Page 17 - WTP Vol. VIII #4

passed along to Joanna, who writes poetry, mostly short lyrics, on the rare occasion.
Beryl nods, smiles, laughs. “Mr. Werth, would you like me to help you step down?”
“I can do it,” blurts Joanna. She reaches out to take her father’s hand, goaded by the dragon she imagines is perched on her shoulder, guarding her purview. But Beryl is already helping him down, and he is cooperating. “Thank you,” he says to Beryl, with a
lilt. He turns to Joanna, looking to the side again as
if someone else is there, then commands, “Tip her.” Joanna flushes from her neck upward.
“Mr. Werth, that isn’t necessary,” laughs Beryl ner- vously, which prompts Joanna’s father to remove his cap again and make a courtly gesture. Then he faces the parking lot behind them and begins to shuffle away from Joanna’s doorstep toward the headlights of an approaching car. Joanna lunges, grabs his hand in time, says thank you to Beryl, and slowly guides her father to her door. Along the way, he grips her hand hard, as if he were drowning and she is his last hope. Well, thinks Joanna, he is drowning and just
as true, she is whatever hope remains among her father’s shrinking prospects. The last hope of dinner, in any case, she thinks, which will have to be leftover Chinese food tonight.
In the entrance hall, Joanna can hear Lyra whistling for her. “Not now,” she says in a high-pitched voice. “Sorry, little bird.” Lyra is temporarily roosting
in the master bedroom until the new living room carpet odor fades. Birds are sensitive to chemicals as well as strangers. Joanna has taken all necessary precautions during her father’s visit, locking her bedroom door.
She removes her coat and tight shoes, then helps her father out of his winter jacket as gently as the brusque, angular maneuvers of his arms permit, hanging everything on her antique iron coat tree. “Thank you,” her father says with his genteel lilt. His cane, left behind in the morning’s fluster, is parked against the secretary in the hall. Joanna grabs it, places it in her father’s hand, and he pokes at the
rug before shambling toward the kitchen. In his rich tartans, he looks faded and diminished. Joanna takes a deep breath, glad to be back inside the sanctuary of her making. Even the faint carpet odor pleases her. She is home.
Joanna’s condo is modern and difficult to heat due to
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"She would like to drive him back in time to
the shoreline stretch where they had walked during a difficult summer in her past. From there, they could see the whole black sky and he would teach her to pick out the elusive patterns."
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