Things We Didn't Say_ A Novel - Kristina Riggle [64]
My dad begins to pull off the road.
“What are you doing?”
He nods toward the signs advertising places to eat. “Can’t see anything anyway. We might as well stop to eat and hope the snow lets up. Anyway, I want to talk to you, and I can’t do that very well while I’m driving.”
“We need to get to Dylan, and we’ve got sandwiches in the car.”
“I can’t see anything, Mike. We’ve got to stop. So we’ll eat.”
Minutes later we’re at a Wendy’s. My dad orders a baked potato and a salad and a glass of water.
I order the biggest, most cheese-drenched sandwich I see and a large fries. Plus a Diet Coke.
My dad raises his eyebrows at me, and I ignore him.
Dad leads the way and chooses a seat in the far reaches of the restaurant away from the counter, where the employees are joking around now that we’ve walked away. Except for a couple other storm refugees, we’re the only ones in here.
I drench my salty fries with more salt.
I have to acknowledge I might be doing this just to bug him.
Dad spreads his napkin carefully over his lap and picks at his plain potato. Not even butter.
“I’ve been meaning to talk to you anyway,” he says, squeezing his packet of fat-free Italian dressing.
“What about?” I ask, as if I don’t know, and take a giant bite of burger.
“So you’ll go to grad school.”
I chew the burger carefully, and decide not to reply. I’m just too tired.
“I’m not supporting you forever.”
I swallow hard. “You’re not supporting me now.”
“I could get much more in rent for that house than I do from you, and you haven’t purchased your own car in years. And I know you need the help, but the time has come to face facts, Mike.”
“Do tell.” I gaze out the window, but there’s nothing to see. Just bright dots piercing the white: headlights, taillights, gas station signs.
“Your career is a dead end. Journalism is dying, especially print journalism. You can’t make a living as a blogger; that’s a joke. What are you going to do, teach? I’m sure all the local colleges will be buried in ex-journalist résumés first thing Monday. It’s time you got a serious education.”
I swipe fries through a pool of salt on my paper placemat and dunk them in ketchup.
He goes on. “I will loan you the money for grad school provided you choose a field with some promise, something that can support three children and however many more you’ll have with your new girlfriend, in the proper fashion.”
“Ha. Proper fashion?”
“So you don’t have to ask me for money so that you can pay for the fancy jeans Angel wants to wear so she can fit in, for Dylan’s band trips. So you can save for their college educations and your own retirement. So you can own a real house.” Dad points at me with his plastic fork. “The way I raised you. The way your kids deserve to be raised.”
“I work hard.”
“Of course you do. But you also married an unstable woman who couldn’t hold down a job and kept having kids with her while she ran up debt.”
“Nice way to talk about your grandchildren.”
“I love my grandchildren. That’s why I’m doing this.”
“Threatening me?”
“Telling you that I’m charging you the market rate for rent in that house, and letting you buy your own car, and letting you figure out yourself how to pay for your own life. Unless you go to grad school for a decent job. In which case you’ll have all the help in the world.”
“Blackmail, now. With my children in the middle.”
“It’s your children I’m thinking of. I’m not going to subsidize your fantasy world any longer. I always said reporters don’t make enough money, and if you ever could, you certainly can’t now.”
“Unbelievable.”
“I’d think you’d jump at the chance.”
“So I just found out I got fired, and we’re going to fetch my runaway son, and this is when you decide to dump this on me?”
“Giving you time to think about it. You know, you could be an engineer. Your math grades were always excellent.”
“Fuck you.”
His mustache twitches. I think he might actually be smiling.
I throw down the burger.