Pool Night, Part 1 of 3

 series

It's late afternoon, I'm waiting for the girl to arrive, and the cat is
helping me make up the bed. The bed is too close to the wall and to the
dresser at the foot, so when I need to go around it to stretch the fitted
sheet up to the head I have to bend over the bed with my back to the dresser
to avoid the windowsill next to the dresser. The cat watches until I'm
balanced in this somewhat uncomfortable position, not quite leaning over
enough to fall forward onto the bed, and then she jumps onto the bed near
the foot, dead center, holding the sheet down to the mattress.
When I pull on the corner of the sheet she tries to catch the wrinkles as
they float away from her like waves. This action of hers, this lying on the
bed, will leave on the sheet a wrinkled place which will stay where she is
now; I want the sheet to be completely, perfectly straight, flat, the Navaho
pattern laid out as precisely as if it were a sand painting. I worry about
the wrinkled spot even though another sheet and a comforter will go over the
sheet.
I say "Shoo" to the cat, whose name is Murphy, and she looks up at me and
meows. She's smiling, I think. I say it louder and make a shooing motion
with the backs of my hands toward her, and she explodes off the bed and out
of the room; I decide I was foolish to arrange the furniture like this, and
of the two bedrooms this is the smaller, and why didn't I go ahead and set
up the larger as a bedroom instead of as a combination library and office?
She doesn't bother me again, and I hear her in the hallway playing with her
gray catnip mouse; the bell on its tail tinkles, and when the doorbell rings
I stand there by the bed and wonder how she got the little round bell to
sound so loudly and rapidly. The confusion passes, and I go to the door of
the house which I rented when my wife and I divorced. As I walk to the door
I imagine the house as it must look from an airplane: the small house with a
pool in the back taking up the entire backyard and the tall wooden privacy
fence around the pool; the front yard stretching out to the blacktop road in
front; the driveway leading down to the road and the two large mimosa trees
in the yard, one on either side of a cast-iron loveseat painted red.
At the door is my daughter Mandy. The afternoon sun frames her in the
doorway, and when I stand back from the door to let her in I can see the
outline of her body through the light cotton dress she wears. "Hi, Daddy,"
she says, and I stand for a second looking at her before answering.
"Hey, baby," I say, and she lets me hug her and kiss her on the crown of her
head; her hair is long enough to reach her slender hips. "I didn't expect to
see you today." When I say this she looks confused until I add, "But it's
always good to have you visit," and then she smiles and goes over to the
sofa to sit down. Her shoulders are tanned and lightly freckled. I worry
about her, that she is too beautiful, that some man will hurt her, that she
is sexually active already. Mandy is seventeen, almost eighteen, a young
woman just graduated from high school and taking the summer off before
college in the fall.
"Are you okay, Daddy? You look like you've got something on your mind."
"I was fixing up the house a little. I have company coming tonight." I sit
down in the comfortable armchair which sits at an angle to the sofa.
She leans forward with her hands on her knees and the neckline of her dress
falls open a bit, and I can see the upper swell of her breasts. "Hot date,
huh?" she says, and I wonder if it's appropriate for me as her father to
mention to her that I think she should be wearing a bra under such a sheer
dress. Her mother takes care of her, I think, and then I feel better. No
less protective, just less worried.
"Yes. A date," I say. "She'll be here in a little while."
"Good for you. I'm glad you're trying to have a social life." She looks at
me and smiles. "Mom and I were afraid you'd lock yourself up out here and
never do anything."
When she says this I think how much I love her and her mother and wish we
could have stayed together. "What brings you all the way out here?" I ask.
"Just want to see your dad?"
"Yeah, mostly. And to give you a message from Mom. She says you still need
to sign those papers for me to get into school."
I am a history professor at a small university. It is an exclusive place,
very expensive. They allow the children of tenured faculty to attend school
for half tuition, and I have to sign a paper which states, among other
things, that this is my daughter, and yes, that I love her, that I claim her
as my own. "I haven't signed them, but I will, and you can take them with
you," I say. I have forgotten about the papers, as if signing them is an
avowal that I have wondered about the heritage of this beautiful young woman
or ever doubted my love for her. "I'll get them for you," I say.
I go back to the larger of the two bedrooms and rummage through the student
papers on the desk; the forms I must sign are under an essay by Monica Dodd,
a sophomore in one of my just completed spring classes. I look at the paper,
which is about George Washington's expense accounts. I sign the form which
claims, certifies, declares, states that I love my daughter. I sign in
triplicate for the academic advisement office, the business office, the
dean's office, then fold the papers lengthwise and walk back to my daughter
in the living room.
The cat is sitting in Mandy's lap when I return, and Mandy is scratching the
cat's ears. "Nice kitty," Mandy says, though I am not sure whether she is
addressing me or the cat. "How long have you had her?"
"A couple of weeks," I say. "She was an orphan, I think. I got her at the
animal shelter." They have many cats there of all kinds, I want to tell my
daughter, and she can have one if she wants. I will take her there to pick
out a cat.
