Lulu’s Laughter
(Daddy's Little Girls – Book 1)
by
Rebecca Milton
***
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Copyright © 2014 - Rebecca Milton. All rights reserved.
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Lulu’s Laughter
In my senior year of high school, things were very weird.
My father had decided that he wanted to raise llamas.
We lived in a two bedroom, sixth-floor apartment.
No one dated me in high school.
“What about a pocket-sized popcorn popper that holds up to ten kernels?” he said to me over the phone, one week after I had left for college.
“Why?” which was my standard answer.
“What if you’re out, you have a cup of coffee, but you don’t really want a muffin or a piece of morning cake, you know, crumb cake, coffee cake, that kind of thing. What you really want is something salty. But not a lot of something salty. Just a little of something salty. Who’s going to sell you one chip? So, with your pocket sized personal popcorn popper you can pop the kernels of corn and, blammo, your craving for coffee and salty is satisfied.”
I tried to explain to him that basically no one in the world has a craving for coffee and salty, that you’d need a power source for the popper, that you’d have to carry around popcorn kernels and, for the popcorn to be salty you’d have to have salt to apply to the popcorn. All of this making the pocket popcorn popper very impractical.
“But, you keep trying Daddy,” I said, “I love you.”
“Good points, Lulu,” he said, “all good points.” He called me Lulu. My name, the one that he and my mother had given me was actually Andrea, but, for some reason, after mom passed away, he started calling me Lulu. “I love you too.”
My father actually was a genius. He had worked for the government as a scientist and had done some great work. Ninety-nine percent of it was top secret so, I never knew what it was, but we always had money and lived in a lovely, large house. When mom was alive.
After she had passed, he couldn’t live in that many rooms with all the things that reminded him of her so we moved into the city. He still consulted for the government now and then but mostly, he just invented things. Which, usually, consisted of thinking about something that he thought was wonderful and then, running it by me.
“Do dogs like pizza,” he asked over the phone as I was rushing to a class in my sophomore year, “I cannot recall.” This was typical of the phone calls I had gotten through freshman year and would continue to receive right up to the day I walked across the stage and got my diploma. I do not exaggerate. He called me from his seat to ask me if I thought the mortarboard I was wearing would be more practical if it had solar power and a hot plate.
“I don’t think dogs like pizza, Daddy,” I told him. There was silence.
“Probably right,” he said, “you’re probably right, Lulu.”
Now, I love my father. I was not ashamed of him. I did not find him irritating or frustrating. He was quirky and curious and funny. He was a genius.
“In the right light,” my mother would say, “sure, he’s a genius... In the right light.” He loved that and would laugh. She loved him and loved to make him laugh. When she died, he stopped laughing. For two full years.
When my mother finally passed, drifting from the earth like a browned, crisp leaf from its autumn branch, I was relieved. She had been sick for so long and she was in desperate pain. I knew it was better, I knew she had suffered and I was relieved. Somewhere, deep in my father’s heart, I knew he was relieved as well. But, covering all that profound relief was a mound of sadness that he could not dig away alone. For two years, I helped him dig. While other girls were going to the mall, going on dates, being felt up in the back seat of cars, I was helping my father dig his heart out and find his relief.
We would go for walks and he would tell me stories of how they met, dates they had. At first he could only talk for a few minutes then, his eyes would get a faraway look and his hand would reach out, grasp the air. I came to realize he was reaching for her. One day, I slipped my hand into his grasping hand and he looked down at me, as if he was seeing me for the first time.
“Thank you,” he said to me and we walked hand in hand the rest of the day. That night, watching TV, a comedian on David Letterman was doing a routine and my father said, “that’s funny.” He didn’t laugh, he didn’t smile, he just identified it as funny. At that moment, I heard the shovel hit the dirt and I knew we were starting to clear some of the mound away.
It took a year to get the mound down to a manageable level. I knew we were making progress when he said let’s go out for Chinese food. A favorite of ours and, the first date dinner that he had shared with my mother. We ate Chinese food and went to the movies again. I could see him lifting slightly, growing a little brighter as these days moved by.
In the meantime, other girls my age were going on dates, making out in the back of movie theaters, going to dances, having sex... Having sex. They were having sex.
***
I became really good at chess, the box step, science and I learned to cook just like my mother. She was an incredible cook.
One day, about seven months after she had gone and we had moved into the apartment, my father came into my room and sat down on the bed. He said nothing. I had learned to wait for him to speak in these moments. If I asked too many questions or spoke too soon, he would retreat like a deer and I would never know what he wanted. So, I waited, working on my school work. Finally, after a very long pause, he spoke.
