Love Has The Best Intentions (14 page)

“What!” he bellowed, when one of my
classmates timidly inquired who he was supposed to be. “You kids
never heard of Alexander the Great?”

Thirty years later, I found myself doing deep
breathing exercises to stave off an anxiety attack as I turned my
car into Dad’s driveway. My sister, Ellen, had declined to
accompany me on the feeble grounds of keeping her two youngest
children from scratching their chicken pox.

Smelling faintly of pizza, although it was
barely 9:00 a.m., my father met me at the door and enveloped me in
the traditional bear hug which had so disastrously rearranged my
upswept hairdo the night of my senior prom.

“Glad you could come, Sweet Charlotte.”

In supplying the information for my birth
certificate, Dad had been struck by the way that combination of
names fell on the ear—like Diamond and Jim as he later explained to
my horrified mother. Instead of the innocuous Charlotte Ann, I am
lumbered with the title of a Bette Davis movie.

With his arm draped around my shoulders, he
steered me into the house. “Take a load off your legs, honey. I’ll
bring in the surprise.”

My brain feverishly interpreted his words.
The surprise at least was a solid object. I eliminated his having
taken up hang gliding, opened a Greek restaurant or entered a
lumberjack competition. Whatever it was, I wouldn’t be surprised.
Shocked out of my socks, perhaps ...

He bustled into the kitchen and the
subsequent rustling noises conjured up images of a mouse trapped in
a filing cabinet. My father was a retired carpenter, but insisted
on popping out of society’s confines of retirement with the
unexpectedness of a jack-in-the-box.

“Close your eyes!” Dad’s thinning hair had
surrendered to advancing years, but his vocal projection remained
undaunted.

I obeyed, thankful that long exposure had
proven my heart capable of withstanding shocks of up to 6.8 on the
Richter scale.

“Sweet Charlotte, meet Sugar.”

Sugar? Wasn’t that the name of the waitress
he’d brought over for Thanksgiving dinner last year, the one who
demonstrated her ability to chew gum and turkey at the same time?
No, he couldn’t have ...

My eyes snapped open and I recoiled, a
disoriented Alice watching her toes recede into the distance in
Wonderland. Patting the arm of my chair, I tried to reassure myself
that the chair hadn’t shrunk to doll house size beneath me.

I was nose to nose with the Tom Thumb of the
equine world. I blinked. Chestnut coat, four legs, ears, mane,
silky tail. A full grown horse that barely measured up to Dad’s
brass belt buckle.

My father chuckled. I think he has convinced
himself over the years that I assume these grotesque expressions of
disbelief solely for his amusement.

“Ain’t she a beaut? Her fancy name is Bambi’s
Sugar and Spice.”

I pointed a quivering finger. “Dad, that’s a
horse!”

“From the moment when as a mere babe in arms
you called your Uncle Frank “Uncle Fink”, I knew no one was ever
gonna pull the wool over your eyes, Sweet Charlotte.”

I forced a question through gritted teeth.
“Where did you get this animal?”

“You oughta get out of the house more, girl!
A miniature horse show was at the fairgrounds this weekend and
Sugar’s owner keeled over from a bad ticker. His daughter—reminded
me of you, dear—showed up and wanted to get rid of the ‘beast’
immediately.”

“A horse? In the house?”

“Now you sound like your mother, God rest her
blessed soul. This little gal lets me sleep late, brings in the
morning paper and, if she’ll pardon the pun, don’t nag. Can’t say
that ‘bout most women.”

Dad glanced around at the comfortably untidy
living room, the newspapers strewn across the sofa, pipe tobacco
spilled on the coffee table and the chess board set up for his
weekly match with Doc Sims. “’Tain’t noticed she’s disrupted my
housekeepin’ much.”

“Is she housetrained?”

“Back yard’s fenced in.” His eyes almost
disappeared into laugh crinkles.

“I suppose you cut a pet door in the
kitchen?”

Sarcasm bounced off Dad like pebbles flung
against a rhino’s hide. “She lifts the latch with her teeth and
lets herself out. Sugar loves to do tricks. Bow, Sugar.”

The thistledown delicate creature bobbed her
head.

“Tell Sweet Charlotte your age.”

The tapping of a hoof which appeared no
bigger than a pencil eraser next to Dad’s size fourteen work boots
informed me that his new housemate was two years old.