"She's sweet," Mandy says. The cat looks up at her and smiles. "What's her
name?"
"Name? I haven't given her a name yet," I say. "What do you think?"
"Scarlett. Like Scarlett O'Hara." She rubs the cat's head and makes kissing
noises. "How do you like that for a name, Scarlett-kitty?"
The cat doesn't seem to care one way or another, so I say, "That's a good
name. It fits her personality to a T. Yes, to a T." I hope the cat hasn't
gotten used to Murphy yet, but it is my daughter's wish that the cat be
called Scarlett.
I have the papers still; Mandy reaches over and takes them. "I've got to go,
Daddy. Kevin's taking me to a movie tonight and I have to get ready." She
stands up and the cat jumps down. Mandy brushes black cat hair off her white
cotton dress. "I'll see you in a few days. Maybe at school, huh?"
"It's too late to start the summer session," I say. I want her to stay and
talk to me, my only child who is growing up too fast for me to bear.
"I was going to be over there for the Earlybird orientation next week. And
besides, I can drop in and see you at the office, can't I? Just because I
want to?"
I hadn't thought of this, how she could just want to see me, and I am glad.
"Sure," I say. She reaches out to give me a hug, then kisses me on the
cheek. I ask, "Do you need any money? For clothes or anything?" It seems a
silly gesture, superficial somehow, but it is all I can offer her except my
love, and she has that.
"No, but thanks anyhow. Mom and I went out three times in the last couple of
weeks and bought clothes. All I'm going to need is books, and Mom says I
could ask you about those."
"Certainly," I say. Books. I want to be a daily part of her life again, but
all I can do is buy books. "Well," I say.
"Well," she says, and then she is gone. The cat tries to follow her out, but
I stop her by putting my foot out, and she shies away from the foot and goes
back to her food dish in the kitchen. I hear the crunching of the hard dry
food. She is a good cat; I should be better to her.
Just as I'm hearing the crunching from the kitchen and the whine of Mandy's
car leaving, the little foreign sports car I bought for her last year, there
is a knock at the door, and I am standing right there, so I open the door
and there is Monica Dodd, sophomore. "Hello, Dr. Lear," she says. "I hope
I'm not too early, but you said seven-ish."
She is a pretty girl, and while I am not in the habit of inviting students,
especially pretty female students, into my home, I did invite her here for
dinner. She did well in my class, except for missing classes on Fridays when
the sun was bright and the weather warm. Younger students will go out and
socialize on Fridays, beginning the weekend early. This was Monica's
problem, her only one, scholastically speaking. I hold the door for her.
"I'm glad you could make it," I say. "Did you have any trouble finding the
house?"
"You gave good directions. No problem at all." She is wearing tight, very
short cutoff blue jeans and a peasant-style cotton top much like the top of
the dress which my daughter was wearing. "I met your daughter on my way in,"
Monica says. "Does she go to college?"
"Would you like something to drink?" I ask. "She's starting in the fall," I
say.
"Do you have some white wine? I love white wine."
I go into the kitchen and open the refrigerator and push aside mayonnaise
and the pot of soup I cooked a few days ago. Lying on its side against the
back wall on the top shelf is part of a bottle of Zinfandel, which I remove
and open. I take two glasses and return to the living room. Monica has found
a piece of string and is trying to get the cat's attention. When I walk in
Monica looks up at me and the cat strikes with a forepaw. Scarlett the cat
catches the string and runs away to hide behind the couch. "Ouch," Monica
says. A bright drop of blood grows on her forefinger. "She got me," Monica
says and puts the finger in her mouth and sucks hard on it.
The girl is not seriously hurt, but while I search the bathroom for
disinfectant and bandages I wonder whether the cut can get infected and
worry about my homeowner's liabilty coverage. In the living room again with
bandaids and peroxide and a tube of something which is advertised to speed
healing of small wounds, I attempt to administer first aid, but do a poor
job it; I ruin one bandage when the tape falls across the gauze pad and
cannot be removed. "Let me do this," Monica says, "and you can get me a
glass of wine." I pour the wine into glasses. "It'll kill the pain," she
says, and smiles.
I give her a glass. Her finger shows a neat pink band of sterilized plastic.
"I'm sorry about the cat. She hasn't gotten used to people yet." Monica sips
her wine, the bandaged finger sticking out like a rebuke.
"Don't worry. We have six cats at home, and sometimes they do these things."
She shifts the glass to her uninjured hand and holds the finger up to look
at it. "They usually don't mean anything by it."
"Okay. If you're not worried, that is." I, of course, am worried. I worry
about her getting an infection, about a lawsuit over the infection, about
the regents discovering that a forty year-old professor has invited a
nineteen-year-old female student to his home for dinner and wine. I worry
about my daughter, who is just two years younger. Soon she will be living
away from home, and the world is full of dangers which I can warn her about.