“I think your mother would like you to have this,” he said to me extending a box the size of a shoe box made of wood, “no, actually, I know she would like you to have this.” I took it, set it on my lap and opened it. It was filled with eight-by-ten index cards. On each card, in my mother's neat hand, was
written a recipe. All the foods I had eaten as a little kid and into my adolescent life, made by my mother’s loving hands, were explained in this box.
“Someday, when you get married, you’ll want to cook your husband a nice dinner now and then. I’m not saying that you’re going to be just a housewife, I know you gals can do more than that these days, but I’m saying, someday... So... There.” That was the first time my father ever mentioned anything about somedays or me being married.
“You think I’ll get married someday?” I asked.
“Of course, Lulu, why wouldn’t you get married?”
“I don’t know,” I told him, “maybe because I haven’t ever even been on a date.” He nodded. There was a sadness, a helplessness in his eyes that crushed me. “But, you know, I’m really too busy to go on dates and I have much more fun with you.” He smiled. But he knew. He was, after all, a genius and that night, he was sitting in the exact right light.
***
So the days passed. I went to school, I came home. On weekends, we went to movies or walked the city streets. We played games, watched TV and I cooked. I cooked one of the recipes in the box every other night. All the while other girls my age were having terrible breakups, being cheated on, forgiving, not forgiving, finding another... Having sex.
I had applied to colleges with no concerns about not getting in. My grades were extremely good, I had aced the SAT’s and I knew I could get into any college I wanted. What I didn’t know was how to tell my father I was going to be leaving. He was better, much, much better. He didn’t weep when I made stuffed shells just like mom made anymore. We ate Chinese food, quite a bit of it, at first.
“Why did we stop having this,” he said while we were eating at Peking Palace, the third night in a row. “I love Chinese food.” He was so happy. I blamed myself, saying that I had gone through a phase where I just couldn’t eat it, all the MSG or something. That night, after I had finished my homework I went downstairs to say good night to him. He was reading, peaceful, looking very much like his old self. I kissed his head, told him good night. He didn’t look up from his book, just muttered good night. Like his old self. I was almost out of the room when he stopped me.
“Lulu,” he said, “ my first date with your mother was for Chinese. She loved it, I loved it. We stopped eating it for a while because... Well, I’ll just say, I hope you never feel your heart break when you look at an egg roll. I love you taking care of me, but I won’t allow you to take the blame.” He put his glasses back on and returned to his book.
***
I was accepted into every college I applied to, but I didn’t know how to tell my father. I had set up a post office box to receive mail from colleges so he wouldn’t know. It was dishonest, but I was afraid of shoveling all that mound back on top of his heart. I would find a way.
Walking home from the post office box one Saturday morning, I passed a rack of hats on the street outside a hat store. All kinds of hats and there, tucked in among the slacker wool caps and the English riding caps was a pale blue bowler hat. It caught my eye immediately and I pulled it off the rack. It made me smile. I bought it, the clerk asking me if I was sure I wanted it.
“We’ve had that hat for over seven years,” he said, “we kept it around kind of like a mascot. We’d get a cat, but the lady who owns this place is allergic so, we have this hat.” I assured him I wanted it, had him box it up and I took it home. That night, I made another one of mom’s recipes and placed the box on the table in front of my father’s chair. He came home, commented that something smelled good, sat down and looked at the box.
“What is this?” he asked.
“A present, I saw it and thought you should have it.” He took the wrapping paper off the box and folded it neatly. He took the lid off the box and looked inside. He stared at it for some time, not saying a word. Finally, he reached in and gingerly removed the hat, examining it like it was an exotic animal. He never said a word, never looked at me, just the hat.
After some long moments of examining, he stood and walked to the wall mirror in the next room. He stood before it for some time and then, with a hushed reverence, he placed the hat on his head. I stood, looking out the doorway of the kitchen, watching him the entire time. He looked in the mirror and... he laughed. It was a laugh of utter joy. I realized at that moment, how long it had been since I heard him laugh. He laughed for a long, long time.
Then, he looked at himself in the mirror from every angle. He posed and danced but, most importantly, he laughed. I went back into the kitchen, stood in the corner and I cried. I feared a strange emotional thunderstorm would happen when my tears met his laughter. However, my tears were joy. I served dinner, we ate, laughed and he wore the hat.
