When Women Were Dragons(56)

The phone rang. I jumped. The phone never rang, except when my father called on Sundays. When he remembered to call on Sundays. Which was less often all the time. I almost didn’t answer it.

I picked up the phone and listened to silence for a moment. Then I heard my father cough.

“Dad?” I said. He coughed again. And again. “Dad, are you there?”

He made an impatient, grunting sound. It was definitely my dad.

“It’s nice to hear from you,” I said. “Did you know it’s not Sunday? I mean. Not that I mind.”

Finally: “Mr. Alphonse came by the house today. I forgot how much I disliked that man.”

We’re not done here, Mr. Alphonse had said.

Anxiety bit at the back of my neck. I tried to rub it away.

“And it was just a social call?” I asked.

He ignored this. “He phoned the office and heard that I was recovering at home,” he coughed, swore, and coughed again.

“Are you all right, Dad?”

“That’s none of your business.” He cleared his throat. “So he just invited himself right over. He wondered where you and . . .” He paused. “Well, he wanted us all to chat together about some goddamned thing. It upset my wife. You understand the position this puts me in. I expected you to take care of this sort of thing. I am relying on you to keep that child in line. Your mother would have wanted it so.”

I could feel my cheeks become hot. I curled my empty hand into a fist and pressed it against the wall, knuckles first. I knew it didn’t do me any good to get angry, and yet. I closed my eyes and breathed deeply, trying for the life of me to tamp down the growing heat in my chest. A siren whined outside. That had been happening a lot lately. There was that fire at Saint Agnes and a fire at the Odd’s-N-End’s store and a fire in a grain elevator about fifteen miles from town. And at an old folks’ home in Eau Claire. And then at some bar at the Minnesota border. Each time, they were put out quickly. They were only briefly mentioned on the news.

“I do understand your position, Dad. I’m so sorry your . . .” I paused briefly. “I’m sorry your wife was upset. What was her name again?”

“Don’t be cheeky.”

“Sorry, Dad.” Another siren. It was too hot in the apartment. The library wouldn’t be much better, but at least the basement would be cool and I could work there. Every minute I was working, studying, writing, proving, figuring, or patiently tying complex mathematical expressions into neat, elegant knots—as long as I was doing something, it gave my mind a reprieve from worrying over what would happen next. Next year. Another world. What was my father’s plan? I was afraid to ask. “Listen, I have no idea why Mr. Alphonse felt the need to come over and see you. I have the situation handled. Beatrice was spending too much time drawing things and not doing her work. She apologized, and now everything is fixed.”

“He said you sassed him.”

“I did nothing of the kind.”

“He doesn’t like your short hair. You know what they say about girls with short hair.”

I scowled. “They spend less money on hair spray?”

“Cheeky!” my father admonished me again.

“I retract my cheek,” I said. “Listen, Dad. Don’t worry about any of this. I have it handled. I’ve always handled these things. And anyway, I graduate this year. With honors, it looks like. Which means maybe we should talk about what happens when I—”

My father coughed again. “You’re really going to fool with that business? You could start working now, have a career. A high school diploma is just a piece of paper. Something for college boys, and that’s about it. If you ask me, it’s much more important to have men in the industries see what you can do, and position yourself accordingly. There isn’t an office in America that wouldn’t be over the moon to have a girl like you sitting at one of their desks. In any case, you’ll be married soon enough, so it doesn’t much matter in the end.”

Married? My stomach lurched at the thought. Who did he think he was talking to? “Dad, that isn’t the point. And that’s not even part of the plan. I’m in the middle of—”

“You know, I just had a meeting with the guy who owns the radio station, and I told him about you. He’s got a secretary job for you if you want. All you have to do is ask.”

“What? Dad. I’m not even trained as a secretary. People get those jobs after they go to secretarial school. Plus, they have their high school diplomas—not just a piece of paper. Honestly. Plus, I am applying for—”

My father interrupted me again. “He’s a good man. And it’s a good job. And this is a bird in the hand—you’d be silly to throw an opportunity away. But your mother did raise you with all matter of silliness, so it’s tough to say what you’ll do. Who cares about a piece of paper when you have an employer that wants to hire girls young and pretty and too green to know any better, handing out opportunities like candy.” My father didn’t explain what this meant. But I guessed. “It’s like skipping the line. My guess is that you’d be running the place in a month, head like yours. You should think about it.”

I took a deep breath and tried to clear my head. This wasn’t going well. My father had another coughing fit. I waited for it to pass. “What I’m thinking about, Dad, is pursuing a degree in—”