Walking on Broken Glass - Christa Allan [98]
I asked Rebecca when I saw her at my next meeting, “Do I ask Carl now with the comings and the goings between Morgan and his dad's company? It might be better to wait until that settles down. Then he’ll have out-of-town trips, setting up his new office.” I looked at her. “I just answered my own question, didn’t I?”
“Good for you,” she said. “I bet you’ll be talking to him real soon.”
“After the dinner this weekend,” I said. “I’ll talk to him on the way home from dropping my father off at the airport. It's tough to ignore someone sitting in the seat next to you.”
For now, Carl and I attempted to pick Dad up from the airport. The flight hadn’t been delayed; we’d already checked. He had carry-on baggage, so we didn’t have to swarm around the luggage carousel. But with my father, possibilities abounded. The most likely scenario was his having found someone he knew. For Bob Adair, “knew” was defined as sharing space with someone for five minutes. Peter and I used to play “name the state Dad's been to where he hasn’t bumped into anyone he knew.” We stumped ourselves.
“Don’t forget. We’re not telling him about the baby until we’re all at dinner. I know how you are around my father. Secrets are not your forte,” I said, attempting playful seriousness.
Carl spotted him first. Tall people have that advantage. “Bob! Bob! Over here.” He waved his arm. I don’t think Carl realized tall men's baldness alone equaled visibility in airport crowds.
Dad walked behind a petite woman, with a liquid honey complexion and a close-cropped Afro. She rolled a suitcase behind her with one hand, and with the other, she clutched the hand of a little boy, probably four or five, with the same smooth honey skin and close-cut hair. He twisted over his right shoulder like soft taffy, laughing at my dad who entertained him making smushy faces. The child tried to walk forward while he looked backward. His mom was as oblivious to what caused his slowness as my dad was to the fact that he caused it.
As the little boy plip-plopped past, Dad made one last fish mouth face and was rewarded with a snorting grin.
“Did you see that little boy? Cute one, huh? How are you two? Come here, honey. Give me a hug.” He handed Carl his suitcase and wrapped his arms around my shoulders. “Let me look at you. You look terrific! Carl, she looks great, doesn’t she? So, how have you been, my man?” My dad asked and answered his own questions so fluidly that we learned just to ride along until he stopped.
Dad grabbed Carl's hand and pulled him close so that he could reach around and pat him on the back. “Good to see you. Good to see you.” He looked at the floor and swiveled his head. I could tell by the vacant expression on his face, he’d already forgotten where he’d put his suitcase.
“Carl has it,” I said.
“Whew. Great. Let's go.” We started walking in the direction of the car. “Where’d you park? Someplace close?” He patted his jacket pocket, pulled out a pair of glasses, and tapped me excitedly on the shoulder. “Look at his. Smart, huh?” He demonstrated the hinge action of his aluminum-framed glasses. “What’ll they think of next?”
Carl and I shared an eye contact moment when Dad simultaneously shook his head in obvious admiration of the hinge inventor's cleverness and cleaned his lenses with a cotton handkerchief from his back pants’ pocket.
“Honey, how are you? With the, you know, all that stuff in the hospital. It worked, baby? Feeling better?”
I slipped my arm through his as we walked to the parking garage. He was probably one of the last breed of men to slather Aqua Velvet lotion on after every shave.
“Yes, you know, I’ve been out over two weeks, going to meetings—”
“Hey, that's great. She's doing fine, huh, Carl?