The mound was cleared away and he was starting to heal. I told him about college and he was overjoyed. He started coming up with new ideas for inventions, like the raising of yaks and joy had returned to our lives. All was well. Except that, at this time, other girls my age were getting ready for prom and going to parties, meeting the loves of their lives, drinking in bars with fake ID’s and... having sex.
***
I went to college, my father drove me and helped me get settled. All the time wearing the blue bowler, which he now called his laughing hat. I was so happy for him and proud to have him help me get settled. My new roommate immediately decided I was a freak because of my dad, but it didn’t matter. I was happy to have him back.
My first year was fine. I loved my classes, studied hard, spent all my time in the library. My grades were good and I was gaining respect from my professors. I even started working on my first book. Trouble is, the other girls my age we going to parties, joining sororities, staying out late and... having sex. This included my roommate who taught me the age old signal of a tie on the door knob meant she was having sex and that I shouldn't disturb her.
By the middle of the year, I was sure she had bought stock in a haberdashery. The time that I stayed away from our room I used to call my dad, listen to his ideas and hear his laughter. So, the trade-off seemed fair to me.
***
In my third year of college, I moved into a studio apartment on my own off campus. My father insisted. He said he had the money and he wanted me to have the privacy I needed to write. I think when I had been home over thanksgiving break, after a little too much wine, I had complained about my fornicating roommates. I think I had complained about them quite a bit. He was worried it was getting to me. I denied it, but he insisted.
But the truth is, it was getting to me. I was writing for the school paper, I was tutoring a freshman in writing, I was writing my first book, I was gaining a name and respect as a writer, it was wonderful. But, the other girls my age were going to football games and pep rallies, introducing their boyfriends to their parents, partying and... having sex.
If the tie rack—once my doorknob—was any indication, they were having more sex than they were having food, water or air. I didn’t care, really, I just didn’t like the constant reminder and, I was getting tired of sleeping in the library. My neck was starting to remain at a ninety-degree angle.
So, I moved into the studio which I loved, in a big old building which I also loved, about a ten minute walk from campus. My father, laughing hat on his head, helped supervise the movers and got me settled into my new place. He had brought boxes of dishes and such. We shopped for some furniture and other things I needed.
We laughed a lot and he commented several times that my mother would have been proud. There was no sorrow or remorse in his voice, just pride. Across the hall from me, in what I assumed was a larger apartment, were four boys. I had seen two of them while I was moving in, they made jokes about my father’s hat. He misunderstood their laughing and joined in.
“I know,” he said, “it makes me laugh too. I call it my laughing hat. My daughter gave it to me.” He then he introduced me to them. They said hello, snickered and disappeared into their apartment. “Now they seem like good kids,” my fa
ther said, “ maybe you should make an effort to get to know them.” I assured him I would and promptly resolved to never speak to them.
***
I met the third roomie one night when I came home to find him and a woman leaning on my door making out. His hands were under her sweater and her hand was in his pants. I saw them as I came around the corner and froze. I didn’t know what to do. I could have gone away, come back later but, I seriously had to pee. I approached, stood about a foot away and cleared my throat. No response. I stepped closer and repeated my throat clear. Still nothing. After the third time, he spoke to me.
“Do you need a lozenge or something,” he said, “because I can’t really help you right now.”
“Um...” I said, not really sure how to deal with this situation, “I... just want to go into my apartment. I need to pee.”
“Then go,” he said and returned to her face. She never engaged me. I stood my ground.
“I would like to go, but you’re impeding my progress,” I said as politely as possible. He removed his mouth from her again.
“I’m doing what?” he said. I was at a breaking point, emotionally and bladder-wise.
“You’re feeling this woman up against my door!” I shouted. And she snapped out of her orgasmic revery. “Would you mind taking that somewhere else?” He looked at me then looked at the door. He seemed confused until he looked over his shoulder at the door across the hall. He then laughed like some kind of idiot seal.
“Dude,” he said to me, “totally my mistake, wrong door. That's why my key didn’t work. We could have been doing this inside.” He laughed, she snapped her gum. She was chewing gum? They headed across the hall.
“We good?” he asked and I assured him we were. “Cool,” he said then held his hand up over his head, “high five, girl.”
I hesitated and then, I gave him a high five. The door opened and they went inside. A second later, the door opened and a tie was looped around the door knob. I went into my little place, used the bathroom, put the kettle on for tea. I sat with tea, writing, feeling comfortable, grown up, responsible and productive. Sadly, across the hall, a girl my age was having sex. I was slipping into a bit of despair when my father called.