One Saturday in New York, as Jenny rushed out to buy salad greens and yogurt, her thoughts intent in the scting scene she’d rehearsed for school, she withdrew a letter from her mailbox and glanced at the return address. Shocked, she stred at it. The letter was from her father, and postmarked the Bronx. From her father! What could he possibly want now that she was twenty-senen and hadn’t seem him since she was six? Taking a deep breath, she ripped open the envelope.
“Dear Jenny.” His handwriting that a childish scrawl. “I’ve been thinking and thinking about you and wondering how you are. Gloraine, my wife, and I talk about you often. You must be all grown up and a pretty women. Please come to my apartment to see us next Sunday about two o’clock. Your grandfather in Maryland gave me your address. We don’t have a telephone, so if you’ll write and say you’re coming, we’ll wait for you. I hope you can make it. Love, Dad.”
It was like a specter rising from a deeply dug grave... Jeny reread the letter several times, trying to guess at his intelligence and his attitude toward her. It was difficult analyzing, her emotions had become so entangled. She reclimbed the four flights to her small apartment, and replied on notepaper: “Dear Father...” No, that was too formal. She discarded the page and tried again: “Dear Mickey...” To distant. After all, he was a close relative. Finally, she wrote, “Dear Dad” just as he’d signed the letter, and she said she’d be delighted to see him.
Sealing the envelope, she wondered how he’d look, what he’d wear, the sound of his voice. Once more she saw him as on that last day, when she’d run to meet him at the public library. Whaering baggy trousers and pea jacket and holding a sack of candy, he seemed the handsomest, kindest man she’d known. His hazel eyes were gentle, the lips soft and full, and when his smooth cheeks crinkled in a smile, his body straightened with broad shoulders. Breathless with excitement, Jenny had raced to the tall man who lifted her with a hug, murmuring, “hello, my little girl. Ummm... give daddy a kiss.”
She kissed his cheek and hugged him as tightly as possible.
“Well,” her father said, sitting beside her on the sidewalk bench, “are the Harrimans treating you okay?”
She hated to spoil their Sunday meetings with compaints about her foster parent -- their tiny meals of a hot dog and apple. Brushing aside her shiny black bangs, she glanced down at her jumper and unbuttoned coat. Her proud father probably couldn’t see how thin she was getting. If only she could live with him until mother was well enough from tuberculosis to take care of her. But her father, offering a chocolate, smiled so contentedly at being with her, his forhead smooth, not frowning like the last time she started complaining, that she ate the chocolate creme and said nothing.
“Not very talkative, are you?” Her father joked, but then the smile faded, and he said slowly, “Honey, your mother wants a divorce. I still love her, but the trouble is that your grandparents own a successful clothing store and she got used to having whatever she wanted. BUt other things matter more to me than money.”
“What other things?” Jenny said, gazing intently at her father’s face.
He smiled at her. “Well, I like reading poems and fairy tales. I like watching sunsets and catching the night sky filliing with starts -- makes me feel like everything’s a part of me. And I like grass under my feet.” His feet slipped from the scuffed brogans and wiggled on a grassy patch. “But most of all I like to talk with my little girl, teach what’s important. Do you understand all of that, Jenny?”
“Yes,” she said, and smiled back happily. Those were the very things she liked, too!
“But that doesn’t pay the rent,” her father said gravely stooping to slip on his shoes. “It doesn’t buy roast beef or a pretty new dress. Your mother argues that a handyman doesn’t earn enough, and I should become an office executive so we could afford things. But then -- “ he paused, “ I’d feel trapped working nine - five, day in day out, like a machine.” He grew silent for a moment, gazing at the distant intersection and continued softly, “I guess I’d really like to be a poet, only I don’t have the words. Or, maybe a painter, but my feelings about life are all mixed up because of brain tissue damage form shrapnel during the war.”
At he sympathetic nod, he took her hand. Surprised, he pulled it away covered with melted chocolate. They giggled as he wiped their hands with a wadded handkerchief from his pocket. Sobering, he said, “Jenny, please tell your mother I still love her as much as when we met at the singles dance. She’s so beautiful, like a flower. You’ll promise to tell her I don’t want the divorce?”
Jenny nodded again, encouraged by his smile and tender eyes gazing at her. “I will,” she said solemnly feeling as if her life depended on it.
“That’s my girl.”
Rising now to mail her note,Jenny headed toward the door. But now sne’d see him again! What would he be like? Had he changed much? She pictured him: tall and handsome with broad shoulders but with grey hair. Why, he’d said he was a poet... Except he couldn’t put down the words. But what did that matter? In his heart he was a poet...
