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The server clears our plates and then sweeps the crumbs from the crisp linen tablecloth. My father dabs the corners of his mouth with the black napkin and then places it on his knee. Out of habit, I smooth my palms over the napkin lying across my lap.
My father called yesterday, informing me that he was going to be passing through town for a business meeting on his way to Los Angeles, and hoped that we might be able to get together for a late lunch. With his constant work schedule, time with him is so difficult to come by, but I do enjoy his company for the most part. So, I made arrangements with my professor to miss class in order to meet my father. Even though I will see him during winter break in about two weeks, I couldn’t pass up this opportunity for some one-on-one time.
This morning, knowing my father’s tastes for international fare, I emailed his secretary the address of a Scottish restaurant downtown for us to meet. He was late since his meeting ran over schedule, so our time together will be quicker than expected. Lunch is now coming to a close, and he will be leaving to board a plane shortly for the West Coast.
He signals for the server, and she arrives promptly. My father has a commanding air to his demeanor, and everyone respects it when in his presence. He’s been this way for as long as I can remember. Even my excessively assertive and opinionated mother respects his word. He has a balanced mix of authority, gentleness, and just enough charisma.
“A twelve-year-old scotch, please,” he tells the petite woman. Then, he asks me, “Would you like one, E?”
“No, thanks.” I smile kindly. “I’m scheduled to work tonight.”
“Of course.” He addresses the woman at his side, his blue eyes crinkling at the corners, “Just one for me, and you can bring the check with it.”
She nods and leaves the two of us alone in the sparse restaurant where the bussers are readying the tables for the evening service.
Shaking his head, he states, “I will never understand why you took a job with the school library system.”
“I thought a good work ethic was important to you?”
“It is,” he agrees, leaning over the table. “But I could have easily set you up with a local advertising firm. At least then, maybe you could have gotten some hands-on experience with the business.”
Frustrated by the constant fight on this topic, I blurt, “Who says I want to join the business?”
“E, I thought we discussed this already. The only reason I even supported your…desire to pursue art was because we agreed that it would be beneficial to the company. Art history is a good path because it could help with future research as well as it looks good on your transcripts when applying to grad school. Thankfully, this school is commendable enough that Ivy League won’t be out of the question.”
I peek out the window as pedestrians meander down the sidewalk under the late afternoon sun. In his charcoal-gray suit, the patriarch of my family sits a little taller in his seat and spreads his fingers along the linen-covered surface.
“I remember the conversation,” I answer quietly.
The server brings my father his drink along with the bill. He quickly slips his credit card into the billfold, and she scurries off to run it through the machine.
He takes a slow sip of his scotch and then rests it on the table, his fingers still wrapped around the fine crystal. “E, listen. You should have choices, but I still want what’s best for you and your future.”
“Working for the family business certainly doesn’t feel like a choice.”
His shoulders slump. “I know how much you love your art, and I think you have talent—a lot of it actually. I still have some of your work hanging on the walls in my office and not because you’re my daughter. It’s really good.”
I peer at him, hopeful.
“However,” he continues, “the life of an artist is no guarantee. I want to support your wishes, but I won’t back a decision that could leave you penniless and dependent for the rest of your life.”
“I don’t need much,” I argue.
“No doubt,” he scoffs, “thanks to the trust your grandparents set up for you. But a kid who lives off their family’s fortune for the rest of her existence is trouble in the making. Look at the Jacksons’ boys, living out west, spending money like it’s going out of style. No job. No prospects. No desire. They’re lazy and unmotivated—not to mention, their occasional run-ins with the law. I don’t want that for you. You’re better than that.”
“I would never end up like that,” I protest.
“No, you won’t,” he states firmly, “and I’ll make sure of it. I’m not taking your hobby—”
I judge him sternly, insulted by the termhobby.
“Your talent,” he substitutes, “away from you. I just want to make sure you have a future—one with purpose as well as independence.”
“I understand,” I resign.
My father continues to indulge his scotch as I patiently wait for our time to be up.
“How’s Barbara?” I inquire about my sister, changing the subject.
