Reaching Out/Reaching In
Am not a “reaching out” sort character but, in this case, an exception seemed to be order…
You don’t know me…not yet. But, I know you.
How?
I’ve been around the block before. So have you.
When?
Many times. It’s not important when.
I don’t remember.
In your present state, you wouldn’t. In my present state, I do. In a few months, however, I won’t remember either.
Tell me something you do remember.
Well, let me see. Oh yeah, I remember the Ryan family, relatives on your mother’s side…they had a painting of Mata Hari hanging on their wall. Is it still in the family?
Not my family.
Such a pity. When your mother’s gone, you’ll be the only one left who still relishes memories of that colorful Ryan clan. What a cast of characters!
I’ve been writing a long piece about them for a couple of years. Probably won’t put it up publically but, I’ll save it for you.
Lovely.
When I asked you to tell me something, I meant something about you…not some damn painting.
That damn painting is about me.
Huh? Wait a minute. You mean you were Mata Hari?
Yes.
The Dutch dancer who was shot for being a German spy during World War One?
Shot, yes. German spy, no. I was, in fact, a spy for the French. The German spy stuff was trumped up by a jealous lover. Utter nonsense! Check it out for yourself.
OK, I will. So, what do you know about me?
I know you are a good man with some bad flaws. I will resemble you, to some extent, in both regards. However, if you don’t mind, I’d much rather be like mommy.
Don’t mind, at all, you little shit. Much better that you be like mommy. I wish I was more like her.
You were on the inside for more than 10 months. I’d like to stay in here for 10 years.
Yeah, well, do that and you’ll kill mommy on the way out. My guess is that the terms of your current residency will expire on the 1st of April.
Good guess. I have every intention of living up to my billing as an April Fool’s Day baby.
You can predict the future?
Only up to the day of my birth. What…you were thinking of taking me to the horse races?
That was one thought.
Asshole!
Asshole, uh?
Little shit, uh?
Oh yeah, you and I are gonna get along just fine.
Well, you could end it now.
Not my style, kid. Not mommy’s either.
It happened to me once.
You remember?
In here, yes. Not a pleasant experience.
I’m sorry.
Just don’t understand that. Women’s bodies are designed to have children. They’re meant to be nurturing and protective…to be mothers, for christsake! From what I’ve come to understand about modern Western women, one of the things they hold so dear is the legal right to kill their unborn children. Thank god, this time around, I know my mommy won’t do that.
You behave yourself and daddy won’t kill you after you’re born.
Hah! That’s one of the things I like about you…your sense of humor. I want so much to make you laugh…just like you wanted to make your father laugh.
I’m sure you will. Mostly, however, I want you to be a happy and kind human being.
You’re kind but, you’re not happy. Mommy is both.
Yes, yes she is. So, be like her. Some people are simply not meant to be happy.
Work on your temper, daddy. It’s the Irish in you.
And the...
Yes, I know. We were lucky.
You sure?
Absolutely…trust me.
When your mother and I decided to try for a child I went to have my sperm checked. Wasn’t sure there was any life left in it. Nurse handed me a plastic cup for a sample and pointed to the toilet. She was a very pretty nurse so; I suggested she give me a hand. No dice. Fortunately, there was a liquid soap dispenser in the toilet. After an inordinate amount of time of lurid imaginings, I managed to dispense a meager spray of jaundiced colored sperm into the cup. The nurse took it and told me to wait. Twenty minutes later she returned and said, “You’re good to go”. So I went, not thinking very positive, and yet here you are. Hope you don’t look anything like the sample.
I don’t. Got blue eyes and white skin. The eyes will turn brown soon…like mommy’s. The skin will always be white…like yours.
Had a hunch you’d be a boy.
Disappointed?
Not at all. In fact, I’m happy you’re a girl. Not sure, given my age, that I could be a good father to a boy. Just too old to be playing sports with a young boy and, mostly, not having the temperament to deal with a boy who might have the defiant and mischievous temperament that I had as a young boy.
Which is why you were sent away from home at 14 to a Jesuit boarding school, right?
Right.
Please don’t send me away at that age. Trust me, I’ll leave soon enough when I’m ready…OK?
OK, kid. What else?
Just love me. That’s all I want from you and mommy…love and laughter.
You’ll have it.
And, I know you’re old…well, older than most daddies but, please, stay with me…stay young.
Your mommy is 35 years younger than me and you’ll be 64 years younger…that should help.
Thank you, daddy.
Thank you, sweetheart.