She spent the fellowing week mechanically while reliving the past. Finally, on the day that threatened rain, she cose a full-skirted floral dress with leather boots that made her look like an actress, tucked her shiny black curls under her raincost hood, grabbed the leather shoulder bag and unbrella, and took the subway to the Bronx. Along the way, she again remembered the last day she saw her father, how he playfully pushed her when Mother turned the grocery corner and paused at a distance from the library. “Go to her honey. Don’t forget to tell her what I said.”
She’d run to the dark-eyed woman wearing a blue suit and spikeheels, the black wavy hair framing the hart-shaped face, and exclaimed, “Daddy wants to tell you something important!”
But Mother didn’t want to hear it period. Taking Jenny’s hand, she snapped, “Don’t worry about him! He brought this misery on himself. You’ll be happy living with grandma in Maryland. Hurry, or we’ll be late for the train!”
Jenny had glanced behind. Hunched over, his head cradled in his hands, her father seemed to be crying. “I think daddy’s --” But it was too late. With mother tugging her hand, they’d already crossed the intersection her father was lost from view befopre she could fulfill her promise.
Now, in the subway car, Jenny scanned the passengers chatting or staring at the overhead advertisments, and reminded herself that after arriving at her grandparents, she’d never heard a word from her father. No telephone all, no letter, not even a birthday card.
In her small bedroom, she’d gazed up at the night sky spread outside the window. Somewhere, a start shone over the place where her father lived. Maybe he, too, was getting ready to sleep, or return from a movie, or rocked on a porch, watching the night sky, because that’s what he liked to do... But why did he move and leave no address when grandpa wrote to him? Maybe he didn’t love her anymore because he hadn’t kept her promise to tell mother... No! He couldn’t stop loving her, any more than she could stop loving him. What about his warm smile, hugs, and bags of candy, and how he like to teach her things? But how hard it was, fighting his silence.
Gradually, kept busy with homework, cheerleading, dating, and parties, Jenny didn’t think about him for months. Then shocked, as if she were losing him, she’d remember his reading fairy tales aloud to her when her parents lived together, and how they’d shared the chocolates before the library. By the time she graduated form high school, her father seemed like a remote but lovely dream she had during childhood; by college graduation he’d shrunk to a shadowy figure with hazel eyes and a vauge feeling of tenderness. After moving to New York, she simply explained to friends that her father had died. It was difficult, she’d decided, to continue defending a man who had rejected his own child.
Yet, whenever she road the subway, she used to wonder whether the young man across the aisle was a stepbrother and the middle aged man sitting beside him was her father...
Outside, passing several blocks, she nervously read building numbers on his street until reaching the corner’s dilapidated brownstone, the walk to the stoop dotted with bits of paper, pizza, and soda cans. He lived in a basement. She stared at the foyer name: MickeyÉ it was strange, finally seeing his name on a mailbox. Heart pound she rang the bell.
A plump woman with gray curls opened the door. “Come right on in , honey,” she said with a deep Southern drawal.
Jenny followed her through a brief foyer and into the studio apartment. Waiting near the door was a short, stocky man with thick gray hair and hazel eyes.
“My little girl,” he said huskily as she paused near the doorway.
She smiled akwardly, not huging him for fear of embarrassing him, confused about proper etiquette. Greetings sprang to mind: Dad, how good to see you again! But that sounded strained - good to see him after twenty years? Or: How glad I am you finally write me. That night appear sarcastic. Nothing seemed appropriate, so she reaimed silent while he spread her raincoat across the double bed with its faded coverlet.
“Still shy, eh, honey?” her father joked and then sobered when she didn’t smile.
So this is where he lived... She scanned the drab, musty room with its chipped linoleum, noted the corner kitchenette with the refridgerator habdoe tied with rope, and the oilcloth-covered card table near a sagging chest of drawers.
“Jenny, how about pie? Gloraine’s a good cook. Learned it from her mama in Tennessee. She makes a great pecan pie.” He motioned to his wife to bring pie and coffee, and turned to Jenny who sat at the table. “You’d like some, wouldn’t you, honey?”
Rigid with expectation, she nodded and watched his every move, the way his plump hands loosened the dirty collar around his wrinkled neck, and his paunch protrudung over his belt. He looked... She earched for words... And remembered her grandfather shouting “He’s a bum who reuned my daughter’s life!” Shuttering, she silently reminded herself that he was her father, no matter how he looked.
He sat at the table while Gloraine boiled coffee at the clean but sagging stove. “Honey, I hope you’re not disappointed.” His face reddened, the creases deepening into a weather-beaten look. Turning away, he mumbled, “Well, your mother was right -- I’m fifty and still a janitor, but Gloraine says she wouldn’t trade me for anybody else, no matter how rich.”
