Bullmina the Courageous Bulldog Comes Home

I took a deep breath and played with the worn, stretched out phone cord. What was I going to say? As little as possible. Let him do the talking. Stick to the old script: yes, no, and I don't know, sir. Yep, that's what I'd do. My father was escorted into his side of the cubicle area from the right side. I sucked in my breath again, disgusted at the sight before me. He was cuffed. The guard led him to the chair opposite of mine and uncuffed him. He was visibly thinner. They had shaved all his hair off and he no longer had his signature sandy-colored mustache. He looked much older than I remembered. I guess prison will do that to a person. My stomach clenched one final time as he sat down in front of me. He picked up the receiver and cleared his throat. "Finally decided to grace the old man with your presence. What too you so long, Carol Lee? Is Mom finally dead?" he asked with a sarcastic grin that immediately made my blood run cold. What was once nausea turned into overwhelming, visceral hatred. I cleared my throat and leaned toward the glass. "Well, as a matter of fact, she was clinically dead for a few minutes," I said, trying to keep my tone devoid of any detectable emotion. "She developed a bad infection, went into septic shock, and had a heart attack her third day in the hospital." He arched his eyebrows in surprise and licked his upper lip. "I didn't know that." "Well, now you know." "You know I haven't spoken to your mom in a while. I wonder why Bep didn't say a word about this when I spoke to her on the phone a week and a half ago." "Mom wanted you to hear it in person. Plus, she wanted me to come and see you. So here I am." "You certainly don't sound all that jazzed to see me." "Why should I be? This wasn't my choice," I declared, mentally cursing myself because I really didn't want to engage him like this. I just wanted to keep it as neutral and business-like as possible. Dad's eyes narrowed, his voice dripping with sarcasm, "Well, thank you so much for making the effort. And I especially want to thank you for coming to my sentencing. I really appreciated all the moral support." I just stared back at him, holding my jaw clenched. I didn't want to reveal any feelings, but I could feel my bowels grumbling as my colon cramped in revulsion. Thank God I put that sanitary pad on. "You pleaded no contest. There was no point in me being there. I assume Mom and Nonna Beppa have brought you up to speed on the new game plan with the house," I quickly changed the subject. "They have." "I really don't want to move, but we have no choice. We'll be out of savings in a matter of months, and we want to get the place rented out before we completely run out of funds." "Nice to hear you're burning through all my money." He could still be an asshole even when he wasn't drinking, but I let it slide. "We're doing the best we can...trying to stretch it as far as it will go. We visit food banks, and I got this year's school wardrobe at the St. Vincent de Paul. My binder from last year is still passable. I just had to empty it and tape up the insides," I said, looking over his head and making small talk so I wouldn't just be sitting there looking like a moron. "So, how is your mother?" "She's weak, but she's slowly improving. I don't know what type of chemo they'll try next. She has to get her strength back before they can do anything else," I kept it brief. "Bep said she and Carlton are going to go back to New Mexico as soon as Liz's out of the woods, and then you and Mom are moving in with that goddamn Jew boy and his family." "Why do you have to keep calling him that 'goddamn Jew boy'? For criminy sakes, Dad, it's the 1970's! Dr. Weinberg's a cardiologist at Stanford Hospital! You're talking like we're still in the 1950's!" While I wanted to avoid any emotional outbursts, I couldn't help but raise my voice in defense of Dr. Josh. "Don't you go off on me while I'm in here, little gal," his knuckles turned white as he clenched the phone tighter. "I am who I am." "Yes, you certainly are, and you've always been a fucking racist asshole!" Okay, old man, let's have at it. No point in turning back now. His eyes grew big and his sand-colored eyebrows almost disappeared into the furrows of his forehead. "Yeah, aren't you happy now, Pops? You taught me how to swear, and you taught me how to hate. Only Dr. Weinberg and Lyndsey and their Bulldogs can teach me how to love unconditionally again and not judge, but sometimes I don't even know if they can help me do it. It's gonna be a real tall order after living all my formative years with you," I hissed softly so the women sitting next to me on either side couldn't hear. Dad rolled his grey-blue eyes and transferred the phone over to his right ear. "So I guess they're your family now?" "Well, it's beginning to look that way. But I'm awfully sorry poor Mr. Martinez had to die for all this to happen," I couldn't help rubbing a little salt into it. "It was an accident for Crissake!" he said, gritting his teeth. I could tell that I had stirred him up. "Yeah, sure, Dad. If that's what you want to believe. But you didn't have to go to that liquor store and pick up another six-pack. We had plenty of beer at home in the fridge."