I finish my slice of cake – black forest – and look longingly at the rest of it.
“Can I have another, Dad?”
He frowns at me, the corners of his mouth drawn down impossibly low. “No.”
“Why not?” I cry. “It’s my birthday.”
“It’ll make you fat.”
I wince, stung. “Thanks a lot.”
“You could stand to lose a few pounds already.”
My teeth clash together, and I look away. “You’re such an—”
“Such a what?” he shouts, glaring at me. “It’s for your own good. Once you gain weight, it’s impossible to lose, and I’m not going to be like Falcone with his fat daughter and son.”
I want to cry, but bite it back. Dad hates it when I cry. He blames me for crying.
“Oh, grow up,” he says. “You’re going to have to take responsibility of yourself sooner or later.”
“It’s just a piece of cake, Dad,” I say, but my protestation has all the conviction of a wilting flower.
“One is enough. Now, are you ready to unwrap your gifts?”
“Yeah,” I say, sighing.
“What is it, Deidre?”
“Nothing.”
“What is it?”
“Nothing!”
He straightens up, wipes his mouth with a napkin, and then helps himself to another slice of cake.
“You will tell me what is on your mind, Deidre, because I am your father and I demand it.”
“Nothing!” I shout, tossing my cutlery onto my plate. I regret it instantly when Dad stands out of his chair, and I shrink into myself, wishing I could disappear.
“What is it?” he asks, spacing out the words through gritted teeth.
“I really wanted to have a birthday party this year, Dad.”
He shakes his head, sits down again. “Under no circumstances.”
“Why?”
“I’m not having a bunch of filthy teenagers in my house.”
“Then what about the garden? What if we all just went out and watched a movie together? I wish you’d let me go out with friends more.”
“I thought you said people stayed away from you at school.” He digs into his second slice of cake, munches it down. I must get my sweet tooth from him.
“Did Mom like cake?”
His whole body freezes at the mention of Mom. He hates talking about her. “Sometimes,” he says curtly. “The other children at school stopped being afraid of you?”
“We’re not children, Dad.”
“Like hell you’re not.”
“I don’t know, I’ve got a couple of friends, I think. I would have invited them. Maria and Teresa?”
Dad just levels a blank look at me. Of course he wouldn’t know anything about me or my friends.
“No,” he says, shaking his head. “I don’t trust children.”
“Well, you could have been there,” I say. “Or had Frank take us to the mall, or something.”
“Frank!” Dad calls. He appears in the doorway, wide and round. “Give your present to Deidre.”
Frank grins, and says, “Let me just get it, boss. It’s in the car.”
“Well hurry the fuck up.”
“Right, boss.”
Dad turns his eyes on me as Frank disappears out of the doorway, and says without an ounce of sympathy, “No parties, Deidre. We’ve got to play it safe.”
“What does that even mean?”
“A few years before you were born, I was attending the eighteenth birthday party of a young man. He was the son of an associate of mine, was going to be coming into the business soon. You know, learning the ropes so he could one day take over.”
“Yeah,” I say. I know what Dad’s talking about. Some boss’ son was going to get a high rank in the organization once he came of age.
“He was shot in his own father’s back garden. Blood squirted out of his chest. There was so much of it. It was like Yellowstone finally erupted. His heart must have been really going. He died, Deidre. I will not let anybody kill my child in my house. Nobody comes into my house and pulls shit like that. Nobody disrespects me like that.”
I pause at the way he phrases it. My voice is icy when I say, “I’m never coming into your business.”
“It doesn’t matter, Deidre. They’ll use you to get to me. I won’t take that risk. Nobody gets the better of me.”
“Gee, thanks. I never asked for this damn life.”
“Hey!” he barks, pointing a finger at me. “You have a good life. You have a nice house, you eat a good meal three times a day, you have your own room, Frank drives you everywhere. How dare you complain? Do you know how many children in this world have nothing?”
“I just want to be a normal kid. Not ‘Johnny Marino’s daughter’.”
