Gentlehands by M. E. Kerr

Author:M. E. Kerr
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 1978-08-31T04:00:00+00:00

11

I’D BEEN LIVING AT MY GRANDFATHER’S FOR FOUR days. For the first time in my life, I had my own room, with an ocean view. Every morning I drove the jeep to work, and after work I headed over for a swim in the pool with Skye.

On the Friday of the Fourth of July weekend, as I was on my way to Beauregard, I heard a police siren behind me. I pulled over and looked at my father through the rearview mirror, sauntering up toward the jeep with his policeman’s cap pushed back on his head, one hand in his pocket. It was our first encounter since the one in the backyard when he’d clobbered me with his fist.

“How you doing?” he said.

“Okay.”

There was this little smile playing on his lips, and he couldn’t look at me while he talked to me. He watched the road ahead and lit a cigarette.

“How do you like being on your own?”

“I like it fine.”

“I can see why,” he said, giving the jeep door a slap with his hand, grinning more. He took a puff on his cigarette and we didn’t say anything for a while.

“How’s Streaker?” I said.

“He’s a great kid,” my father said. The day I’d packed and cleared out, Streaker wouldn’t come down from a tree in our front yard. I’d stood under the tree and tried to talk to him, tried to explain I had to take care of my problems, and he had to learn to fend for himself until I got myself straightened out.

“I don’t want your stupid catcher’s mitt,” he’d said.

“Good!” I’d said. “I can still use it.”

Then I’d said, “Aren’t you going to come down for a good-bye hug?”

“I don’t hug,” he’d said. “I’m not a girl.”

“I can see that,” I’d said. “You’re a cat that’s been treed. Well, meow, Streaker. Thanks for being so understanding.”

“I don’t care if I never see your face again,” he’d said.

“You’re not a cat at all,” I’d said. “You’re the family parrot, parroting everything Dad says.”

“Go to hell!” he’d yelled after me, and I’d walked toward Fireplace Road carrying my duffel bag, getting ready to hitch a ride to Montauk.

My father took a couple more drags on his cigarette and I sat in the jeep watching his face in profile. He wasn’t in a bad mood. I think he really wanted to talk to me.

“You don’t drive this thing after nine at night, do you?” he said.

“Of course not,” I said. “Grandpa Trenker wouldn’t let me if I wanted to.”

“I don’t know anything about your grandfather Trenker,” he said.

“He’s a nice guy,” I said.

“I’m not concerned with him,” he said.

“I’m doing okay,” I said.

“I can see that,” said my father.

“You been going clamming?” I asked.

“I’m going to take my boy clamming tomorrow,” he said, as though he had only one boy.

“Have a nice time,” I said. “I hope you and your boy get a big haul.”

“Okay, Buddy,” he sighed. “I’ve got to get back on duty.”

“Duty calls,” I said.

“How would you know?” he said.

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