“Now, darling,” Gloraine said, setting pie and coffee before Jenny, “don’t get yourself all upset. You talk to your little girl, say the things you always told me you would. Go ahead.”
Jenny’s father turned to her. “Well, honey, are you working? Do you live with a roommate? How about boyfriends?”
“I work part-time in an office and attend acting school.”
“Acting!” He turned to his wife. “Hear that, Gloraine? My little gorl’s going to be famous! She’ll invite us to visit her Hollywood mansion.”
Farewell, Dear Bill Henley
Bernadette Miller
Once upon a time, gentle reader, there lived a shy, plump and balding bus drivernamed Bill Henley. Staunchly conservative, Bill was always punctual, attentive to children, never had a trafic violation, always flashed a smile. For thirth years, the perfect driver. That is, until one afternoon when returning home to quiet, elm-shaded main street, he gazed up at his apartment, and wailed, “all my life, nothing but eat, sleep, drive a bus, eat, sleep. Not even a fat to warm me on cold nights. It’s unfair!”
Lamenting thusly, he passed the building and turned the corner, when -- lo and behold -- he stood beofre a quonset hut in a jungle lush with palms and orchids.
A charming parrot chirped, “Welcome to Viet Nam, land of opportunity.”
“Well, well,” Bill said scratching his chin, and entered the hut. It was an army mess hall, beyond which was a large kitchen containing flour, hot dogs, asparagus... Bill examined his baggy uniform, crisp white apron, and tall chef’s hat.
“By God, I wanted adventure and excitement, and look what I got instead!”
“Some humans are never satisified,” the charming parrot tsk-tsked, and flew away in disgust.
Several Marines entered. A braumy sargeant stared at Bill, who squirmed in his ill-fitting uniform.
“Well, looky here, you the new cook?”
“Uh, I guess so... sir...” Bill said bashfully.
“Then get to work!” The sargeant roared, and hearded the men out.
Bill glanced about the kitchen. Another menial job!
All day long he slaved to feed the hungry Marines. With little cooking experience, he perpared a hot dog stew, and set the tepid bowls on the mess table. He hovered about to hear the men’s approvals. Alas, there was none. Grimly silent, they bolted down their meal, except for a little private licking his plate. Private Fortuna liked the stew! Bill hurried over.
“I’m glad you enjoyed it.”
“Stinks! But a man’s gotta eat, don’t he?” The little private walked away.
So Bill’s first meal had failed. But that wasn’t all. That evening in the recreation hut nobody invited him to dance when Private Fortuna played his harmonica, and he watched the festivities isolated from the men’s acceptance. Slicing asparagus the next morning, he complained to the charming parrot, the only one who talked him. “I’m polite, I work hard. Why don’t# the men like me?”
To which the parrot chirped on the flour drum, “Man doesn’t live by bread alone, but jazzing it up helps.”
“Aha!” Bill said and smiled with enthusiam. Having been a good bus driver, he could study and become a good cook. Dinner time, he approacehd Seargeant Smith at the head table, and requested cook books.
“Henley, don’t you realize we’re fighting a war here? We can’t coddle recruits.”
Seargeant Smith bent over his shredded beef on raw asparagus, and glanced up. “Okay, I’ll get you some.”
“Oh, thank you, sir.”
When the cook books finally arrived, Bill planned enticing meals, and once again approached Seargeant Smith who frowned.
“What is it know, Henley?”
“Well, sir, I need supplies: soy bean curds, motzo meal, chutney... “ He listed other interesting ingredients.
“We can’t afford it.”
“Sir, please, for the men’s sake...”
Seargeant Smith groaned over his mock rarebit. “Okay!”
“Thank you, sir.”
A month passed while Bill awaited the crates. Maybe the Seargeant had ignored his request. He stared glumly at the parrot, whocluck on the flour drum, “You’re wasting time feeling sorry for yourself.”
“You’re right,” Bill agreed, and began rereading favorite recipes form the well-thumbed Hari Krishna Cooks! Then one morning he heard a commotion, and rushed outside. Grunting soldiers stacked crates outside the quonset hut along the dirt road. Bill jumped up and down before soberly storing the precious cargo on labelled kitchen shelves. Now, finally, he could prepare the exotic dishes he’d only read about: lamb curry, spanish paella golden with saffron, icy borscht with sour cream. At first, uncertain he understood the recipes, he question Private Fortuna after each meal.
“How’s the paella?”
the little private shrugged. “Nothing to write home about.”