“It’s not about being normal. It’s about being a guppy, or being a shark. You’re either one, or the other. We’re not abnormal, we’re above normal. Better than normal. Normal people are fucking loser idiots that go through life just waiting to die. Me? I made something of my life, and continue to do so in order for you to have a life. I expect you to make something of your life, too. And being ‘Johnny Marino’s daughter’ is a good thing. People will respect you. They will fear you. Your name rings out.”
“But I don’t want people to respect me because they fear me,” I say. “I am not going to be involved in your business.”
“That’s fine. It’s not a line of work for women, anyway.”
I roll my eyes. “What a modern attitude, Dad.”
“You’ll understand when you’re older, Deidre. Where the hell is Frank? Frank!”
He appears in the doorway again. He’s got a wrapped gift under his arm. He hands it to me, and I take it, unwrap it.
It’s a book titled Elizabeth McCollum: An Autobiography.
Frank shuffles his feet nervously. “You said you wanted to be a teacher, right? Work with children?”
I look up at him. “Yeah,” I say. “You remembered?”
“Oh, sure,” he says. “I don’t know nothing about teaching, but I read in the paper that this woman’s book here was a New York Times bestseller. She taught in schools all over the country, working with all kinds of kids. Rich kids, poor kids, immigrant kids, disabled kids. She helped developed programs and stuff. You know, plans for kids with special needs. I don’t mean, like, retarded kids.”
“Frank,” I say, cutting him off softly. “You shouldn’t say ‘retarded’ like that.”
“You know what I mean,” he says hastily. “Anyway, you know, kids who need special cur…” He trails off, unable to find the word.
“Curriculums!” Dad barks. “Jesus fucking Christ!”
“Sorry, boss.” Frank returns his eyes to me. “Curriculums and stuff. Anyway, I thought you’d like it.”
I smile at Frank. “It’s nice, I’ll definitely read it. Thank you for remembering, Frank.”
“Oh, it’s nothing ho—” He was about to say ‘honey’, but cut himself off.
“It’s a good gift, Frank,” Dad says. “Very thoughtful, very nice. Thank you from me, too. From the bottom of my heart.” He touches his chest.
Frank bows his head slightly.
Dad continues: “Though you know with teenagers, they change their minds all the time about what they want to do.”
“I won’t,” I say. “I want to work with children. I want to be a teacher.”
“Oh, yeah?” Dad asks. “You sure about that?”
“Pretty sure.”
Dad puts down his fork. “Why a teacher?”
“It’s such a big responsibility,” I say. “You help to shape the lives of people. I want to do good.”
He scoffs. “Do good! When you grow up, you’re going to be in for a shock. Nobody does good. Everybody just looks out for themselves.”
“You’re wrong, Dad,” I tell him. “There are good people in this world. People who care about others.”
“Like who?”
“Social workers,” I say. I think of Duncan, growing up an orphan, being raised by social workers in a group home.
“Social workers?” Dad asks, making a sneering face. “What do they get paid?”
“It’s not about the money.”
“Everything is about the money,” he says. “I really wish you’d learn that lesson. Maybe you want to get philosophical and all that bullshit, but I’m telling you, it’s the money that makes everything keep going around nicely. It’s society’s lubricant.”
“You’re so negative.”
“The word you’re looking for is cynical, Deidre, and yes, I am. It’s how I got to where I am now.”
“Well, anyway, I want to teach kids.”
“You won’t once you have to deal with them. Nightmares, all of them. You were a handful when you were a child. God, you wouldn’t ever stop crying. Drove me crazy.”
I look between him and Frank. Frank’s wearing a distant smile, like he’s slipping back into a happy memory. Dad is just scowling. One guess as to who spent the most time raising me.
We sit in silence for a while, and then Dad forces on a great big smile. “Here you go, honey,” he says. He slips an envelope over the table. I open it and find two airplane tickets inside.
“What’s this?”
“Paris. You and me. We can go to the Louvre. Do the war museum! What do you say?”
