The Last Cadillac (5 page)

She wanted me to go on an adventure.

Sail on …

I could hear it clearly, like the snapping of a sail under the moon.

Like in a song I used to love.

Julia began announcing to friends and family that I was “kidnapping Dad!” What an unpleasant surprise! I seethed, and, at once, the disappointment over the continual sniping and lack of support from the family nibbled away at me.

I explained to anyone who would listen that it was not my plan to kidnap Dad. Where did Julia get such ideas? I wondered. I had to bite my tongue and bide my time, because I was on the verge of confronting her, and it wouldn't be pretty. She'd called me a kidnapper. That's a felony. All the while, Jack's objections to “Dad running off to Florida” dwindled and reappeared with annoying regularity. The idea of him running anywhere was ridiculous enough. Dad just smiled and didn't join the argument. He remained adamant about going. “How can I stay here? My Patsy's not here,” he said. It was as simple as that. My heart broke.

I didn't try to talk him out of it, and I avoided discussion with my siblings, because there was no such thing as discussion, just yelling. I was determined not to argue with them, taking a clue from Lucy's non-conflict approach.

I made up my mind. Unless something earth-shaking
happened to change everything, Dad and I and the kids were all off to Florida at the end of August.

I finally told Little Sunshine and Tick. “I have some incredible news, kids. Gampy is going on The Adventure with us! He's coming to live in Florida! We're going to stay at the cottage.” I winked at Little Sunshine. It had been our secret. She clapped her hands over her mouth, then danced around the table and off the patio on to the grass. There she collapsed in a heap of pink ruffles.

“Yeah! It's really happening!” she yelled.

Tick looked at his sister and tipped his chair back. We were sitting on wrought iron outside at the dollhouse, so I didn't have to correct him for unhinging the furniture. “Cool,” said Tick. A smile broke slowly across his face, as the plan dawned on him. “You're not kidding, Mom?” And then the chair tipped forward with a clatter. “Really? That is awesome.”

My daughter sprang up and danced around the yard. “The Sunshine!” she said. “Oh, how fun!” She called her grandfather Sunshine, but when he was grumpy, she called him Storm Cloud. He named her Little Sunshine.

Dad and Tick got on well, too. When they were together, they rumbled and laughed together—a peculiar mix of young and old voices. Dad came up with “Tick.” When Tick could hardly walk, he liked to stick to Dad's leg and ride around on his shoe. Dad would laugh and pick up his grandson and sweep him into the air with one hand, holding him up high until he squealed. I didn't think of my baby son as a fat bug, but the name stuck.

We were definitely headed in a new direction, this family of my elderly father and young children—and me in the middle.

“Gamps can have my room,” said Tick.

“That's very generous of you,” I said.

“Or we could build an addition to the cottage.”

“Where?”

“We can finish off the storage room. We'll set up a little club in there and jam and stuff. Gamps likes MTV.”

That was puzzling, and true. The stroke had left him with some odd interests, including MTV. The music and dancing were as foreign as another planet to him, but maybe that's where he wanted to be—totally removed from his present surroundings. He fixed on Sinead O'Connor, mesmerized by the Irish woman's bald head and plaintive voice. Then he sang to me, “Nothing compares to you,” which was flattering and confusing.

Tick said, “Mom, I mean it. He can have my room.”

“We'll think of something,” I said. “I just want you to know that things will be different.”

“Mom. Everything's different every day all the time around here,” said Tick. “I'm talkin' really different.”

This was also true. The kids had gone from their beautiful house with mom and dad at home, to camp in the woods, to “the museum” where their dad lived with The Mop, to the dollhouse where their grandmother died and their grandfather and aunts and uncles were driving everyone to distraction—all within about a year's time. The thought of it was dizzying.

The kids were cheerful and excited—and in the moment. I charged ahead, packing and planning for the great Adventure. I, too, was in the moment, just happy to be getting out of this one and into a happier one in Florida.

I didn't think about the turmoil that could come of this. There weren't enough moments in the day for that.

Dad and I met his accountant, his lawyer, and his banker. Joe Glotzbach, the accountant, told Dad he didn't need two houses. He owned the dollhouse and also part of the Florida cottage with his two sisters. He didn't need the dollhouse with the antiques, condo fees, and utility bills.

