She knew her old man was downstairs, skulking through the house. He was probably feeling pretty bad about now. He always did after one of these episodes.
She had to remind herself that he couldn't help it. It was not his fault. It was just something that happened to him, like catching a cold or the flu. He was just sick, and for some sicknesses there is no medicine that works-- God knew, the doctors had tried. She would try to hate him for it, recalling every odd look somebody gave her, every snicker heard behind her back. There were time she believed she actually achieved a fitting level of hatred for him, but it never lasted long and was always replaced by a spell of self-loathing. She was despondent, but also relieved, that she could never really hate him, the way some people hate others. That would require a level of selfishness she could never reach. Whenever she tried to hate him, she couldn't stop thinking what a good father he had always been for the most part. She'd remember when he'd taught her to ride a bicycle. She'd remember the times he'd bought her things she knew she didn't deserve. She'd remember how he'd cried after her mother had died, and how lonely he'd seemed for months afterward. She'd remember how he'd visit her grave every week for the longest time. He'd place flowers perfectly on her head stone, and then spend hours talking to her, as though she were still alive, telling her everything that had happened that week. He'd tell her how everything was going at the bait shop, how Radcliff was doing in school, how the Buford's old dog, Boone, had finally had to be put to sleep, and could she kept an eye out for him?
How could she ever hate someone who could do things like that? She'd end up wondering. The music would pound in her ears. She tried to hold back the tears, but usually couldn't.
It had been her mother that insisted on naming her Radcliff. Her mother had had visions of greatness for her newborn daughter, and could never have imagined the endless teasing the child would suffer over the years because of the name.
Her mother never lived long enough to learn her daughter would probably never live up to her expectations. Radcliff was far from dumb. She was a better than average student, but no super brain. She had friends, but was in no way the most popular girl in school. For the most part she was too shy and moody and withdrawn to be very sociable. She was turning out to be quite attractive, her mother would have been pleased to know, with shoulder length chestnut hair, high cheekbones, and soft brown eyes that might too often reflect sad or lost looks.
Each morning when she awoke, she was filled with renewed enthusiasm, which usually waned during the day. Some little incident or other that occurred during the day would dampen her spirits. It was rarely that she made it to an evening with optimism and good humor intact. The morning after her father's latest departure from reality, she lingered in her room. It was always hardest to face him after his episodes, incredibly awkward--he downcast and feeling foolish, and she not knowing what to say or do. She just wished that the last episode would indeed be the last episode, so that she never again had to deal with another. So she wanted nothing more than to deal just with the normal problems teenaged girls her age have to endure: troublesome boys, horrifying zits, petty peer jealousies. Sometimes, when the absurdity of it all was too much, she'd laugh to herself, thinking, Please, oh, please, chip my teeth or give me hammer toes, gave me something I can deal with, because I can't take Dadiness any more-- "dadiness" was the word she'd invented years before to describe her father's odd moments.
Now, having donned a t-shirt and overalls, she crept out onto the landing outside her bedroom door. She stood like a statue, listening down into the living room. Her father should have left to open the bait shop hours ago, but she wanted to make sure he was gone. After a moment she determined all was clear, and bounded down the stairs and through the living room to the kitchen.
Before she had the chance to make herself something to eat, she spotted the letter on the small kitchen table. She was instantly filled with dread. A letter-- what a terrible thing for him to have left her! For she was now forced to read it. If she didn't, and if he later referred to something in the letter and she had no clue as to what he was talking about, it would all be very awkward. Since she'd turned fourteen she had striven to avoid awkward moments, and it seemed no matter how much she tried even the small things became complicated enough to end up in awkward moments. She wondered whether this was true of only her, or if other kids had the same problem. She wished she could ask friends about it, but was always afraid that they might not understand and look at her as if she were losing her mind or something, just like her father. That was the last thing she needed.
She now unfolded the heavy bond paper that was filled with her old man's scrawl.
Dear Rad,
I just wanted to express to you how
Very [unreadable] am I about last night.
I know that I cause you a great deal
Shame at times. I wish it could be otherwise. I
Have tried to control myself, but it seems that
There is really nothing to control-- not as I go
Along. It is only after the fact that it becomes
Clear that I have been acting irrationally and
It's like they say closing the barn door after the
Horse has run away. I wish I could avoid
Whatever causes this to happen to me. I wish
I could put a scarecrow in front of the house
To keep it away, but it's not that simple
. It is a sad thing
To have to go through life this way, and sadder
still that you have to endure it as well. I know
that you are ashamed of what I have become.
I wish only that you could remember when I
Was younger. I was much different then, and I
Think you would have even been proud of
Me. It is too bad you have not the peace of
Mind of knowing that I was once a father you
deserve to have now. I think if you could
remember me then, at least you wouldn't
hate me as much as do now.
Dad
She crumpled up the letter. It didn't tell her anything she didn't already know. It just dampened her morning spirit. She liked his idea about the scarecrow, though, and thought she could use a few of those herself, planted outside on the front lawn, or at her school or around the Kwik-mart, frightening off any ghost, real or imagined, that seemed intent on haunting her.
She made herself a sandwich then, a b.l.t., and wolfed it down. She found it impossible to enjoy, like everything else in her life these days.