“Another trip? But we just got back from Thailand.”
“I have to go for a business meeting, anyway, and I thought you’d like to join me. I’d like the company.”
The way he says it, it’s not an invitation. It’s an order. That’s Dad.
“Thanks,” I say, forcing a smile at him.
“What, you don’t like it?”
“No, Paris will be great,” I say. It’s not quite a lie… I imagine Paris is great. But I don’t want to go with him. “I’ve never been before.”
“Can you believe it? Neither have I!” Dad says through a laugh, clapping his hands together. “It’ll be a good time. Frank will be joining us. Can never be too careful.”
I sigh. I guess, all things considered, I can’t truly mind. It will be nice to be a tourist. I know I’m lucky, that I have a lot of things that other girls… other people don’t.
But I asked Dad if I could have my own smartphone, or even just a gift voucher so I could go shopping and get myself something. Of course, he either completely forgot, or didn’t care.
“Oh, there’s one more thing,” Dad says. He goes to the kitchen counter, picks up a brown envelope then brings it back. “You got this in the mail.”
“Who is it from?”
“No idea,” he says. “The stamp must have peeled off in the rain, and there is no return address. My guess? Probably a birthday card from the school or library or something. You know, they automate these things now. Have a computer print out a card, send it to you. No personal touch!”
I furrow my brow. I doubt it was from the school or the library. I open it and peer inside.
“Well?” Dad asks.
“It’s just an automated card,” I say. “You were right.”
“Well, aren’t you going to read it?”
“No,” I say. “What’s the point?”
He laughs, gestures at Frank. “See, she’s smart, isn’t she? Knows when not to waste her time. That’s my daughter, smart as a whip. Go on Deidre, it’s late. Time for bed. You go get ready.”
I nod, take the envelope with me, and climb up the stairs to my room. I feel something hard in the envelope. It is definitely not a card.
Once in my room I close the door, put a chair up against the doorknob, and I open the envelope. There’s something thin inside, and I pull it out. It’s a pocket mirror!
It’s circular, black on the back with a cute cartoon drawing of a tabby cat. I open the envelope farther and find a letter and pull it out.
The letter is not really a letter, more like a note scribbled messily onto the top left corner of the piece of paper. It reads:
Dear Deedra: Happy birthday. I hope you still like cats.
I grin from ear to ear, almost can’t believe he spelled my name wrong. I flip the mirror over in my hand. That’s when I notice that the image on the back is the kind that moves when you change perspective, a visual trick. The cat waves.
I tilt it in my hand over and over, and the cat keeps waving, paw pads shifting left, then right, then left, then right.
It’s just a stupid mirror, but it’s far and away the best gift tonight.
Stuffing the mirror into my jeans pocket, I walk downstairs and find Dad still at the kitchen table, on his third slice of cake.
His tired eyes settle on me, and then they go hard in an instant. “What is it?”
“Can I write a letter to Duncan?”
With a confused shake of his head, he asks, “Why?”
“My English teacher has been encouraging us to write more letters,” I lie. “You know, pen pals.”
“No,” Dad says, tapping the table with his fingers. “Get ready for bed like I told you.”
“Why not?”
He heaves a great big sigh, and it’s at once insulting and frightening. “There’s no postal address there. It’s a village in the middle of nowhere. And even if there were, he couldn’t reply to you.”
“Why not?” I ask, ever wary of Dad’s waning patience.
“I don’t even know if he can write, first of all,” he says. “And second, he’d have to get a boat into the nearest city which is an hour away, or several hours driving. Then he’d have to buy the stationary, and then pay the postage.”
I shake my head. “So?”
“Money, Deidre!” Dad barks. “Remember what I just told you? You can’t do anything without money! He doesn’t have any. Now stop asking me stupid questions and go back upstairs.”
I’m hurt by his insult, but still I want to ask him why he isn’t giving Duncan any spending money. Though the look on his face tells me his patience has come to an end.