Page 39 of Knox Unleashed
So, in some ways, I’m grateful Knox solved half my problem by tipping his chin in my direction while saying something to my father I couldn’t hear before riding away.
“Want to explain yourself?” my father says, as the roar of Knox’s motorcycle fades in the distance.
“Explain what?” I ask, pulling out the wooden panel that sits between the roller shutter and the store. I prop it up against the wall, but the wind immediately gets behind it and blows it over into the gently rippling water. Thankfully, due to the slight elevation from the boathouse to the store, the store isn’t flooded.
“I saw him leaving.” My father puts his hands on his hips as he states the obvious. For the first time, he reminds me of one of those red pandas that stand on their hind legs to scare off predators by making themselves bigger.
“And?” I reply.
I unlock the door, manage to lift the wooden panel over the sandbags, and step into the store. Once inside, I dry my feet, put my sneakers on, and head to the coffee pot behind the drinks counter to set it to brew. It’s a shitty old machine that can be temperamental, hissing and spitting. But the coffee is the best I can buy because life is too short to drink shit coffee.
I look at my father. One eyebrow is raised as he says, “You think this town won’t talk?”
It’s foolish and childish to even think he might show some concern for the state of my face. But, no, he remains focused on himself. So much so, he hasn’t noticed the two racks of snacksthat were knocked over when I tried to fight the two men off last night.
“There’s barely a soul around. It’s early in the morning, the worst of the storm has blown through, and most people are still tucked up in their beds. Plus, it’s none of this town’s business.”
I pull a mug out of the cupboard and set it down before my shaking hands betray the confidence in my words.
“This ismytown, and this ismybusiness.”
I place my hands on the small granite counter. “This ismystore and property, and this ismybusiness. Not yours.”
My father steps closer to me. His boots thud heavy against the wood floor as he scans the room. I’m not even sure what he’s looking for. Maybe some kind of infraction I might be committing. But there’s nothing here except a pile of outdoor furniture stacked clumsily, a few small round tables and chairs, and a painting of the sunrise over Martha’s Vineyard that I painted from a photograph I took when I visited there once.
When he finally looks at me, I see it. It’s in the wrinkle over the bridge of his nose and the furrows between his brows. I’ve seen this look in a thousand different situations, and I brace myself.
“You embarrass me. Always have.” His voice is calm and controlled, which is almost worse than the yelling. “Ever since you were old enough, you’ve disappointed me. Your mother was so embarrassed of you, she left you behind. It was up to me to try to make you right.”
The scent of brewing coffee suddenly makes me feel sick as he exposes and pokes at the raw wound I’ve carried for years.
“I took this business that was barely breaking even and made it into a place that turns a profit.” Revulsion hits me; I can’t help trying to prove myself to this man.
He laughs like I’m pathetic. And under his gaze, I almost believe I am. “This pit?” He gestures around the store Irenovated. “This little hole in the wall. This isn’t building something. I’m head of the police department. I built a safe community with my own hands. I sit on boards. I have status in this town, and you’re here, playing house above a fishing shop with a biker. You had so much potential and blew it.”
His gaze moves to the wide glass doors where the dock stretches out above the water.
Something tightens in my ribs as I fight down the pain of his words. My therapist once said that, in situations like this, it’s important to look for evidence before I believe it.
I was talented in things he didn’t care about. I had the capacity for great artistry. I was kind. I was a middle-of-the-pack kid who never got into trouble. What few friends I had drifted away because of my father, not because I was bad company.
The bait and marine supply store plays a vital role in the community. I provide the resources regulars need to enjoy their hobbies and free time, as well as a way to encourage tourists to capitalize on the glory of all the nature that surrounds us.
I provide employment to seven people on varying schedules and keep on Leo, even though the old man can no longer keep up with the pace of work.
There is nothing about my life that’s truly an embarrassment. Only the deluded expectations of my father about the person I could have been. And there is no evidence to suggest I would have made a great lawyer or schoolteacher or cop. Not that I was ever even interested in those professions.
I trust my internal assessment of myself. “You’re wrong.”
He slams his hand on the counter so hard that the container holding the wooden stir sticks tips over, and I jump in fear. “Painting storms and entertaining bikers isn’t anything to be proud of.”
“I don’tentertainanyone,” I say, and I hate the waver in my voice. I can’t let him get under my skin like this, so I take a deepbreath and try again. “And you’ve never understood my value, as a daughter or a businesswoman.”
“Don’t insult me,” my father says, his tone sharp. “You think men like that biker are interested in shit like this?” He jabs his finger in the direction of the painting I did and hung behind the counter, and I think about the way Knox spoke about my artwork last night.
That painting is too good to be in here if you barely use this place.
Not much of an art connoisseur, but you can almost feel the pull of the swamp in it.