Joe's office had the atmosphere of a funeral parlor and a country club bar all at once. The comfy maroon leather arm chairs on metal ball feet moved around easily, and the mahogany walls meant serious business.

“Sell it,” Dad said. “Sell the dollhouse.”

I looked at Joe, who was chuckling, but I felt a wave of panic.

“Wait,” I said. “What if you all of a sudden, you know, decide you want to come back?”

“I'm not coming back. My home is with you.”

Joe raised his eyebrows and smiled. “He's always known what he wants.”

I clung to the idea that we were all making the right choice, building this new life, all of us together. Swept along in the rush of it, I felt I had little choice. And Dad wanted to come along. He had his good and bad moments, and I was always looking for the father I knew, the strong man, the funny one. It was energizing to hear the lucid Dad. If we were in this together, how could things go wrong?

I was emptying a drawer when Margie Everett, one of Mom's best friends, knocked on the front door, her bubble head, wavy through the leaded glass. Margie had a small motor in her brain that kept her mouth in perpetual motion. She was dear, but I wished she'd go away.

“Great,” I mumbled to myself. It was a frantic morning,
with the realtor, the kitten Tick found in the parking lot of the 7-Eleven, and a to-do list of sorting, retrieving, cancelling, cleaning, and calling. This was a time in which I rose to new levels of multi-tasking. If I could have used my feet to dial and hold the phone, I would have.

Dear, sweet Margie. I didn't have time to chat, but, at once, I was compelled to put a good face on it. My appearance was another consideration altogether. I had not even brushed my teeth, and I wore an old robe that had a hole and a coffee stain plopped among the faded daisies.

“Oh, dear, I hope I'm not disturbing you,” said Margie.

“No, no,” I lied, knowing perfectly well I looked mighty disturbing.

Margie was dressed in a fine navy-blue St. John knit suit, her signature look. She pointed one slim, spanking-new Ferragamo over the doorstep, while I stepped back into the dim foyer. She handed me a white box from Butterfingers, our favorite bakery. I could smell its sweet goodness through the cardboard, reminding me that I hadn't eaten anything since yesterday.

I found an uncluttered area at the dining room table for us to sit, and I brought coffee and the cups. I opened the box and took out the crescents, putting them on a plate, and offering her the first. My mouth watered for something flaky, delicious, pleasing, satisfying—anything but arguing, yelling, correcting, coaxing, whining, and mewing.

“I know this is none of my business, and I probably shouldn't be saying this,” she said.

The crescent halted above my plate midway to my mouth. My bullshit-o-meter started to go off.

“You know how I love you and your family,” she said.

I studied the flakiness of the crescent and took a big bite.
Margie Everett was a very nice person, but I didn't love her, and I wasn't going to say I did.

“And I know how difficult it is for you and the family,” she said, “but do you really think it's such a good idea to take your father away from his family and friends? Just now? So quickly, you know, with Patsy's passing.” Margie dabbed a corner of one eye, delicately.

The mouthful of crescent began to taste like paper, and I put my coffee cup down carefully. “Margie, I am not taking my father away. This is not my idea. It's his. He is taking himself away, and I happen to agree with him.”

There, I said it, and I didn't care what she thought of it.

“But he's so vulnerable now.”

“We all are, Margie.”

“Well, yes, I suppose so. I can see how you'd say that.”

She tilted her head, and her eyebrows wiggled up and down. I tried to keep a straight face with all that wiggling going on.

“I know you're the apple of his eye. I know you'll take good care of him,” she said. Then her tone changed slightly, and in a blink, she was on to topic number two. “And what about this lovely condominium?”

She looked around the dining room full of moving boxes, papers, and clutter and into the adjoining sunroom that overlooked the golf course. It was a rainy day, and no sun entered the floor-to-ceiling windows to light up the oriental carpet and floral chintz loveseats, the brass and china, and Dad's leather chair and ottoman. It really was beautiful and comfy, and I felt a slight tug of regret, but not much. This was where my mother spent her last days, on the loveseat with a mohair blanket over her knees and a small satin pillow at the crook of her neck. I could still hear the depressing, soft
clap-clap
of
the oxygen machine that gave her some relief from the cancer that was eating away in her middle.

