“It’s not about being normal. It’s about being a guppy, or being a shark. You’re either one, or the other. We’re not abnormal, we’re above normal. Better than normal. Normal people are fucking loser idiots that go through life just waiting to die. Me? I made something of my life, and continue to do so in order for you to have a life. I expect you to make something of your life, too. And being ‘Johnny Marino’s daughter’ is a good thing. People will respect you. They will fear you. Your name rings out.”
“But I don’t want people to respect me because they fear me,” I say. “I am not going to be involved in your business.”
“That’s fine. It’s not a line of work for women, anyway.”
I roll my eyes. “What a modern attitude, Dad.”
“You’ll understand when you’re older, Deidre. Where the hell is Frank? Frank!”
He appears in the doorway again. He’s got a wrapped gift under his arm. He hands it to me, and I take it, unwrap it.
It’s a book titled Elizabeth McCollum: An Autobiography.
Frank shuffles his feet nervously. “You said you wanted to be a teacher, right? Work with children?”
I look up at him. “Yeah,” I say. “You remembered?”
“Oh, sure,” he says. “I don’t know nothing about teaching, but I read in the paper that this woman’s book here was a New York Times bestseller. She taught in schools all over the country, working with all kinds of kids. Rich kids, poor kids, immigrant kids, disabled kids. She helped developed programs and stuff. You know, plans for kids with special needs. I don’t mean, like, retarded kids.”
“Frank,” I say, cutting him off softly. “You shouldn’t say ‘retarded’ like that.”
“You know what I mean,” he says hastily. “Anyway, you know, kids who need special cur…” He trails off, unable to find the word.
“Curriculums!” Dad barks. “Jesus fucking Christ!”
“Sorry, boss.” Frank returns his eyes to me. “Curriculums and stuff. Anyway, I thought you’d like it.”
I smile at Frank. “It’s nice, I’ll definitely read it. Thank you for remembering, Frank.”
“Oh, it’s nothing ho—” He was about to say ‘honey’, but cut himself off.
“It’s a good gift, Frank,” Dad says. “Very thoughtful, very nice. Thank you from me, too. From the bottom of my heart.” He touches his chest.
Frank bows his head slightly.
Dad continues: “Though you know with teenagers, they change their minds all the time about what they want to do.”
“I won’t,” I say. “I want to work with children. I want to be a teacher.”
“Oh, yeah?” Dad asks. “You sure about that?”
“Pretty sure.”
Dad puts down his fork. “Why a teacher?”
“It’s such a big responsibility,” I say. “You help to shape the lives of people. I want to do good.”
He scoffs. “Do good! When you grow up, you’re going to be in for a shock. Nobody does good. Everybody just looks out for themselves.”
“You’re wrong, Dad,” I tell him. “There are good people in this world. People who care about others.”
“Like who?”
“Social workers,” I say. I think of Duncan, growing up an orphan, being raised by social workers in a group home.
“Social workers?” Dad asks, making a sneering face. “What do they get paid?”
“It’s not about the money.”
“Everything is about the money,” he says. “I really wish you’d learn that lesson. Maybe you want to get philosophical and all that bullshit, but I’m telling you, it’s the money that makes everything keep going around nicely. It’s society’s lubricant.”
“You’re so negative.”
“The word you’re looking for is cynical, Deidre, and yes, I am. It’s how I got to where I am now.”
“Well, anyway, I want to teach kids.”
“You won’t once you have to deal with them. Nightmares, all of them. You were a handful when you were a child. God, you wouldn’t ever stop crying. Drove me crazy.”
I look between him and Frank. Frank’s wearing a distant smile, like he’s slipping back into a happy memory. Dad is just scowling. One guess as to who spent the most time raising me.
We sit in silence for a while, and then Dad forces on a great big smile. “Here you go, honey,” he says. He slips an envelope over the table. I open it and find two airplane tickets inside.
“What’s this?”