416
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ARTISAN
REVIEW
Now I leaned against the car.
"Don't worry," my father said forlornly, "I won't write anymore."
He touched my hand. I gripped his hand firmly. We both stared
at
each other in surprise. Margaret chewed her gum patiently.
"What grade would you give me, professor?"
"A. "
"Not B+."
"No."
"What about A- ?"
"A."
"Have I talent?"
"Oh, yes."
"This
time I have talent, right."
I nodded.
"You were warning me, you gotta do it again and again to be a
real
writer."
"I'm not sure what I - "
He interrupted impatiently, "You were complimenting me. Youjust
weren't handing me any prizes. You were taking me seriously. I appreci–
ate that."
"I overdid it."
"You're probably a great teacher."
"I used to be. Now, I'm not sure."
"No, you're a pro, I see that."
Father was restless. His suit remained firmly pressed. His gray eyes
were weary but clear. He didn't even try to smile.
"It's late. C'mon, honey, I have a power breakfast at eight."
"Let me walk you home. "
"No, don't be silly."
"Call a cab."
"It's only five blocks. Go home and teach philosophy," he ordered
good-naturedly.
Father almost reached out to me again, but decided against it.
Margaret walked slowly behind him. I followed them. Abruptly, my
fa–
ther stopped and permitted me to catch up.
"Here," he said peevishly, and, treating me as ifI were a panhandler,
offered instead of loose change, six folded pages; then, grabbing his wife
firmly, he waltzed home.