I had to get out of there. We all did.

I looked back at Margie, who tilted her head at me for an answer. “The condo, yes. What about it?” I said.

“I hear it's on the market, after all your mother did to make it so special, so uniquely her own style. I just love the built-in bookcases, and what she did with the guest room! Who would have thought to use so many shades of blue! But it really works, don't you think?”

Margie would leave me that morning, and go directly to the country club for lunch and tell every person she knew, and she knew a considerable number, about her conversation with me. It was sure to be a frightening version of the facts. It would do no good to antagonize her. I needed to win her over. I stood, tucked my robe around me, and straightened up, hoping posture would make up for looking like a slob.

“This packing and cleaning,” I said, mindful of an even tone. “It's so tedious, such a never-ending job of sorting and wrapping, and then all this scrubbing.” I hoped she didn't look too closely at the kitchen floor, which had several layers of pizza sauce, Sprite, and one melted banana popsicle in the corner.

“Dear, I wish I could help.” Her face registered sympathy.

“Oh, thanks. That's so sweet, but we're just about finished,” I said. “The kids are so excited, and Dad is, too.” I stretched a bit, awkwardly, and then sat down. We went back to thoughtful chewing of the crescents, sipping our coffee tentatively. Margie, clearly, however, was not through with me. I had tried to gently end the discussion, and failed. She waited expectantly for me to continue, and I bit.

“Margie,” I said, “my father really doesn't need two houses.”

“Oh, you're right about that.”

“He says he wants to go to Florida with me. That would make him happy. I think my mother would have liked that. Don't you?”

“Yes, oh, yes. Definitely,” she said. “You're so right about that.”

“Thanks.”

“But it's all happening so fast.”

“Yes.”

“Well, you have our love, love, love.”

“The condo, I guess, won't sell overnight,” I said, standing up again. I began to inch away from the table with a peek at the clock. It was nearly noon, and my stomach dropped at the thought of all I had to do. I sidled in the direction of the front door. “Wish us luck on our adventure!”

“Adventure! Oh, that's darling,” she said. “We'll see then, won't we?”

She got to her Ferragamo-ed feet. Margie checked her watch, pecked me on the cheek, and was off to lunch. I stared at the door that clicked softly behind her. With all of her fluff and meddling, Margie was concerned. She did, in fact, give me something to chew on besides the crescents.

I didn't believe for one minute that Dad would come back to Indiana. I hoped The Adventure worked, because if Dad were to return, I was afraid he'd die in no time. I had that much blind faith in myself to believe I could keep Dad happy down there in the good ol' Florida sun. Yes, I could do it. I did not accept the fact that I was dispensable. However, the Ex had made it perfectly clear that I was entirely dispensable by divorcing me after twenty-some-years and settling down with the adoring, flannel-mouthed church lady on our street—after dropping the trailer-trash girl friend from southern Indiana.

I had to put it past me. The kids needed me, I was sure of that, and Dad needed me, or he would sink into deep sadness and listlessness—with a strange, Polish maid taking care of him in the dollhouse. I could just see Dad trying to get used to this stranger, while she explained a Julia-inspired, new-found miracle pill, and how to work the remote on the television, and get his teeth in and out, and put one foot in front of the other, and get him all around town to five or six doctors, all in Polish, which was Jack's dream. It made me frantic. In that case, he might as well be in Poland, or Paris, or in
Star Wars
.

I looked down at the squashed crescent in my fist, dropped it in the cardboard box, and went back to the mess. The crescents somehow ended up in Florida, packed up with butter in the butter dish, and an ashtray full of cigarette butts.

The dollhouse drew an offer nearly overnight, which made me frantic to finish the tasks. A mystery person, probably someone around the age of ten, broke the leaded glass in the front door. A toilet got plugged, and the realtor found what appeared to be a leak in the basement, which I traced to the piddling stowaway kitten. Tick had hidden the cat downstairs at the dollhouse, because he couldn't keep it at “the museum.”