My fond parent nudged me. “Hold out your
hand.”

Dating from an unfortunate experience at
summer camp involving a mare with teeth the size of a bear trap, I
have conceded the right-of-way to horses. Now my own flesh and
blood expected me to offer my fingers within easy chomping
range.

Realizing Eric would laugh himself into an
aneurysm upon hearing that his wife had shown fear of this
miniscule beastie, (and believe me, Dad would tell him all the
details), I held out my hand and, through great effort, managed to
keep it from quivering.

“Shake, Sugar,” Dad commanded.

Sugar began a shimmying dance, wiggling her
hips and shoulders in time to inaudible music. This time my stunned
expression almost brought Dad to his knees in hysteria.

“It’s a joke, see, sweetie? You think she’s
gonna hold her hoof up like a dog does his paw, but instead Sugar
shakes her whole body. Isn’t it a hoot?”

“A hoot and a half,” I murmured in feeble
agreement.

He insisted on taking me on a tour of the
filly’s sleeping quarters. Mom would have given up the ghost years
earlier if she’d foreseen the conversion of her beloved sewing room
into a stall complete with a manger. Sugar followed Dad like his
shadow, her hooves clicking on the faded linoleum and ears pricked
forward within scratching distance of his gnarled fingers.

Once again, I was the Tin Man, condemned to
stand in the forest of confusion planted by my father, with my jaw
rusted open in perpetual surprise. Upon seeing that Mom’s Haviland
china soup tureen had been pressed into service as a water bowl, I
mumbled some excuse about a dentist appointment and fled.

As Eric brushed his teeth that evening, I
shouted my woes over the sound of running water.

He came out of the bathroom toweling his face
dry. “I don’t see the problem, Char. The horse is smaller than a
Great Dane. Be thankful he didn’t fill the backyard with sand and
raise ostriches.”

“A horse is snoring next to Mom’s sewing
machine and you’re making jokes?”

My understanding hubby slipped under the
blankets. “I don’t know why you’re so upset. I had the guts to
marry you, even after your father released a live ‘dove of peace’
during the ceremony. Remember how that bird made a direct hit on
the pastor’s shiny black hair?” He started to laugh.

Remember? My wedding album contained an
action shot of the incident, the last picture ever taken with that
particular lens. The photographer had chortled so hard that he’d
dropped his camera ...

After her introduction to Dad’s new live-in
companion, my sister reported that Sugar was adjusting nicely to
suburban life. “She’s adorable, Char. Just be thankful he didn’t
invite a sumo wrestler to share the house.”

“But a horse, Ellen? Why can’t we have a
normal parent—I’ve always wanted a father who checked his
investments in the Wall Street Journal each morning and spent his
afternoons on the golf course.”

“I grew up thinking other fathers were dull.
You can’t confine Dad inside the rigid lines of
respectability.”

“Respectability? I’ll settle for a little bit
less eccentricity ...”

My sister ignored my mutterings. “Dad’s built
a cart and gets his exercise giving the neighborhood children
rides. Pudgy little Beth Armstrong’s mother is thrilled—until Beth
loses ten pounds she’s been limited to only grooming Sugar, and
last night, Beth refused cherry pie at supper. She’s a motivated
little girl”

“Great. Beth Armstrong can’t eat and I can’t
sleep.”

Ellen chuckled. “To me, having Dad around is
like living on a fault line. You never know when the big quake is
going to hit ...

I soon discovered that I couldn’t show my
face in public, either. Dad, resplendent in baggy pants, a rubber
nose and grease paint, was a regular entertainer at a local
children’s hospital. By some bizarre slicing of red tape, he
managed to receive permission to make a joint appearance with
Sugar.

The duo’s picture appeared on the front page
of the Variety section of the Minneapolis Star Tribune Sunday
paper, with Sugar tapping out the days until his birthday for a
little boy with a big cast and equally huge eyes. The caption read,
“Putting Their Best Foot Forward to Make Others Laugh.”

I cringed, guiltily grateful that the grease
paint and rubber nose concealed Dad’s features. My beaming father
presented me with a framed copy of the photograph which I hung in
the dining room, a constant reminder of my wretchedness in wanting
to subdue his free spirit.

