Aftermath of Dreaming(10)

But the beach does extend its influence across town on clothing—very little of it is required in L.A. Unlike Pass C., which is also on the beach. In the stifling heat of that Gulf Coast town where I grew up, I was expected to wear panty hose and slips under all dresses and skirts to mass once I hit thirteen. Momma wanted me upholstered like a Baptist matron.

The first time she pulled this was on a warm spring Sunday morning when I was thirteen. I immediately decided to get Daddy’s support against her absurd and unjust injunction. Usually I left him alone about stuff like that, but when one of Momma’s dictums really crossed the line beyond all reason, he was my big gun. I ran to find him, dashing through the house, crossing soft rugs, sliding on polished hardwood floors, taking the sweeping staircase two steps at a time, until finally I found him in his study sitting in his large leather chair listening to an old, scratchy jazz LP.

I paused in the open doorway for a moment to collect myself. My father’s head was leaning back, his brown eyes closed, his tall elegant frame looking completely at rest except for his fingers, which were tapping out the sax player’s notes on the taut leather armrest. I wanted to jump on his lap and surprise him; then sit there curled up, both of us silent, him with his thoughts, me letting the music become colors and shapes in the air, as we listened to the jazz together the way we had so many times before.

But lately it had begun to feel weird. My body was changing, the dimensions of what was where were all wrong, and in the past few months an awkwardness had developed between us that I kept waiting to outgrow, the same way I had suddenly outgrown the easy affection we’d had. And I think he felt it, too. He looked so removed a lot of the time, like a verse in search of its refrain, and I was angry with my body for enforcing this change whose consequences I couldn’t control.

“Daddy,” I said, standing next to him and patting his arm high near the shoulder. He hadn’t heard me walk in, my footsteps on the old kilim rug had disappeared under the sharp aching melody.

His eyes flew open and he saw me above him. For one chilling moment there was a question in his eyes—a “Who are you?” question, “Who are you and why are you here?” question—that made me doubt my entire existence. Then the thought shot through me that my very existence was intrinsically wrong and that the floor was going to fall away and I would be gone, and he could be rid of me and go back to that place where I could never join him. But the turntable’s needle skipped over a scratch, abruptly ending the song, and the expression in my father’s eyes shifted. The moment ended.

I almost felt out of breath again, as if the fast-paced, heavy brass number that had started playing had knocked the wind out of me. But my body took over and words about Momma’s stupid rule were coming out of my mouth as I twirled in front of him, showing my outfit off to full effect—a pale pink skirt and blouse, his favorite color on me. It was a treasured outfit of Suzanne’s that I’d finally grown into and wanted to wear that morning to mass, making at least that part of it interesting.

I stopped my pirouette and waited, all prepared to hear his “Why, you look beautiful, darlin” so I could run and tell Momma that Daddy said it was fine, but he just kind of stared ahead, not even noticing my clothes. In fact, he barely seemed to see me, which was a first. He pulled himself up out of the chair—when Suzanne and I were small, we’d each take a hand and pull on him hard, and he’d sputter and huff while he stood up, then tell us he’d still be sitting there if we hadn’t come along—got halfway across the room, and said, “Listen to your momma, Yvette,” in this vacant voice I’d never heard before, then he walked out of the study, leaving the jazz playing and me standing there all dressed up.

I stood in shock for a moment, unable to believe what had just happened. I’ll run after him, I decided. He just didn’t hear me with the music, that’s all; he didn’t understand. But by the time I’d searched the whole house without finding him, then finally gone outside, he was already in his work shed—the one place we weren’t allowed to bother him—concentrating on a mandolin.

My father made musical instruments in his spare time. Not professionally—it was just a hobby. Beautiful glowing wood instruments, finely carved and individually detailed, that he’d give away to family members whenever we’d drive to New Orleans for a visit. No one played anything but the piano, so there they’d lie—violins, mandolins, and even a few banjos—sprinkled throughout our relatives’ homes like a mute melodic detritus left behind.

I could see my father through the work shed’s window. His back was to me and he was leaning forward over the worktable putting finishing touches on a mandolin, this fine object coming to life in his hands. Many times during the past few weeks, I had sneaked in while he was at his office to see the progress he was making. Now I had a sudden desire to run in, jump up on his worktable, and smash the instrument to smithereens in a dance of destruction in front of him. But my father continued his work, his small gentle movements obvious in the stillness of his back, so completely unaware of me standing right outside that I felt frozen in place, forgotten and dismissed.

Suddenly I could hear Momma yelling for me from inside the house. I didn’t want Daddy to realize I was watching him, so I dragged myself up the steps, across the porch and into the kitchen, then allowed her to yell some more until finally she came through the swinging door and saw me standing there.