Elanor ran her hand over the smooth hardwood of the desk. The light from the window puddled on the surface, revealing patterns wrought by years of tree growth. Whorls, strippling, dark stains where the varnish had seeped through. Then she bent over and pressed her lips to the desk. Kissed it.  Felt a bit foolish doing it too.

For a minute she couldn't breathe. She braced her hands on the the desk and her palms left twins of themselves when she wiped them on her jeans. She stuffed them in her pockets, her fingers running over her keys.  

To avoid beginning, which was something she was good at, she took a good long look around the room. Looming up behind her like attacking armies were the stacks of research books he kept long after the information in them ceased to be relevant.  To the right lay the records and CDS he kept in the shelves across with the non-information books. The good books, the ones he let her sneak into her room.

By the window was the big couch. The one he napped in, stretched out with his huge feet dangling over the arms, usually with one shoe hanging off. His short hair tousled and normally with an afghan half draped across his lap.

She stifled a laugh. Everything neatly arranged and smelling like lemon polish. God. Even the damn desk with the three drawers on each side and the big drawer in the middle. The one he always kept locked. The one Christine had tried to break into when they were like, eleven.

On the desk was his old calender, the leather blue book he kept addresses in and the beer mug full of pencils and pens. The last few dates were still written in his large looping hand: Birthday Christine, Send letters to Mayfair Group. All of the dates at least two years behind.

Avoiding beginning was something she was really good at. Till her sister nagged and nagged, called her up to threaten her with a visit if she didn't do it. "You have the house, you do it."

Christine's voice had something else in it that sounded suspiciously like, "Because I can't."

Elanor stuffed her hands in her pocket again and scowled at the desk. It was just a damn desk. Why so hard?

Possibly because her mother had never gotten around to it--and it was a mom's job, to clear out dad's stuff.

Sighing, she withdrew the keyring from her pocket. Not so many keys: house, car, backdoor, file cabinets and The Desk. Elanor slid the key into the middle drawer then stopped and stared at it like it would turn itself.

Fine. The key slid home and the lock clicked open. She grabbed the metal handle and gave a tug. Elanor didn't know what to expect. What had been so important that he kept it locked and refused to let either of them see it?

Postcards and letters, held together (rather functionally, it was just like him) with thick rubber bands. She noticed her mother's handwriting. She smiled despite herself. Of course they would have love letters. It was like the law.

Beneath the letters was a small box of chocolates--or a box that had contained chocolates, but had been commandeered for something else. The rich dark smell lingered. Inside were hair ties, scrunchies, barretts and little girl earrings and two small dolls, a pair of tiny ballet slippers and a taekwondo belt.

"Oh dad," Elanor laughed. "You are a weirdo." The drawer held two old photographs--her father and mother on vacation in Prague--God she had never imagined them this young. Her mother wore shoulder pads! Her father had suspenders on and was smoking a cigarette. A photograph of Christine with her hair in ribbons, her hands on her lap looking like an angel and of herself, screaming at someone off camera.

Yeah, that was the basic difference between them. Her dad understood that better than anyone. Anyone.

Beneath the boxes, she found the Valentine. She remembered this one particularly well. How old had she been? Eight? Nine? Oh God, that long ago? She couldn't remember.

She drew it out where it sat on top of all the other Valentine cards she and her sister had given their father. It had been cut out of red felt paper and the words I love You Forever were printed, in a child's careful hand.

Elanor held the Valentine up and her smile slowly vanished.

She had been standing on a chair in the kitchen and her mother had cut out the heart for her. The air smelled like buttercream and cinnamon. Chrissi Hynde on the radio. Christine had chosen the floor and was sprawled on the cool tile, busy coloring in her Valentine. Christine's came out sweet and pink and perfect, kind of like her. Elanor had managed to spill the glue all over the kitchen counter.

Kind of like her.

Coming into this room to give to him where he sat behind the desk, where he peered at it at and them from behind his wire-rims to say, "Thank you, my girls."

Always my girls.

"Oh Papa." She said and sat heavily, the Valentine still in hand. She could see the streaks were the glue had dried clear. "Oh Papa." She said.

Same kitchen, different day. This time she was tall enough to sit in the chair, not stand on it. No radio on. Her mother and her sister and her holding hands. And later, it was just Christine and her.

"Oh Papa." Elanor said, starting to cry. She was always good at avoiding beginnings. Because sometimes when you started, you couldn't stop.



End
February 2008