The Assistant (A Romance) Ch. 02

I don’t answer.

“Whose little girl are you?” he persists.

I sigh and mumble, “I’m Daddy’s little girl.”

“HA HA HA!! YES YOU ARE!! You’reDaddy’s little girl. HA HA HA!!”

“Are you drunk?”

“No, I’m not drunk,” he says indignantly. “Why would you think such a thing?”

My father is an alcoholic. He never admits that he’s drunk, even with a bottle of whiskey in his hand. I’ve tried to get him to stop, but he’s in a hopeless state of denial. “There’s nothing wrong with recreational drinking,” he would say.

My father is well educated and well mannered. He studied architecture at Columbus University and worked as an intern at a firm in London for a year. He is fluent in English, Spanish, Italian and Portuguese and speaks a little French as well. He was—and still is—a very creative man when it comes to building houses and monumental buildings. He can build the most beautiful and most luxurious house in a matter of weeks. (Yes, I said weeks.) He is also an incredible mathematician. But he was not interested in becoming an architect. Once his internship in London ended, he started going to wild parties in which he always got plastered. He lost a promising career and settled for a job as a handyman at an apartment building in the Bronx. It saddens me to know that he threw away a career, a marriage, and basically his life in favor of the bottle. I’m sure he’s aware of the mistakes he’d made, and I’m sure that he’s especially sorry that, despite his misguided efforts, he was not able to win my mother back. I feel sorry for him.

“How’s it going at work?” he asks.

“Fine.”

He pauses. “Good. Very good,” he slurs. He’s obviously been drinking.

He pauses again. “Good, very good,” he repeats.

There’s a long silence.

“Dad?”

“Yes.”

“Is there something you want to tell me?”

“Oh, nothing. I just wanted to hear your voice. Did you know that out of my seven children, you’re the one I love the most?”

“No, I didn’t know that. Why?”

“Because you are strong and determined. You are also very intelligent. You remind me of your mother. She’s always been a strong individual. I have faith in you, Karla. I know that you will make it as a journalist. And the reason I know this is simply because I will not let you fail. I will continue to encourage you with such tenacity that you’ll have your very own entertainment column in a newspaper or magazine in no time. My children lack in motivation—except for you. And if you ever feel uncertain about your future, I’ll be there to give you the necessary push.”

“It’s not fair.”

“What’s not fair?”

“Your high expectations of me.”

“Oh, come now, Karla, I don’t have high expectations of you; I know your full potential, there’s a difference. I want you to be self-sufficient. If there’s ever a time in which a man treats you badly, you leave him without a moment’s hesitation. And if you ever fall in love, he’d better be a good man, not a man like…like…”

“Like you?” I venture.

I hear a faint intake of breath. And then, with some restraint, he says, “Exactly.”

The following morning I decide to go to work. I don’t want to avoid Matt and Penelope anymore. Dad’s drunken pep talk has somehow caused a transformation within me, a transformation of confidence and inner-poise. He’s right: I should be self-sufficient. My father has a way with words. I love him in spite of the way he treated mom. And I always look for his guidance. And I love it when he calls me to tell me such nice things.

When I enter the penthouse, I see Matt and Penelope hugging in the dining room. I hide behind a snack shelf in the kitchen and stare. They hug as if they won’t be seeing each other for a long time. But they don’t look sad. They look happy. Content. Again, I notice the lack of heat in their (or rather, his) body language.

“I gotta go,” she says.

“Thank you for everything,” says Matt.

Penelope grabs her coat and leaves.

Matt strolls into the kitchen and walks up to me with a silly smile on his face. He seems animated. “Hello, Karla,” he says. “Feeling better?”

“Much better, thank you.” I pause. “Where is Penelope going?”

“She’s leaving for Paris. We’re not going to be…together…anymore.” He says this with a tone of relief.

My knees tremble with joy. “You broke up?”

“We didn’t break up.”

I look at him with puzzlement. “You won’t be dating anymore?”

His body stiffens. “We were not dating!”

???

“We didn’t break up because we were not a couple. And we were not dating.”

“Okay, I’m confused. If you weren’t dating, then what were you doing—other than having sex?”

He shrugs. “That’s all we were doing. We were messing around. It’s no big deal. We had an arrangement.”

Ah, the arrangement. The arrangement I heard Penelope mention a couple of days ago. And I think I’ve heard him say the words “messing around” before. I ask him to elaborate about this little arrangement.

He hesitates for a moment and then says, “Penelope and I made an amicable agreement.” He clears his throat. “We agreed to spend a few days together. Like I said, it’s no big deal.”

“So you ask for sexual favors with no strings attached. Is that it?”

He looks at me as though I’ve offended him. “I wouldn’t exactly put it that way. Let me stress that this was an amicable agreement. It was her choice to agree upon it. I wouldn’t lie to a woman. I am very straightforward and honest.”

“Do you do this with a lot of women?”

“Yes. To every woman I’ve been with.”

“How long do these arrangements usually last?”

“About two weeks.”

And I’m in love with this philandering fucker?

He continues: “I think I’ve mentioned my need for space. I can’t let anyone get too close. And as I’ve also mentioned, I have my reasons. And, so, I meet someone, spend a couple of weeks with her, and then we go our separate ways.”