R J Hembree - Writers' Village University

40
I’m traveling to Kansas City tomorrow to see my old high school friend,
Susan. I haven’t seen her in ten years. I’ll stay at her downtown apartment.
We planned to hear a local blues band. I’m looking forward to Kansas City
barbeque and shopping. My jeans are beginning to feel tight on me, already,
so I guess I’ll shop for clothes.
--K
Dear M,
I convinced Dad to schedule the eye surgery two weeks from now. I’ll
stay on here until he has fully recovered. He is as stubborn and independent
as I am, so I imagine that he will do well.
I’m homesick for the desert, although I’ll hate to leave Dad. My Sedona
apartment is nice. The walls are a rich yellow taupe color and the appliances
in the kitchen are stainless steel, like what I tried to talk you into purchasing
for your kitchen when we lived together. The apartment is a nice combination
of rustic and modern, much like me, I guess.
Yesterday when I stopped in Dad’s law office, he was mad as hell. Said
a girl had just asked him to represent her. He referred her to Beau Desmond,
that young attorney who has bid to buy out Dad’s practice over the last year.
I know I’ve told you about Beau. Nice man. Dad said that the girl brought in
a child custody case where the father shirked his duties. He ranted and
raved about the declining morals in our society and the lack of responsibility
the youngsters seem to have. His face was so flushed that I asked him to sit
down and brought him some water. I’ve never seen him that upset about a
case before.
He asked about you and asked if you knew. I acted stupid, as if I didn’t
know what he was talking about.
“I’m talking about the baby and that you’re pregnant,” he said, and
pounded on the desk. “Does Michael know?”
I didn’t know he had figured it out. He said he heard me sick a few
mornings when I thought I was being quiet. It poured out of me all at once.
You were adamant about not having children and I had agreed. You had a
screwed up childhood and didn’t want to inflict yourself on a son or a
daughter. We got careless that one time. How you asked me to take care of
it. “Take care of it,” you said. As if it was a spider on the wall or a
troublesome mouse in the pantry. Before it happened, I didn’t think that I
wanted children, either. But I couldn’t do it. I just couldn’t do it, and that
was our undoing.