returns to check on me. She sees my picture of Babs and nods her head in approval. Babs would laugh in my face if I brought this home. When Wendolyn isn’t looking, I crumple it up and throw it away.
School over, I arrive home and find Babs in the living room, smoking her Duchess Golden Lights. Doing nothing else. This is enough of an activity.
I am loath to interrupt her. I hang back, let her continue.
When Babs smokes, it is a gorgeous gesture. Babs is not athletic, but the way she handles a cigarette reminds me of the way players at Wimbledon work their racquets. Every June, she and I sit inside and watch it on TV.
When Björn Borg stretches up to meet the ball on a serve, he throws his whole weight behind it, hits the sweet spot, and sends it across the net to the precise patch of grass where he wants it to go. When Babs picks up a cigarette, she doesn’t hunch into herself as if it were a private activity. She opens up every inch of her body to the action, and anyone watching can experience it with her. She takes the cigarette between her lips, draws a long inhale, and sucks the smoke deep, deep into her lungs. There is a flinch of pleasure when the nicotine hits her bloodstream, but she is always in complete control when she exhales. Steady. Unrushed. Even. When she blows out the sweet mix of smoke and air she has alchemized inside her, it is completely intoxicating.
I approach. She sees me and says, “Bettina! School?” Cheery voice. An invite to talk to her. I revel in it and join her on the couch.
Maybe Wendolyn Henderson’s dumbfounded reaction to my dad situation will make Babs laugh. Babs hates Wendolyn. Says she is a simpleton who cannot possibly comprehend our universe. Wendolyn is also fat. Two strikes against her.
“We had to make invitations to the Daddies’ Breakfast, and Miss Henderson doesn’t believe I don’t have a dad.”
“Wendolyn’s complete lack of imagination aside, of course you have a dad, Bettina. You just don’t know who he is.”
“Why won’t you tell me? Please.” I risk asking, even though I have gotten nowhere with this subject in the past. Today I can’t help it. Seeing all my classmates make invites really got to me.
“I can’t, Bettina. We promised we would keep it a secret.”
This is more information than I have ever gotten from her. He knows I exist. I wonder if he’s a dad of someone at Chicago Day and doesn’t want to risk his marriage.
“But I won’t tell anyone. I promise. I just want to know,” I say.
“I told you. It is one of those things that is just none of your business.”
If it’s anyone’s business, it is surely mine. I feel tears coming. I am one sentence from knowing, but Babs will not budge. And I can’t think of anything that will force her to. I really do want to have a dad with me for the breakfast.
Babs sees that I am upset and inexplicably does not mock me for this. She takes my hand and we walk upstairs to her room.
“This should make you feel better,” she says.
She reaches into a drawer in her room and pulls out what looks like a silver coin. She hands it to me.
“Your father gave this to me. You can have it.”
It’s a medal; on the face is a relief of two griffins ringed by Latin words. The back reads
Latin Composition I, 1958.
It is heavy in my hand, and I trace my fingers over the griffins.
I don’t dare ask any questions, afraid that Babs will think better of this gift and snatch it back. Instead she says, “He won the Latin prize when he was a senior in high school.”
This coin is potent currency for me. It’s the first thing I’ve ever had that belonged to my father and perhaps a clue to finding him later. At eleven, I don’t yet have the resources to go looking. Maybe that’s why Babs gave it to me.
I say, “Thank you,” as if this coin is enough. As if it could come to the Daddies’ Breakfast with me and count as a person.
If Babs were another type of mother, at this point we would hug.
School over, I arrive home and find Babs in the living room, smoking her Duchess Golden Lights. Doing nothing else. This is enough of an activity.
I am loath to interrupt her. I hang back, let her continue.
When Babs smokes, it is a gorgeous gesture. Babs is not athletic, but the way she handles a cigarette reminds me of the way players at Wimbledon work their racquets. Every June, she and I sit inside and watch it on TV.
When Björn Borg stretches up to meet the ball on a serve, he throws his whole weight behind it, hits the sweet spot, and sends it across the net to the precise patch of grass where he wants it to go. When Babs picks up a cigarette, she doesn’t hunch into herself as if it were a private activity. She opens up every inch of her body to the action, and anyone watching can experience it with her. She takes the cigarette between her lips, draws a long inhale, and sucks the smoke deep, deep into her lungs. There is a flinch of pleasure when the nicotine hits her bloodstream, but she is always in complete control when she exhales. Steady. Unrushed. Even. When she blows out the sweet mix of smoke and air she has alchemized inside her, it is completely intoxicating.
I approach. She sees me and says, “Bettina! School?” Cheery voice. An invite to talk to her. I revel in it and join her on the couch.
Maybe Wendolyn Henderson’s dumbfounded reaction to my dad situation will make Babs laugh. Babs hates Wendolyn. Says she is a simpleton who cannot possibly comprehend our universe. Wendolyn is also fat. Two strikes against her.
“We had to make invitations to the Daddies’ Breakfast, and Miss Henderson doesn’t believe I don’t have a dad.”
“Wendolyn’s complete lack of imagination aside, of course you have a dad, Bettina. You just don’t know who he is.”
“Why won’t you tell me? Please.” I risk asking, even though I have gotten nowhere with this subject in the past. Today I can’t help it. Seeing all my classmates make invites really got to me.
“I can’t, Bettina. We promised we would keep it a secret.”
This is more information than I have ever gotten from her. He knows I exist. I wonder if he’s a dad of someone at Chicago Day and doesn’t want to risk his marriage.
“But I won’t tell anyone. I promise. I just want to know,” I say.
“I told you. It is one of those things that is just none of your business.”
If it’s anyone’s business, it is surely mine. I feel tears coming. I am one sentence from knowing, but Babs will not budge. And I can’t think of anything that will force her to. I really do want to have a dad with me for the breakfast.
Babs sees that I am upset and inexplicably does not mock me for this. She takes my hand and we walk upstairs to her room.
“This should make you feel better,” she says.
She reaches into a drawer in her room and pulls out what looks like a silver coin. She hands it to me.
“Your father gave this to me. You can have it.”
It’s a medal; on the face is a relief of two griffins ringed by Latin words. The back reads
Latin Composition I, 1958.
It is heavy in my hand, and I trace my fingers over the griffins.
I don’t dare ask any questions, afraid that Babs will think better of this gift and snatch it back. Instead she says, “He won the Latin prize when he was a senior in high school.”
This coin is potent currency for me. It’s the first thing I’ve ever had that belonged to my father and perhaps a clue to finding him later. At eleven, I don’t yet have the resources to go looking. Maybe that’s why Babs gave it to me.
I say, “Thank you,” as if this coin is enough. As if it could come to the Daddies’ Breakfast with me and count as a person.
If Babs were another type of mother, at this point we would hug.
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