
Missoula’s different neighborhoods exude distinct personalities. I loved the University area with its stately residential neighborhoods, some houses very well-maintained, while others were charmingly dilapidated and chopped up into odd little apartments.
Steven Kane’s presence in my academic world had stripped this area of its charm, turning it claustrophobic and treacherous. I had never cared for the newer developments of the South Hills, with all its cul-de-sacs, condos, ranch houses, shrubs and scrawny trees.
But today as I climbed up the hill, the tightness in my chest eased and I realized that I had been holding my breath. The sun and blue sky emerged from the smog as I pulled into the parking lot at Dad’s.
My father, Russell Flynn, had divorced last year. I had met his wife only once, on a visit to New Orleans. His wife and I had been cordial, but cautious with each other. I had sensed secrets lying beneath Barbara’s well-groomed exterior.
And indeed, there had been secrets—secret affairs and secret embezzlements. By the time Dad finally opened his eyes, Barbara had cleaned him out and taken off for parts unknown.
Dad had suffered a heart attack—unfortunately while driving a car. My maternal grandfather, George Frost, who had many influential friends, pulled strings, and made phone calls. He had an attorney friend help my dad. My grandfather, though a ruthless bastard, still liked my dad, and always helped his own, his biggest fault being that he tried to run everyone’s lives.
Dad’s life was in a shambles. He’d always been a salesman—astute, charming, and slick—and he just couldn’t seem to do it anymore. His depression and love of drink had become a lifestyle. Dad lived on Disability now.
I walked into the bright, sunny condo without knocking.
“Hi,” I said, entering the living room.
“Hi, Petey! What are you doing here? Don’t you have class?”
Dad was stretched out on a loveseat, drinking a screwdriver, and watching Court TV.
“Dad, it’s after 2:00 in the afternoon.”
“No, it can’t be.” Dad twisted around to view the wall clock. “Huh, so it is.” He stood up and headed for the kitchen, talking as he went. “I get so caught up with those court cases. I guess I just lose track of time.”
He emerged with two glasses of wine—a white zinfandel for himself, which makes me shudder, and something white for me.
“Want one?”
I shrugged. “Sure.” We sat in companionable silence, Dad once again glued to the court proceedings. I spaced out while staring out the window.
“What’s wrong, Petey?” Dad asked without taking his eyes from the set.
I sighed deeply (thought immediately of my mother and mentally kicked myself for the bad habit) and swung my legs over the arm of the chair.
“I don’t know, Dad. I don’t know what I’m doing or what I’m going to do.”
Dad muted the television and turned to face me. “I thought you were going to graduate this Spring, go to law school, and then practice law.” It was a statement that sounded like a question.
I sighed again. “I guess. I guess that’s what I’m doing. What kind of law?”
Dad was taken aback. “Don’t you know? Well, don’t ask me. You should ask your grandfather.”
I made a face. “No, thanks. Not my favorite person to talk to. He’d have me defending tobacco companies and industrial polluters in order to make the big bucks.”
Dad smiled. “Why do you think that?”
“George Frost seems to think that I’m hopeless and will never marry well so I’d better be able to take care of myself. ”
Dad gave me a thoughtful look. “What do you think, Petey?”
I treated him to exaggerated eye-rolling and a grimace. “I think people worry about that a little too much.”
“Probably”, Dad agreed and turned back to Court TV, restoring the volume.
I took our glasses to the kitchen and refilled them.
“How’s your roommate? What’s her name?” Dad called to me.
“Rebecca. She’s great. Right now I think she’s the only thing that keeps me sane.”
“I liked her,” Dad said, having only met her once, “very sensible.”
“Indeed”, I agreed. “I don’t know, Dad. That dorm sucks. If I was living in a different dorm I think I’d be happier.”
“Well, you know what they say,” my dad said, “you can’t run away from your problems. There are no geographical solutions to life’s problems.”
“ I always thought that was a load of bullshit,” I rudely announced.
“Yeah, I guess I’d have to agree with you. You know,” Dad said, “you could always move in here with me. There’s the extra bedroom….”
