Chapter 7 - My Father Never Got The Correction
Mom took the corrected record home.
She left it on her kitchen counter for three days before reading it again.
I found her there Sunday morning.
Coffee.
Reading glasses.
Dad’s old photograph beside the paper.
“Does it feel better?”
“No.”
Good answer.
“What does it feel like?”
“Late.”
I sat.
She slid the page toward me.
“Samuel would hate this.”
“Why?”
“Too many words.”
I smiled.
“That I believe.”
“He’d want one sentence.”
“What sentence?”
Mom thought.
“He paid the staff.”
Then:
“And he took money he shouldn’t have.”
“Two sentences.”
“He’d complain.”
We laughed.
Then Mom stopped.
“I owe you an apology.”
I groaned.
“Apparently everybody does now.”
“I’m serious.”
“I know.”
She folded her hands.
“I thought if you knew how angry your father became after Hale fired him, you would remember him differently.”
“I barely remember him at all.”
Her face cracked.
That sentence hurt both of us.
“I know.”
She continued.
“Samuel could be difficult after that.”
“How?”
“He started assuming disrespect before it happened.”
That sounded familiar.
“He quit two jobs because managers corrected him in front of younger staff.”
“Were the managers wrong?”
“Once.”
“And the other?”
“No.”
I looked down.
Mom continued.
“He stopped wanting help from anybody who had more money than us.”
“That sounds exhausting.”
“It was.”
“Why stay?”
She smiled sadly.
“Because people are not their worst habit.”
That could become another excuse if you weren’t careful.
Mom knew.
“He was also funny. He sang terribly. He packed your diaper bag like we were invading Europe.”
I smiled.
“He adored you.”
Then she touched the corrected paper.
“But loving us didn’t make every choice good.”
That was the father I wanted.
Not spotless.
Not ruined.
A person.
Mom finally told me what happened after the $25,000 settlement.
Samuel used some for our bills.
Saved some.
Spent some badly.
He and Mom fought because Samuel wanted to sue Victor and Richard.
Then refused to meet attorneys because he believed lawyers would make him sound guilty.
“He wanted Richard to come to him,” Mom said.
“Richard wanted Dad to come back.”
“Yes.”
“So they both waited.”
“Yes.”
“Until?”
“Your father died.”
There was no mystery there.
Only waste.
Samuel developed an infection after a workplace injury.
Nothing sensational.
He went into the hospital.
Never came home.
Richard sent flowers.
Samuel’s mother returned them.
Of course she did.
“Did Richard come to the funeral?”
“Yes.”
I stared.
“What?”
“He stayed outside.”
“Why?”
“Your grandmother told him if he came inside, she’d have him removed.”
“Did you know he was there?”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“You were six.”
“Later.”
Mom’s face tightened.
“I thought it didn’t matter.”
There it was again.
One person deciding what information mattered for someone else.
I rubbed my forehead.
“Mom.”
“I know.”
“No more editing.”
“I know.”
“Even if you think it protects me.”
“I know.”
“Especially then.”
She nodded.
Then:
“There’s something you need to tell me too.”
“What?”
“Vanessa.”
I knew.
Mom did too.
“You told that other server to keep her head down.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I thought I was helping.”
Mom almost laughed.
Of course.
The family disease had crossed bloodlines now.
I had believed endurance kept people employed.
Maybe sometimes it did.
It also taught Vanessa there was no cost.
I called the other server that afternoon.
Her name was Hannah.
She was twenty-nine.
I apologized.
“For what?”
“When you asked me whether to report Vanessa, I told you not to.”
“You were trying to help.”
“I know.”
She paused.
“Oh.”
She heard it.
I continued.
“I was protecting the shift, not you.”
That was the accurate sentence.
Hannah accepted the apology.
She did not tell me everything was fine.
Good.
Monday evening I worked my first banquet since the incident.
Different host.
Different crowd.
At table eleven, a man grabbed my forearm when I turned away because he wanted another drink.
Not violently.
The old version of me would have smiled.
Freed my arm.
Kept serving.
Instead I removed his hand.
“I asked you not to touch me.”
He looked offended.
“I was just getting your attention.”
“I know.”
He complained to Anna.
Anna came over.
Listened.
Then reassigned the table to herself and documented the interaction.
Nobody got thrown onto the sidewalk.
Nobody made a speech.
The man finished dinner.
I finished my shift.
That was what change looked like most of the time.
Boring.
Specific.
Slightly uncomfortable.
After closing, Richard was waiting near the coat check.
“Everything okay?”
“Yes.”
“Anna told me about table eleven.”
I stared.
“She didn’t need to tell you.”
His face changed.
Good.
He understood.
“Right.”
He started to leave.
Then stopped.
“I talked to Laura.”
“How did that go?”
“She told me twenty-seven years late is not impressive.”
“That sounds like Mom.”
“She also told me Samuel would’ve accepted my apology if I’d stopped trying to make him admit I had a point.”
I smiled.
“That sounds like Dad.”
Richard looked at me.
“Do you think he would have?”
“No idea.”
He nodded.
No one needed to finish the dead man’s sentence anymore.
Then Richard said:
“I’m going to visit his grave.”
I didn’t respond.
“Is that okay?”
The question surprised me.
“It isn’t mine to approve.”
“Right.”
He smiled faintly.
May you like
He was learning.
So was I.
