Chapter 6 Candles in a Coffin #2
When she’d texted him, mentioning that she’d found an apartment, it was hard not to hurt inside. His hope that she might return home after a couple of weeks died a painful death in his heart. She’d signed a one-year lease.
He buried his sadness when she told him how happy she was there, how she was finally able to find some quiet and reconnect with herself.
Okay, he’d worked a bit too hard all his life, but she was now doing the opposite, not working at all.
She needed to find that happy medium before it was too late.
Of course he bit his tongue. Sometimes it felt like their relationship was on life support, and whenever he tried to drop a note in the suggestion box, it was like yanking the plug.
He forced even more enthusiasm when she told him about the book signing. Actually, that made him proud. “So are you writing another? Is that part of this taking-time-off thing?” He hoped for a yes . . . but . . .
“No,” she said. “I told you. I’m not doing anything right now. Just seeing what the universe brings to me.”
Dear heavens, all her talk about the universe. The universe this, the universe that. Accountability had died somewhere in the early aughts. Sparing her more advice, he reminded himself for the thousandth time that you can’t teach kids everything; they have to learn some lessons the hard way.
“How about you?” his daughter asked him. “Mom says retirement’s still hell.”
“Nah, it’s not that bad.”
“Dad, it’s me.”
He tilted his head left and right, seeing a clear vision of his retirement party, all the people he’d worked with for so long cheering as he faced a cake with candles. But he no longer saw candles. He saw nails in a coffin.
“I suppose it’s not all it’s cracked up to be, honey. As you know, I’m not good at sitting around. Doesn’t help that they’ve found mold in the air vents, so they have to tear up some walls. And I realized I hate golf more than life itself.”
“And yet you bought a house on a golf course.”
“What else was I supposed to do?” He held up his index finger. “But I am chasing down a squirrel that keeps eating all the birdseed.”
She laughed, a genuine one. “There you go. You better not hurt him.”
“I would if I could. He’s a ninja, though. There’s no catching him. Anyway, forget the squirrel. Tell me more about Boloney.”
“No, no. I’m worried about you, Dad. Are there any charities you could—”
“B, I’ll figure it out. Your mom’s already given me enough ‘talks.’ No, I don’t want to chase cougars in a baking class. Or join a chess club.”
His daughter looked at him for a long time, pondering a solution. “Know that I’m here for you, okay? If you ever want to talk.”
“I appreciate that.” But no, it wasn’t right for a daughter to help her father. Actually, he wished she’d invite him to come visit, give him a place to go while the mold was dealt with, but no way he would poison her Italian journey with his miserable self.
Two hours and two more cups of coffee later, he’d done thirty minutes on the elliptical machine, cleaned the house, folded his laundry, and scanned four newspapers on his iPad. What was he supposed to do now? The same group of guys were about to tee off, but George couldn’t bear another round.
Dammit, he missed Bianca. He hated that he hadn’t soaked up every second of her childhood, every moment of their time together. All he wanted was a second chance . . . but he wouldn’t dare ask to come see her. Besides, he hated to travel.
He pulled out his legal pad where he kept his to-do list. It was sadly short compared to what it used to be. He reviewed each item, scratching off what he’d already accomplished.
Fix window screen
Call bank
Buy BB Gun
Make eye appointment
Clean garage
Bird feeder: equipment, wood, disc, cayenne pepper, Vaseline, guillotine blade, remote zapper, rotating baffles
Grocery: yogurt, blueberries, burger stuff, chicken, green beans, red potatoes, lettuce, radishes, ice cream
Bianca—7am tomorrow! (be early to prepare)
Setting down the list, he shook his head, seeing those candles morphing to nails again. He had to get another job. He just had to. But who in the world hired hardware engineers in their midsixties? The world had passed him by. He couldn’t even figure out FaceTime.
It was awful that dads couldn’t talk to their daughters for real, that they couldn’t ask for their help. Because Bianca had always proved to be so wise, and he loved what she had to say. He wanted to call her back and keep talking, maybe get some advice.
Maybe ask if he could come see her.
