Page 99 of Courage, Dear Heart

“Leonora? She got that Sicilian blood in her. She’ll live to be a hundred and fifty out of spite.”

I laugh. She’s not wrong. Anyone looking at Leonora would see a white-haired little lady, barely five feet tall. But she didn’t get to be the matriarch of her family by being soft.

The TV sounds no longer play in the background. I standup and open the door. Jamie is coming toward us. “Hi there. Is your show over? Ready to go home now?”

Jamie nods.

“All right then. Let’s pack your things and clean up the mess.”

I know the conversation is not over, but we’ll need to finish it another time. I don’t want Jamie overhearing us and worrying about losing the only home he’s ever known. We clean up his toys together while Sheila folds his pajamas and yesterday’s clothes into his backpack.

I look around the room for any runaway Lego pieces. “Okay, I think we got everything.”

She gives the backpack to Jamie. “Don’t worry, if there are any Lego pieces left behind, I’m sure I’ll step on them. Can’t miss a Lego piece when you step on them. I’ll put it on the side and give it to you next time I see you.”

He giggles. The sound is low and raspy, more of a gurgle than a giggle, but it’s there.

My heart leaps, and God bless Sheila, she just goes with it. “Oh, you think that’s funny, huh? Me hopping around holding my foot in pain?” And then she does exactly that. Hops on one foot while holding the other and fake crying.

This time the giggles are more laughter than grunts.

FIFTY-FIVE

Elliott

At first,I thought of breaking into my own office in the middle of the night. But I changed my mind. It would look very suspicious if I got caught walking into the building at two in the morning. It makes much more sense to stay, and if anybody catches me at work after hours, I can always say that I was working late or I fell asleep at my desk. So here I am playing spy games and trying to dig up what I can on my father and his cohorts.

I kept my office door closed, and the lights dimmed. Stayed behind as everyone left. And by the time the janitorial crew came by at 9:00 p.m. to clean the offices, I had myself set up with multiple folders on my desk, a few coffee mugs, and made myself look busy. They came and went and didn’t pay attention to me. I wait another hour to make sure no one else is coming in. And now is action time.

The space is dead-silent. And dark, with the exception of a few dimmed lights here and there. But that’s okay. I grew up running around these halls andgetting yelled at for it. And spent many years as my father’s errand boy in my teens and early twenties until I graduated from law school. He made me work in the office doing paralegal work, typing up his handwritten notes, and I’ve lost count of how many times he’s had me fixing something on his computer because he doesn’t trust those IT guys as he likes to say. Well, Dad, this is coming back to bite you in the ass.

I put on disposable gloves before I enter his personal office, the biggest one in the building, and smile. It’s time to work. I know my father and his habits. He doesn’t like changes. Hates it is more likely. Everything always needs to be exactly right to his specifications. And while I haven’t done his grunt work in years, I bet it’s still the same. Like where he likes to keep his private notebooks and even his computer password. He threatened to fire the network admin more than once if he was forced to change his password like everyone else. Jonathan Foster always thought of himself above everyone else. He believes no one will dare cross him and that includes internet threats.

I turn on the red flashlight I bought specifically for this. Check for his notebooks first. He’s old-fashioned and likes to keep them at hand. Easy to slip into his pocket if he needs them. I open the bottom drawer on his desk and smile when I see a package of new legal notepads. Some things never change. My father is one of those things. For someone else, that would look like it’s all he had in the drawer. An unused pack of legal notepads, still in their original wrapper. But I know better. I remove the pack and drop it to the floor. Then press two fingers into a corner and the opposite corner lifts. Dear old Dad does the same thing at home. Something Idiscovered when I was nine or ten years old. The memory is still vivid.

I asked my mother for one of Dad’s yellow notepads for school. She was busy with something and told me to go into his home office and grab one.Make sure it’s a new one and has nothing written on it.I looked around his office with fascination. None of us kids were allowed inside it. And the only times I saw my mother enter the space were to bring food, retrieve dirty dishes and glasses, and the once a week dusting and vacuuming.

Everything about that day is imprinted on my mind.

I turned the doorknob and pushed the door open. Stood at the threshold, taking everything in. Two large windows bathed the room in light. A dark mahogany bookshelf lined the wall behind his desk. On it, dozens of leather-bound books. The huge desk took center stage in the middle of the room. Two leather chairs with high backs in front of it. A large computer monitor was on top of the desk. A pile of folders perfectly flushed with the corner and edge of the wooden top. A notepad with a pen on top. My bare feet took me in, the smooth hardwood floors giving way to the softness of an area rug. I looked at the notepad on top of the desk. It had writing on it. I couldn’t take that one. I circled the office, looking for what I needed and when I didn’t find it, I risked opening a drawer. There were three of them flanking the right side of his desk. The first drawer held folders. I closed it and tried the middle one. Opened it with trembling fingers. This one had sticky notes, pencils, and pens. All perfectly lined. I closed it and tried the last drawer. And smiled. There it was. A brand-new pack of yellow notepads. Still in the plastic wrap. I was terrified of messing something up and tried to rip the plastic with the pads still in the drawer. The plastic was harder than Ianticipated. I pushed and pulled harder. The bottom of the drawer tilted. I froze. Terrified I had broken it. I removed the notepads and put them on the floor and tried to fix the loose bottom. And that’s when I noticed it was a false bottom. And under it there were four small, black leather books. My curiosity got the best of me. And I opened one. It had a list of dates and names with other numbers and dollar signs. I didn’t understand what I saw, but I knew if my father had gone through the trouble to hide them, he’d be furious if he knew I saw them. I quickly put everything back the way I found it. Set the wooden plank back into the drawer. Managed to rip open the wrap and take the notepad I needed. Put the rest back in the drawer and closed it. Everything was perfect.

Or so I thought.

I was walking out of the room, holding the notepad to my chest and about to call to my mother to let her know I found one when my father appeared at the open door.

His face was a mask of fury. “What are you doing in my office?”

I froze. Stammered. “I-I—” No words would come out. I showed him the notepad, hoping he’d understand. He didn’t.

He slapped me on the face so hard, I fell backward and would have hit the floor if the chair behind me hadn’t broken my fall. My face burned with pain and humiliation. Tears rushed and spilled over.

“I told you to never, ever enter my office.” His voice was louder than I’d ever heard it before.

The sound of footsteps followed. Mom came into view. She took one look at me, my back against the chair, notepad held to my chest like a shield, tears streaming down my red face. She pushed my father aside. “Did you hit him?”

She kneeled before me and pulled me into her arms. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” She picked me up like I weighed nothing and brought me to the kitchen. Wrapped an icepack in paper towels and told me to press it to my face. She walked me to my room. “Stay here, okay. I’ll be back soon.”

I didn’t see what happened after, but I heard their screams. My mother telling my father that she had sent me into the office, and he had no right to hit her child. Him yelling back that she should know better than to send me there and he would hit his son anytime he damn well pleased. They screamed for what seemed like hours, but I knew had to be only minutes because the slap still stung on my face. Took the rest of the day for the redness and the print of his hand to disappear. My mother didn’t talk to him or cook for him or did anything for him for weeks. Eventually, things went back to normal.

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