Good Riddance(52)

“I’m sure that could never happen,” she finally said. “By the way, Doug and I thought the episodes stunk.”

And then, as easy as you please: “You know who I heard from?”

“Who?”

“Remember Sheila McDonough? She babysat us a few times and lived over on Sullivan Terrace? We’re friends on Facebook. She heard the podcast and wanted to say hey.”

“And you’re telling me this . . . why?”

“No, just an update. She’s living in Mendocino, and her house is an Airbnb.”

Okay, now I’d officially lost faith in anything my sister and her husband advised, friends or not with a famously badass lawyer. I thanked her for listening to the episodes and wanting to help. Now I had lots to think about. “Don’t do anything until we talk again, okay?” I said.

I hung up. I’d sleep on it. Maybe tomorrow I’d figure out how to tell our dad that his dirty laundry was being aired. Or maybe I’d punt. Must I announce to a man who didn’t even own earbuds that an obnoxious podcast was awaiting his subscription?





25


Miss Daphne



Thanks to the unwavering tenets of Maria Montessori, the towns of Pickering, New Hampshire, and New York, New York, were never so closely aligned—with their natural-wood furniture, their white and beigeness, their floor mats, their strict order and placement of every learning material for every life activity. And I was Miss Daphne again, advising, supporting, facilitating without overhelping.

Montessori had started to wear on me in Pickering, and Manhattan earnestness soon reminded me why. On my third day, a little boy was turning four. Would it be the same ritual we observed in New Hampshire? Indeed: His parents had packed, in lieu of any confection, pear slices with tofu brie. The birthday boy, Beckett, selected a helper, Finn, who asked each child sitting in the circle whether he or she wanted the alleged treat. If yes, Finn gave the child a plate, just the plate. Then Beckett followed, placing his pears and “cheese” on each waiting vessel. After snacking, we sang “Walk Around the Sun” while a teacher named Miss Inez lit a candle representing the sun. Then Beckett picked up a miniature earth and walked around the candle one time for each of his four years. Science! Astronomy! Self-esteem! I found it tedious and a little creepy, which made me wonder how many birthday observations I could endure.

My dad was too pleased to hear about the job. “I knew it,” he crowed. “You were bored. That chocolate thing—where was that going? Not that you weren’t talented in that arena, but you always seemed to love your teaching job back home. In fact, I always thought it was a little rash—moving to Manhattan without asking for a transfer.”

“It doesn’t work that way. It’s not like I worked for Proctor & Gamble and wanted to move from Cincinnati to New York. Besides, I needed a break from the family business. New York was me rebelling.”

He laughed at “rebelling,” and I let him. I confessed that when Holden’s friends had asked me what I did, and I said, “Montessori teacher,” it stopped the conversation cold. None had children. Their expressions seemed to say, How quaint, how minimum wage. That was when I stopped applying for teaching jobs and embraced stay-at-home bride.

Over the phone, Dad’s relief and enthusiasm were rendering him tone-deaf. “This is what I call progress, hon, even if you think it’s not a step forward. You went into teaching because you loved it, not because it’s what your mother and I devoted our lives to. I’m like you—I hate being idle. I’m not sitting around watching cable. I’m walking dogs! I get to be these little creatures’ favorite human for forty-five minutes. Sometimes I wonder if their own parents are kind enough or attentive enough. It’s extremely satisfying.”

I said, “I know one doggy parent you don’t worry about being kind enough.”

I expected him to chuckle or convey the verbal equivalent of a blush. “You mean Kathi?” he asked without the affectionate tone I was expecting.

“Is something wrong?”

“I’m not sure.”

“You’re still seeing her?”

“Of course I am. I walk Sammi five days a week.”

“That’s not what I meant. No more coffees or sherries or dates?”

“That hasn’t happened in a while.”

I asked exactly how long a “while” meant.

“For the past week. Something’s not working.”

Uh-oh. I hope he didn’t mean you-know-what. I pretended it didn’t. “Then ask her what’s wrong. You’re not shy. I saw how she looks at you. It’s hard to believe she’s cooled off.”

“Maybe she realizes that a younger man would be more suitable,” he said.



Do nothing, say nothing, let my father sound defeated and unloved or get to the bottom of it? I emailed Kathi, asking if she’d like to meet me for a late-afternoon coffee. She didn’t answer for a whole day. Finally, an email reply said, “Late afternoon is tricky. Let me check with your dad to see if I can switch Sammi’s walk earlier in the day. Back soon.”

I wrote back quickly, “Actually, I wanted to talk to you about my dad, so can we keep this between ourselves?”

My cell phone rang instantly. “What about your dad?” Kathi asked. “Is he okay?”