Dolly All the Time(9)
“There’s the hero of the day,” my dad says, framed in the open front door of the house he was raised in. He puts down the hamburger tray and shakes Gavin’s hand. “Did you want a beer? Stay for dinner.” He turns and hugs Naomi, who is sparkling thirty percent less than usual.
Gavin gives me a look that lets me know it’s on me. “Dad, Gavin found a lot of damage to the roof last night and says we need to replace it.”
My dad shakes his head. “It’s always something. Here’s hoping we get the contract for the Starlight Gala this year.”
“It’s fifty thousand dollars,” I tell him.
“Oh,” he says. He’s still smiling, but there’s a crack in it now. It’s the cracked smile he used to give us when he told us our mother would be back in a few weeks. “That’s a lot of lobster tails.”
We don’t talk about it at dinner, because our lack of fifty grand feels more personal to my dad than it does to me. He’s had just one failed venture, but he lives it every day because of how long he’s been stuck under the debt. He peppers Naomi with questions about the store and her girls.
When Christopher and Gus have gone upstairs and Naomi has left, we sit down at the kitchen table. “Meeting of the ringmasters?” he says.
I smile. “Yep, I think we should call one to order.” When I was thirteen and my mom had been gone for a year, we had the first of these meetings. Patsy needed a costume for something at school and Christopher had developed a habit of wandering around the neighborhood in the evening. My dad was managing the store and us full-time, even though I’d taken over the housekeeping and most of the cooking. “This place is a circus,” he’d said, dragging Christopher home by the arm and discovering me at the sewing machine, trying to make a pillowcase into a skirt. I told him the circus needs ringmasters, and we needed to get more organized about things. He smiled, both sad and relieved. I think I became an adult in both of our eyes that day.
“I don’t have the money to fix it,” he says now. “And before you say something crazy, neither do you, and neither of us is going into debt to fix this old place.”
“Then what? You can’t stay here if the house is condemned.”
“Would it be so bad if we had to move?” my dad asks.
“Yes,” I say. “It would be so bad.” It would shake Christopher to his core. His routine is everything to him and he is the guardian of his tree out front, the maple that he watches year in and year out through the seasons. And this is Maud’s house, the house my dad grew up in. The one she moved out of and gave my parents as a wedding gift, much to my mother’s horror. It’s also my home, the place that held us together after Mom left. The home where I’ve tended to my people. The place where we grew because of the food I cooked, the schedules I ran, the sheets I washed. It’s the frog song and the leafy view out of Patsy’s and my bedroom window. “Yes,” I say again. “It would be so bad.”
“Chris and I could get an apartment in town. Two bedrooms and a bathroom. A circus of two.” He smiles. “Works just fine for you and Gus.”
“Gus is a kid, and he’s going to grow up and leave. This is the Brick home. You were born here. Grandma Maud taught me how to bake here. Christopher’s whole life revolves around sitting on the porch. He’s connected here.”
“Doll. You’re not his mother. He’s my responsibility.”
I raise my eyes from my tea. “He’s also mine.” I’ve been taking care of Christopher his entire life. Even before the accident I knew he needed an extra set of eyes on him.
He shakes his head. “Let me think about this. Talk to friends. Maybe even talk to the bank. But one thing I know is I’m not letting this be your problem. You’ve given up too much.”
“I’ve given up nothing, Dad. This is my home too.”
Chapter 3
I wake to the sound of robins just as the sky is starting to brighten. I’m in the daybed under a musty wool blanket, and it takes me a second to remember why I’m here. Mrs. Goldberg lent us a mattress and linens she’d been keeping in her garage, and I decide that replacing them will be high on today’s list. Waking up on the sleeping porch should be the opposite of musty. My legs and back are a bit sore from all the biking I did yesterday. I think of the women who pay thirty dollars for a spin class and smile to myself. My eyes focus on the corner above the Singer, where the wood is black and a bit of the screen has come away from the frame. I stretch and give myself a pep talk: I’m doing great. Everyone’s doing great. It’s all fixable. I’m in Whitfield for the summer, where there’s always extra time. The fish house doesn’t open until eleven. This is practically vacation, I tell myself, and grab my spiral notebook and my blue pen.
I’m about a quarter of the way through this notebook, college ruled, with a single task on every line. I write the tasks in blue and cross them out in green. Green means go. On to the next thing.
My line additions for today:
Call Christopher’s doctor.
Buy new bedding. Or sew?
Organize Gus’s closet.
Follow up with Little League refund.
Register Gus for lifeguarding camp.