I ran to my father and jumped into his arms, hooking my legs behind him. He spun around.
“I’m getting dizzy, Daddy. Stop it,” I squealed. This was the most fun I’d had all day.
My mother carried in an empty box. “Oh, you decided to join us.”
“Yep,” he said. He kissed her on the cheek, looked over her shoulder, and asked, “What’s for dinner?”
“Very funny.”
“What do you mean?”
“How could I possibly make dinner? Look at this place.”
“Sharon, I had a hard day. I’m hungry.”
My father put me down, and I sat on the floor in between them, still dizzy from the spinning.
“I’ve only got two hands, Steven. I’ve been here all day by myself. I’m pregnant and tired.”
I wished I could disappear. My father was easygoing about some things. He was even going to let my mother decorate their new bedroom pink. But food wasn’t something he was laid-back about. “Damn it, Sharon.” He slammed his hand on the Formica counter. “Do I ever tell you I can’t give you money? I do my part; why can’t you do yours?” He charged out, and the screen door slammed behind him.
I followed him outside. He unlatched the gate to the pool, and we stood near the edge of it. Our reflections trembled above the water. The sun slanted down on us, the air thick. Neither one of us said a word. A mosquito buzzed between us and then landed on my father’s cheek. He swatted at it, and it flew away. Across the pool there was a blue light. The mosquito landed on it and, with a loud zap, fell into a pile of dead bugs.
“That’s so mean,” I said.
“Would you rather they bite you?”
I was struck by his question. My father knew how to take care of himself, but as a girl, I was already learning to accommodate, and the answer was not clear.
Often when my father was upset, I took it upon myself to make him happy again. Sometimes if I climbed on his lap and hugged him, he’d momentarily snap out of his sadness, appreciating my love, but he’d often return from these moments as forlorn as he’d started. I reached for his hand.
“Come on,” he said. “Let’s go pick up some Chicken Delight.”
AT the restaurant there was a hand-painted rooster on the wall behind the counter. Each feather was carefully delineated, and it made the chicken look real. I’ve always hated thinking about food as the animal it once was, but it seemed that people wanted to be reminded that the food they ate was not artificial, canned, or frozen.
“They want it fresh, and they want it fast,” my father said.
“Yuck.”
“That’s why everyone loves Manales. They get to pick the exact lobster they want from the tank. Then it’s boiled right on the spot.”
“That’s disgusting.”
He made his hands into a gun and aimed at the chicken behind the counter. “You’re right,” he said, laughing. “It’s murder with intent.”
“What can I get you?” the girl behind the counter asked. She wore a chef’s hat with a chicken on the front.
My father smirked. “You really want to know?
She put her pad down. “Excuse me?”
My father turned his back to me, leaning in to her, but I could still hear. “I like your shirt,” he said, pointing to the bow.
My father was handsome, and he liked that women found him attractive. He did what he could to maintain his good looks, buying fancy shirts and wearing them with two or three buttons undone. Every Saturday for years, I sat on his feet while he did one hundred sit-ups. Then he’d stand in his bikini underwear, pat his stomach while sucking it in, and say, “Not bad, huh?” After, he’d hit the floor again and do fifty push-ups.
A boy plunged a bin of fries into hot oil and steam billowed behind the girl. My father ordered a bucket of fried chicken, coleslaw, and potato salad.
“This is for you,” the girl behind the counter said, handing me a chicken hat like the one she wore and a plastic egg with a chick inside. She shrugged. “It’s free when you buy a bucket.”
We drove home with the windows down. The air outside was warm, the sun low on the horizon. My father turned on the radio and sang “Satisfaction.” He poked at my ribs with one finger, then lifted his arms. “Look, no hands.” The car swerved, and I grabbed hold of the handle on the door.
“Daddy, stop.”
He veered back and forth over the painted white line on the road, making our journey home as exhilarating as the roller coaster ride at Pontchartrain Beach. “Look, I can do this with my eyes closed.”
“Daddy, open your eyes.”
“Don’t you trust me?” he asked. “You think you could do a better job? Come on, let’s see.” He patted his thighs.
I climbed on his lap, thrilled to be part of the excitement. I gripped the steering wheel, and he rested his hands on mine. He let me come unreasonably close to hitting a tree before he took control of the wheel.
“Watch where you’re going.” He laughed.
When he’d had enough, he told me to go back to my seat. He stared straight ahead and seemed to be in his own world, far away from me. That’s how it was with my father. Sometimes he was right there next to you, and then, poof, he was gone.
Then he looked at me and said, as if this was the most important advice he could ever give, “You only live once.” He stepped on the gas, and I fell back against the seat.
“You’re going too fast, Daddy.”
A dog darted into the road. He slammed on the brakes, and I hit the dashboard with a thud. Blood streamed from my mouth. I touched my lips and found my fingers red. As I cried, my father rocked me in his arms. He leaned to open the glove compartment, which was no longer ordered the way my mother usually left it: tissues on the left and car manuals evenly lined up on the right. He grabbed a handful of tissues and blotted my lips. “Hold this,” he said. He glanced at the bucket of toppled chicken and picked up the pieces. “Your mother’s going to kill me,” he said, sweeping up the crumbs. He reorganized the glove compartment. “You OK?”
I took a deep breath. “I just want to go home,” I said.
MY mother gave my father a chilling look when she saw my bloody mouth.
“What?” my father threw his arms up in disbelief. “What are you looking at?”
“Nothing,” my mother said, turning from him.
“It was an accident, Sharon.”
She grabbed a dishtowel and scrubbed at the blood-stain on my white dress. Then she plucked carpet hairs from the chicken and arranged the pieces on a platter as if she’d cooked it herself.
While we ate, my father tried once or twice to engage my mother in conversation, but she stayed slumped in her chair and refused to look at him. The quiet was killing me.
I reached for my Coke but drank from the straw too fast, and I choked.
My father leaned in.
I coughed louder.
“Lift your arms,” my mother said.
I raised my arms above my head but kept coughing. She reached over and patted my back, but I couldn’t catch my breath. “She’s really choking, Steven.”
My father shot out of his chair and stood next to me. “Is it a bone? What is it?”