I stood up and gazed out the window as I considered the offer. Dad and I got along great. At least I was free to be myself with him. No more little twits to share the bathroom with. No more elevator rides with Bruce and his horrific girlfriend. Probably wouldn’t see much of Rebecca anymore which was a minus. However, Steven Kane didn’t know where my dad lived and the number was unlisted.
“Well, it was just an idea…” Dad mumbled as though he’d suggested something stupid.
“It’s a great idea, Dad.”
His face brightened right up. “Really?”
“Really. I don’t know about this summer, though. Apparently Mom and Richard think I should be at the ranch. Either working on the ranch or being a caregiver to Grandma.”
“I think I’d choose Daisy,” Dad said, “but those aren’t your only options. You could get a job here.”
“Dad, it’s really hard to find a job in Missoula. Last month I applied for a waitress position and there were over 200 applicants. The competition is stiff and good jobs are impossible to find—but I’d like to.”
“Well, you can cross that bridge when you get to it.”
“God, I’m just a mess.”
“No”, Dad said, “ I’m the one who’s a mess. Not exactly a good role model, am I?” His eyes had clouded over with suppressed emotion. My dad is haunted by memories and broken dreams.
“Whatever that means”, I said. “I mean, what or who is a good role model? People have always held up my grandfather as a good role model because he had an important job and was very successful professionally. But I have to question his ethics and value system, on a personal level anyway. I don’t consider him a role model. He’s a bastard.”
Dad nodded and sipped his wine. “He certainly gave Daisy a raw deal. When the going got tough, he kind of got rid of her.”
“Oh, she’s provided for,” I said sarcastically. “Mom makes sure that everyone realizes that. But had their roles been reversed and George Frost had developed Alzheimer’s, Grandma would have lovingly stayed by his side to the very end.
Dad nodded in agreement. “Why do you always call your grandfather George Frost?”
I made a face. “I’d think that it’s pretty obvious that I don’t have warm and fuzzy feelings for the man.”
“He’s still a pretty powerful and influential figure.”
“No doubt,” I agreed, “but power and influence do not a grandfather make. It’s not an excuse for a lack of compassion.”
Dad squirmed a little. “Well, George was pretty compassionate with me. I’m not sure why, but I don’t know where I’d be now if he hadn’t helped me. Probably on the street. Or dead. I’m not sure if I deserve to be on disability…”
“You do, Dad. I personally question the competence of your doctors and think you could really benefit from an anti-depressant, but I don’t know if even that would be enough for you to get on your feet and hold down a job.”
“I’m an alcoholic, Petey. That’s my disability. The broken back and heart attack I could have gotten around, but this,” Dad held up his wine glass, “This I can’t seem to get around.”
I looked at my dad’s charming, haggard face and my heart ached for all he had lost. He had lost his vision for himself. I got up and moved into the kitchen. “Got anything to eat in here?” I called out.
“Big pot of minestrone.” I rolled my eyes, glad Dad couldn’t see me. Dad always had minestrone. He thought it was the best thing he makes. He thought wrong. It was ok, but I’m not a minestrone kind of woman. I got out a bowl anyway. Stomach filler.
I brought my bowl out to the living room, sat in my favorite chair and was overcome with exasperation. “Dad! Can’t you give Court TV a rest?”
Nothing phased him. Without removing his eyes from the screen, Dad said calmly, “It’s almost over for the day, then I’ll switch. But I follow these cases from the beginning and I don’t want to miss anything.”
“Dad, I think you should go to law school and I’ll—I don’t know, go to beauty school or truck driving school or something.”
“You should watch this with me—you could learn a lot.”
“No doubt, but I think I’ll give it a miss. I should get back to the dorm and study.”
Dad turned down the volume on the TV when I returned from washing out my bowl and glass.
“Think I’ll head down to C’s,” Dad said, getting his coat.
“Dad, I wish you wouldn’t drink and drive.”
“Petey, you just had three glasses of wine yourself.”
“You know,” I said, feeling a little irritable as I slipped on my coat, “You really should consider law school.”
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