Free Skipped Parts: A Heartbreaking, Wild, and Raunchy Comedy by Tim Sandlin Page B

were particularly alluring to Lydia, yet I couldn’t just rule him out and go back to the leering quarterback. His blackness alone would cause no end of shame to Caspar, and Caspar’s shame was all the allure Lydia needed. There’d been a time when Lydia would have cut off her fingers if Caspar told her not to.
    This child shrink Caspar slapped on me made a big deal over the Unknown Father. Her name was Dr. Eleanor and I never knew if that was a first name or last. She wore orange fingernail polish.
    “Don’t you ever wonder about your father, Sam?”
    “Lydia’s dad’s enough for anyone.”
    “You aren’t intrigued? What if he’s rich or famous or a wanted outlaw?”
    “What if he’s dead?”
    “How would you feel if your father were dead?”
    “About the way I feel now.”
    “Where do you think a person goes when he dies, Sam?”
    “France.” Why are people always asking me that question?
    “What would you say to your father if you met him this afternoon?”
    I thought about that one awhile, torn between my natural smartassness and a sudden urge to be cooperative. I was only ten when Caspar decided Lydia and I had an unhealthy relationship and we should both be dissected. My particular case was kicked off after I hid myself in the back of Lydia’s closet under a pile of her dirty clothes for two days and a night. Smelled nice and warm in there. Police combed the neighborhood while I played out the symbolic womb situation.
    “I’d ask him if he can hit a curve ball.”
    Dr. Eleanor took this as smartassness, but I’d meant it straight. She looked at me with her lips all prim, which made me feel mean to her, so I tried to explain.
    “Lydia can do anything a real father can except teach me how to hit a curve. I can’t hit a curve worth crap.”
    Caspar made Lydia go to a shrink too, but she seduced hers and they took off to Atlanta for a week.
    The letter came Special Delivery on Sam Callahan’s fourteenth birthday. It was from Don Drysdale, the tallest and most powerful pitcher in major league baseball.
    Dear Sam, it read,
Study the pitcher.
Divide the plate into thirds in your mind. Curvesbreak out and few young throwers can start a pitch inside.Only concern yourself with the outside third.
Keep your head down, your front toe closed, andswing through the ball.
Try only to make contact. Worry about home runslater.
    By the way, I am your sperm father. Your mom and I thought you should have a normal childhood which I could never have given you. Come to L.A. and I’ll buy you a Ford Mustang and introduce you to some Hollywood babes.
    Your Dad,
    Don Drysdale
    P.S. I love you, Son.
    ***
    Someone pulled into the yard and revved their engine right up to the limit. I took off down the hall into Lydia’s room and stuffed the photos back under the panty pile. I wonder if there’s a psychological term for a person who owns sixty pairs of panties.
    Lydia kicked snow through the front door as I came out of her room. She pulled off her coat, humming a song I’d never heard in my life. “You eat yet?”
    She didn’t seem to wonder what I’d been up to in her room. I said, “I waited for you.” Lydia lit a cigarette. I don’t think she noticed the clean ashtrays either. Lydia never was much for noticing changes. She figured stuff just happened without anyone making it happen. “We had a steak in Dubois.”
    What’s this we jive? She hadn’t used we about anyone other than me and her in a long time. I took a shot at sounding nonchalant. “Who’s we?”
    “Ft. Worth and his friend Hank Elkrunner drove me over to Dubois this afternoon. Hank’s part Indian, Blackfoot or Black-feet, something about feet. He knows all this neat stuff about the forest. We found a badger track.”
    “You went into the forest? There’s snow, and cold.”
    “They had snowshoes. It was a hoot, Sam. I tried something new.”
    “What did you try new?”
    “Don’t look at me like that, honey bunny. I told you— snowshoeing.