Something Missing_ A Novel - Matthew Dicks [83]
“My dad says girl dogs are bitches. I can say ‘bitches,’ but only if I’m talking about girl dogs. Did you know that girl dogs are bitches?”
Martin marveled at the way this child spoke, using words that he said his entire life but twisted in a remarkably new vernacular. His astonishment over her accent allowed him to relax a bit.
“Yes, I knew that. But I don’t call my Sandy that word. That wouldn’t be nice.” As he replied, Martin smiled. That was something his mother might have said.
“But Daddy says it isn’t bad, because it’s grammerly correct.”
“Where is your daddy?” Martin asked, the inquiry suddenly making him feel like a child molester.
A child molester with a ridiculous Irish accent.
“Daddy’s in San … San something. He comes home soon. Me and Mum are staying with Auntie Bea until Thanksgiving. Where do you come from?”
The scope of the question baffled Martin. Was the little girl asking what town Martin lived in or what country? Did she want to know where he had just been or where he had been born? At that moment Martin realized that he was trapped in an unrehearsed conversation. For so much of his life, probably starting the moment he left the driveway after being scolded by his stepfather, Martin had spent much of his life rehearsing for all future conversations. Practicing them in his mind. Running through word choices, sentence combinations, and possible retorts. Whether it was paying for gas at the Mobil or explaining his latest writing assignment to Jim or visiting with Jillian in the diner, he was prepared for whatever he might need to say.
But never in his life had he prepared for a situation like this.
“I come from here,” he finally said. “I live in America.”
“Oh,” Blondie replied. “You talk funny for an American.”
He did. Though he was doing a fair job of imitating the words that Blondie was saying, he was guessing at the others, the ones she hadn’t said, and he was certain that those words weren’t sounding good.
More important, he was talking too much. It was time to move.
“I have to go. Okay?” And as the words came out of his mouth, he realized how ridiculous they sounded. He was asking a child for permission to leave, and his question hadn’t been rhetorical. Had Blondie answered in the negative, told him to stand his ground with a “Stay put, buster,” he might have done just that. Without a rehearsal, Martin had no way of gaining control of the conversation, making it more important for him to leave now.
“Where’s your daddy?” the girl asked.
This was perhaps the most unrehearsed question of Martin’s life.
“I’m not sure,” he answered with blind honesty. Martin’s mother and father had divorced when he was in second grade, and though he had visited his father quite frequently for a year or two after the divorce, their communication had become less and less frequent as his mother became more publicly involved with the future stepfather who had broken up the marriage. He wasn’t even sure how he had finally ended all contact with his father. The Sunday afternoon visits to the apartment behind the liquor store evolved into Christmas Day drop-bys and second-rate birthday parties with just Martin, his father, and an occasional girlfriend sitting around a table, eating cake and searching for something to say. Eventually even these visits faded until one day Martin had stopped seeing his father entirely. It wasn’t a conscious choice, at least on his own part, but in fairness, he couldn’t remember clamoring to see his namesake either. Though Martin could recall missing his father for quite a while, he also knew that in his heart he had allowed his new father to replace the old. He had embraced the new life that his stepfather had brought into the household, a life of slightly fewer arguments and slightly more money. More presents under the tree and a new pair of sneakers whenever needed. Martin despised his