Dad’s Martin Houses Go Back Up

Telling Dad

I did not call Kyle. I did not call the town. I did not call Darlene.

I drove to Dad’s house first, because I did not want him finding out from somebody at the feed store, and because I wanted to know what he wanted before I did anything at all.

He was at his kitchen table with his coffee and his notebook open. The scout had come in on the ninth of March this year. He had written it in his square lineman’s printing.

I sat down across from him and I told him straight. Down at sunup. All four. One roof cracked. Kyle.

He did not say anything for a long time. He turned his coffee cup in a slow circle on the oilcloth.

“Were there eggs?” he finally asked.

“No, Daddy. Just some green leaves in a few rooms.”

He nodded. “That’s something.”

“I can call the town,” I said. “Those poles have been there fifty years. They’ll tell him to leave them be.”

“No.”

“I can call Darlene, then.”

“No,” he said again, and he looked up at me. His eyes are the palest blue, and they get paler when he is set on something.

“Rosetta,” he said, “I have two daughters. Your mother and I raised you to stand by each other. I will not have my girls fighting over birds. Not at my age. Not at hers.”

“Daddy, he pulled them down. He didn’t even ask you.”

“I know what he did.” He closed the notebook. “I’m asking you not to make it a war. You can be mad. Lord knows I am. But don’t make Darlene choose between her husband and her daddy over a pole at the lake.”

I sat there with my mouth shut. That is the thing about Dad. He does not say much, and when he does say it, you cannot argue with it without feeling small.

“Then what do we do?” I said.

He stood up slowly, holding the edge of the table. He took his windbreaker off the hook by the back door.

“We go get them,” he said. “And we put them back up.”