MY FATHER'S HANDS
Outside, the day was miserable, cloudy and wet. Vincent was Below,attending to his responsibilities there, and the four children hadscattered, each seeking his own form of recreation.It was, Catherinehad decided, a perfect day to do a little spring cleaning. Normally,housework was something she detested, but occasionally she foundherself in just the right mood for it. Today was one of those days.Feeling restless and daydreamy, she could let the housework occupyher hands while leaving her imagination free to roam.
When the children were small, she and Vincent had managed to keepthe house liveable with extensive help from older tunnel kids. Inexchange for housekeeping, child care and cooking, Catherine paid allcollege expenses. It was an arrangement which had worked out well forall concerned, but now, the only kids she was putting through collegewere her own.
While they had taken responsibility for keeping the house more orless tidy and, on the whole, did a pretty good job, their cleaningwas limited to basics like dusting tabletops and vacuuming floors.Recently Catherine had begun to notice that the books and knickknacksin the study were becoming decidedly dusty and was determined to dosomething about it.
She began with things on the tables, running a damp cloth overeach of the glass eggs in her collection, before going on to lamps,candlesticks, and other ornaments scattered throughout the room.
Next she tackled the books, and she cheated on them. At least, shethought with an inward smile, her father's housekeeper would havethought it cheating. Hannah had believed that the only proper way todust books was to remove each one, wipe it carefully with a softcloth, and replace it. Once, when cleaning the study was an annualall-day family project, Catherine, Vincent and the children had doneit that way. With the literally hundreds of books lining the shelvesin the study, that meticulous process could take an entire day, soCatherine used a vacuum with a small attachment that could reach tothe back of the crammed shelves. Only some of Vincent's more fragilebooks merited for individual treatment. Even this way, it was a taskthat took the better part of a morning.
As she worked, she let memory take her back to the last time thefamily had cleaned the study together. It had been in the summer, sheremembered, so Charles was home from school.
* * * * *
Sensing a lack of industry, Catherine looked around to find shewas the only one actually working. Vincent perched against the edgeof his desk, a worn leather volume open in his hands. At the otherend of the room, Jacob was similarly engaged. Lost in thought,Charles stared out a window. Evan had wandered over to thechessboard, examining a game in progress, and Vicky lay on the floorwith a dustcloth clutched between bare toes, waving it listlessly inthe general direction of the nearest shelf.
Hands on hips, Catherine began with Vincent, fixing him with agreen-eyed glare of indignation. After a moment he looked up.Guiltily, he laid his book aside and turned a stern, fatherly eye onthe rest of the room. Vicky noticed first, whispering a warning toher brothers; in moments all were hard at work again.
* * * * *
Catherine smiled at the memory. Their burst of energy hadn'tlasted long that day, but eventually the job had been completed.Somehow, getting the whole family together at one time seemedimpossible these days, so it was just as well that Evan had thoughtof using the vacuum. It made the job easier.
When the books were done, Catherine moved to the pictures thatadorned the one wall not taken up by bookshelves, dusting the framesand cleaning the glass. Each picture was precious in its own way. Herparents smiled at her from a posed studio portrait; from anotherframe, her mother laughed at something unseen. There was a picture ofher father and herself at age twelve; another, her father's favoriteof her, was from her college days, taken by her friend Nancy.Father's cherished photograph of himself and his wife Margaret on theday of their wedding hung beside Catherine's own parents' weddingportrait. Devin was there, in two or three candid shots, along withone or two of her from recent years, but the rest were of thechildren.Some of those photographs were old, out-dated, and she musedthat it was past time to replace them with newer ones and relegatethe old ones to photo albums. There was, she remembered, an entirestack of prints that Evan had made in his basement darkroom stilllying in a drawer of her desk. When she had completed the dusting,she took down a number of frames, spreading them across her desk.
Replacing the pictures was a slow process because she stopped witheach one, remembering when and where the old picture was taken andrepeating the process with the new print. Some of the memories madeher smile; some made her wistful; one made her laugh out loud.
At last only one frame still held its original contents and shepicked it up tenderly. Instead of a photograph, this frame, a doubleone hinged in the middle, held yellowing sheets of lined notebookpaper. At the top of the left-hand sheet, in careful, newly learnedcursive, was a name and a date. She smiled, remembering...
* * * * *
"Mrs. Chandler? I'm Anne Dylan."
Smiling, Catherine offered her hand to Jacob's fourth gradeteacher. "I'm pleased to meet you. Jacob talks about you all thetime."
"I know it's almost a cliche, but he's truly a joy to have inclass, Mrs. Chandler. He's bright, well-mannered, and loves tolearn."
"I'm glad. He's not always like that at home," Catherine said.When she left the house to come here for her scheduled parent-teacherconference, all four children had been in the study, building a fortout of cushions and blankets. Needless to say, it was a task thatcouldn't be accomplished quietly and Jacob's shrieks were no lesspiercing than those of his siblings.After they discussed Jacob'sprogress for a few minutes, Ms. Dylan reached for a folder. "I alwayskeep one special thing to give each parent at our conference," sheexplained. "For artistic kids, it's usually a special art project.For mathematical kids, it's a math test..."
Catherine nodded, understanding that the paper she was about to beshown would reflect something Ms. Dylan considered one of Jacob'stalents.
"One of the things I most admire about Jacob is his imagination,"the teacher went on. "A few weeks ago, I gave my students anassignment to write a short essay about someone in their family. Mostof them write what you'd expect a nine or ten year old to write...they tell what their parents do for a living, maybe what they looklike..."
Catherine nodded again, wary now that the subject of family hadcome up.
Ms. Dylan drew a sheet of paper from her folder. "Jacob haswritten something that I find beautiful and imaginative. Mostchildren would never think of doing something like this, and he'sdone it extremely well. He must love his father very much."
Catherine had been growing progressively colder with each word.She was fighting panic, and incoherent thoughts like 'How many timeshave I told him...' and 'When I get home, I'm going to kill him...'shot through her mind before reason reasserted itself. Whatever Jacobhad written, the teacher obviously suspected nothing but a child'sactive imagination. It was going to be okay. She reached for thepaper held out to her...
* * * * *
With a smile, Catherine touched the glass over Jacob's name. Thepencil marks had faded with time, but the words could still be readand the sentiment came through as clearly as ever. With a sigh and ashake of her head, she took the frame, essay and all, and put it backin its place of honor behind Vincent's desk.
JACOB'S ESSAYJacob Chandler 10-2-03
My Father's Hands
My father's hands are big, much bigger than mine. My mother says they're beautiful, but I don't think so they have too much hair. My grandfather says my fathers hands are hands to trust and depend on.Charles says my father's hands are gentle. My brother Evan says they are strong. My sister says they're warm and she likes to hold them.
When he's proud of me, he puts his hand on my shoulder and it feels good. When I dissappoint him, he puts his hand on my shoulder, too, and it makes me want to try harder. Sometimes he rubs his hand across the top of my head and messes up my hair because it makes me laugh.
His hands are the best for putting on a bandage because it doesn't hurt at all. My father's hands are love. I think my mother's right after all. My father's hands are beautiful.
THE END