Free Wanting Rita by Elyse Douglas Page B

mother would enter, stage right, emerge from around the house on Saturday morning, dressed for gardening with those little heels, of course, snipping the shrubs, examining the petunias, snap dragons and pansies, pursing her lips in contempt because I hadn’t cut the dewy lawn.
    “Alan…” she’d call, from the bottom of the stairs, minutes later. “Why do I always have to get mad and cross before you’ll cut the lawn?”
    And from the dining room, where he lingered over coffee, a donut and a book, my father would almost always add, “For Pete’s sake, Alan. Listen to your mother!”
    My bedroom was at the top of the stairs and sound carried terrifically and annoyingly. “I’m studying,” was my response, knowing it would buy me more time in bed. Though no one was fooled, it always worked. Studying was such a sacred word to my father, that to oppose or question it was tantamount to being damned for all eternity. To Mom, it meant that I’d gotten the message. There was no more to be said.
    Even then, the lawn was professionally landscaped, but Dad left a half acre, untouched, just for me. Tending that little plot of sloping earth, Dad believed, was good sound character building and exercise, necessary for a boy of privilege and promise. And he knew it pleased my mother that I was helping out in the yard.
    “You’ve got to get out of your head now and then, Alan,” Dad would say, although he seldom did. He abhorred exercise, unless going to get coffee and donuts was involved. “Get out there and breathe that good, healthy Pennsylvania air, son.”
    I’d finally get up and drift downstairs. Mr. Dog, our old German Shepard in residence, would be languishing in his L.L. Bean Scottish colored bed next to the masonry fireplace, his brown eyes lazy, his pointed ears as still and tall as church spires. I’d pet him and pull him up, and we’d slump off toward the dreaded chores of the day, like slothful, apathetic soldiers.
    Outside we’d find Mom, sealed tightly against any intrusion, assiduously at work. Dad would soon be retreating to his wine cellar, and I to the rider mower. Mr. Dog, inspired by scents and sounds, would trudge off toward the trees, with a happy swinging tongue and a passionate nose, vacuuming the grass.
     
    I shut off the engine and lingered a moment longer, until the images faded. They were swiftly replaced by Rita’s devastated image that stuck to my eyes, like an overlay. I got out, pausing to take in the 10 acres of landscaped grass, trees and shrubs. For the last three months, I’d received bills for the landscaping and other needed house repairs. I’d paid for them. It allowed me to feel that I was helping Dad, and it helped assuage my guilt for not visiting him regularly. Dad and I were never the typical father and son, nor was our affection for each other ever expressed except in a handshake, a pleasant formal word, or the rare pat on the back. Dad kept me at a distance, and most of the time, that had been fine with me. There was something about him that made me a little uncomfortable and, I suspect, he felt the same about me.
    My sister, Judy, on the other hand, was his joy. She was adoring, extroverted and perky: all the qualities he and I lacked. Though not typically “pretty,” Judy was earnest, resourceful and religious. The Presbyterian Church was her second home and had been from an early age. She married the son of a Presbyterian minister and they became true and stalwart “soldiers for God” in a large church in Florida.
    Judy was popular at school, was a talented administrator, and, like me, had a great gift for numbers and facts. She became an accountant and works part time to help supplement her husband’s already handsome income as a dentist.
    If Dad and Mom were not “soldiers for God” then they were, at least, supporters of the battle from a comfortable distance. They tithed, were socially involved and had an appreciation for the pedagogical foundation the