Of course, rain was bound to fall on this
happy parade. Somehow it always did—Dad had a knack of bringing the
thunder. The first shower came from Dad’s neighbor, Mrs. Johansen,
a sweet-faced widow in her late sixties. My private fantasy has
been to see her and my father rocking in synchronized rhythm on his
front porch—Mrs. Johnsen knitting while Dad held the yarn and extra
needles.

If Mrs. Johansen cherished any romantic
dreams, however, she pursued them on the level of a third grade boy
putting a frog in the desk of his beloved. When Dad hired a
Jamaican band to celebrate his birthday, Mrs. Johnsen called the
police and complained about the heathen orgy next door. She baked
Dad’s favorite meal, deep dish beef and onion pie, and left the pie
cooling on her window sill where the tempting aroma drifted into a
bachelor’s home and spoiled the taste of a solitary hamburger.

“She leaves the sweet pickles out, too,” Dad
grumbled. “I sneaked a piece once and told her the crows must have
done it. She yelled so loud she blistered the paint on my house.
That old battle-axe could sour cotton candy.”

My curiosity regarding her reaction to the
stable next door was answered by an early morning call from Dad.
His voice shook and for a moment I thought something had happened
to Ellen.

“Dad? What’s wrong? Please, tell me what’s
going on!”

Eric was on his way out the door, but paused
in response to my frantic arm motions. When at last I hung up and
cradled my head in my hands, my husband headed for the medicine
cabinet and the antacid tablets.

He swallowed two. “Give it to me straight,
Char. I can take it.”

“Mrs. Johansen complained to City Hall about
Sugar and Dad received notice that he must get rid of her within
thirty days. I promised him you’d look into it.”

My wonderful attorney husband cancelled two
appointments and spent the morning at City Hall looking for
loopholes before calling me with his findings. Black clouds of
gloom trailed my car like exhaust fumes as I drove to a nursing
home where Dad and Sugar were performing, wondering how I could
break the news.

Standing in back of an obstacle course of
wheelchairs and canes, I waved at Dad, who was sporting fire engine
red suspenders dating from his honeymoon, baggy pants and a
battered derby. Sugar, looking like she’d stepped down from a
kiddie carousel, stood at his side.

“This fantastic filly will now astound you
with her mathematical abilities. Do I have a volunteer?”

A man whose wrinkles indicated he could have
been a boyhood chum of Herbert Hoover raised a palsied hand.

“This young man wishes to have Sugar, the
Wonder Horse, guess his age,” Dad barked in his best W. C. Fields
tones. There was a faint chuckle here and there, a ripple moving
through those assembled like a breeze through reeds by the water’s
edge.

“Sugar, take a good look at this man.”

Sugar studied the man with an intelligent
gaze.

“Wonder Horse, count his age.”

Sugar blew through her nostrils in a snort of
obvious disbelief. Her little knees quivered, buckled and suddenly
she was lying on her back with four tiny hooves waving in the
air.

“Ah, yesss. The prospect of counting all
those years has caused the Wonder Horse to pass out.” Dad’s face
mirrored exaggerated disgust.

The ripple became a wave of mirth, frail
shoulders shaking, wrinkled hands held to mouths, white heads
bobbing.

The pat phrases I had been assembling in my
mind, “A horse isn’t a practical pet, is it?” and “You’ll have to
face facts,” crumbled along with my composure, and I hurried
outside to shed a few tears over the azalea bushes.

Dad and Sugar appeared half an hour later. “I
had to pry her out with a crow bar,” he apologized.

I gave him Eric’s findings and he stood
silent. Unable to bear the pain in his eyes, I looked at the little
mare who had dropped her head to snatch a mouthful of grass and
found myself sniffing.

Dad put his arm around me, and I drew comfort
from the strength of his bear hug. “’Tain’t fair,” he muttered,
kicking at a crack in the sidewalk. “She’s no bigger than Dick
Thompson’s Great Dane and don’t yap like Miz Percy’s poodle.”

“Eric says the city ordinances prohibit
livestock in a residential area. Horses, no matter how small, are
currently classified as livestock.”

Jealous, Sugar nuzzled Dad’s hand for
attention. He fingered a velvety ear. “There’s more than one way to
fatten a hog. I read in the paper last week that the mayor’s kids
have themselves a pet monkey.”

I hated to dash his hopes. “A monkey is
classified as an exotic animal—permitted if the owner obtains the
consent of his neighbors and the City Council. But Sugar is a
horse—not a zebra.”