His eyes lifted to the sky as he pondered the idea, the tug of desperately wanting to but terrified that he’d screw it up.
That’s when Mr. Nutz made his first appearance of the morning. The bastard. It was time to scramble the troops. One of them was going to die today.
George rushed through the door, nearly slipping on the mat.
The tree rat was eating away, delighting in the birdseed as if it were caviar and champagne.
The jealous and starving birds that were supposed to be enjoying their meal were nowhere to be found.
The scoundrel did what he always did, casting a sideways glance and giving an insulting wink, before returning to his meal.
Rake in hand, wishing he’d already bought the BB gun, he raced across the patio and into the rock garden.
Only at the very last minute did the squirrel dodge him. But he didn’t go far, only inches farther up the feeder. George swung the rake and smacked it right into the feeder, knocking it off its post, the feed showering down. The squirrel narrowly escaped.
Landing on all fours on a rock, Mr. Nutz stared at George, waiting for his next move.
Up the hill, a group of men was teeing off on sixteen. Thankfully, they were looking the other way.
George approached slowly, raising the rake again. “I will bury you on this land,” he warned. He came down hard with his weapon, missing the squirrel yet again. This happened several more times, until the squirrel sought refuge behind the grill on the patio.
When George pushed the grill away, the squirrel started toward the back door.
George had left it open, and a potential future played in his head as he saw Mr. Nutz move in slow motion toward George’s living room, scurrying under the couch and then getting lost somewhere in the house.
No being would enter his domicile uninvited, so George squeezed tight on the rake and ran like no man in his midsixties had ever run before.
What was it, a hose, a crack in the sidewalk? A misstep?
George fell forward with tremendous speed as he raced to catch his archnemesis, and only a second before he smacked the ground, he saw the rake fall in front of him, the tines sticking up.
His forearm crashed into it with incredible force, and the tines jabbed into his skin, instantly drawing blood as he yelped in pain.
Everything in his body hurt as he peeled himself off the ground to meet eyes with a giggling Mr. Nutz, who gave a belly laugh before disappearing into the house with a seed-eating grin.
“Hey, sorry to bother you again,” George said to Bianca that afternoon after he’d returned from urgent care, where they’d given him a tetanus shot, disinfected the wounds, and bandaged him up. He kept his arm away from the camera so she wouldn’t see it.
“I have something I want to ask you, and I wanted to . . . Could I . . . Do you have any room for your old man? I have to leave the house for about a month for this mold thing, and I was looking at extended stays, but maybe, I don’t know . . .”
Silence. She didn’t move an inch.
He hated that he’d asked her, especially how he’d fumbled it. He added even more clumsily, “And I’m missing you like crazy.”
Dead. Silence.
“You there?”
“Absolutely, Dad. I’d love for you to come.”
“Really?”
Another pause.
“Yes. You shouldn’t be breathing that stuff for another minute.”
“I don’t want to be a bother.”
She smiled. “You wouldn’t be. I’d love it.”
“You sure about that?”
She perked up, maybe faking it. “You’ve got nothing on my clients. Bring it on. And you know, I could use the company—and some fatherly sage advice, the wisdom wrought from your sixty-five years on this planet.”
In his mind’s eye, he saw hammers driving nails into coffins and rakes coming down on evil squirrels.
And he saw flashes of Bianca when she was first born, her first word, her first steps.
Then she was in middle school, exhibiting her mother’s sassiness, then high school where he had to fight off suitors, and then she was crossing the graduation stage and moving her tassels from right to left, and then off to face the world.
“I know you’re messing with me,” he said.
“I’m not.”
Tears pricked his eyes. She could never know how much he loved her. Forget the Zoloft. Bianca was the only thing keeping him alive.
After a long breath, he said, “You sure?”
He thought he detected something that looked like terror hiding behind a smile, but maybe that was his own fear mirroring back on him.
“One hundred percent,” she finally said. “Italy will be good for you.”
He didn’t know about that, but seeing her, getting a chance to redeem himself, might be enough to keep him fighting another day.