Undaunted, Bill worked harder. Weeks passed; as his skills improved, his confidence grew. He elaborated on the recipes, and smile with pride when his pheasant lo mein drew applause.
“We want the cook!” the men chanted, and beat their tin plates. “Henley, speech! Speech!”
Tears in his eyes, Bill entered the mess hall an apron daubing his face. “It was nothing, fellows, just a little variation.”
“It was fantastic!” Private Fortuna shouted.
“Incredible!” another shouted.
Suddenly the men jumped up to hoist Bill on their shoulders, and sang “For he’s a jolly good cook.”
Seargeant Smith reached up to shake Bills hand. “Henley, let me know if anything troubles you -- anything at all.”
“Sure will. Thank you.” Bill glanced toward the kitchen. “I must get back -- my stroganoff... “
The men gently set him down, but Private Fortuna ran after him proferring magazines.
“Mister Henley, sir, please take my smuggled copies of Nudity for Health. If there is anything you need -- beer, marijuana, anything -- I’ll gladly get it for you free.”
Bill smiled. “I’ll give you a list of cook books.” He hurried back to the delicate stroganoff -- cooking perfectly.
When the cook books arrived, Bill studied them on his bunk forsaking the recreation hut, for, asthe parrot had reminded him, “He who remains dedicated moves up.” And how right that bird was! Gradually, the men began began sneaking back early from patrol missions to sample Bill’s devilled crab knapes accompanied by coconut goal milk shakes with a dash of liqueur.
“Wow, Henleys the greatest!” the men chanted over emptied hor d’oeuvres dishes, while they toasted his good health and culinary expertise.
But all was not not well. Sergeant Smith returned unexpectedly one afternoon, missing his recruits, and threatened to drag them to a worse war zone. During dinner, he roared, “Henley’s become a menace -- we gotta ship him back to the states!”
A pall hung over the tables as the Marines anxiously turned toward Bill emerging from the kitchen. Arms folded over aproned paunch, he smiled, unconcerned, and watched the tough sergeant bend over his plate to savor his lobster pierogie.
Word spread; sodiers form other units queued outside the mess hall to take their turn. They chatted and joked until settling at the tables for Bill’s almond quail supreme, the food paid for by desparate squadron commanders fearing desertions.
One evening, as Bill put the polishing touch to a superb chicken soup, a Viet Cong platoon poured into camp, their arms raised, noses sniffing.
“Please, Americans,” the ferocious Viet Cong leader cried touchingly. “Give us soup! All day smell in jungle. No stand it longer. Must have chicken soup with creplash!”
Even Sergeant Smith pitied them. He roared, “Men, lets feed these poor prisoners!” and helped set great steaming bowls onto tables, while the enemy crowded onto benches.
“Aah,” sighed the Viet Cong Leader, smacking his lips. “Best damn chicken soup ever tasted!”
During the following weeks, to Bill’s amazement, there followed upon wave of surrendering Viet Cong. Some came for the beef wellington fajitas, some preferred the cornish game hen teriyaki, for others it was the lemon lichee duck, but all agreed Bill Henley’s cooking was irresistable.
As the war slowly ground to a delectable halt, panic spred among world leaders, many warning that Bill Henley was more dangerous than the bomb. Beaming that his cooking was ending the war, Bill served peekaboo blueberry tarts to the men watching television in the recreation hut. As he entered with a second tray, the men, jaws agape, watched President Nixon apologize to North Viet-nam for winning the war underhandedly.
Premiers, presidents, and kings begged Nixon for Henley, seen as a potent weapon, and in return offered their nations resources. Nixon promptly requested his staff to analyze Henley’s profitability.
While national leaders taunted each other, Bill’s camp soon became the worlds largest resort, providing wide-eyed guests with a memorable time -- money being no obstacle since American taxpayers paid all bills. Barracks became luxury hotels; the picturesque jungle was bulldozed and replace by golf, tennis, stables and trails, and swimming pools with cabanas as well as fashionable shops. At a lovely nightclub, The Swinger, waitresses wearing short-shorts and peasant blouses served enormous platters of roast suckling pig while Private Fortuna and His Harmoni Beats entertained under a canopy of scarlet and lavender ballons. Or, one could linger at the Paradise Bar with a Bill Henley Rum-Do and listen to charming parrot sing, “Ain’t Gonna Study War No More!”
Thus, the name Bill Henley became a cooking by-word; he was besieged by the media and heads of state. Such attention would surely destroy most men’s values. But not Bill. He remarked contentedly while stuffing brioches with chocolate halvah, “At last, I’m appreciated and loved,” and he smiled at the latest telegram on his desk, inviting him to head the International Cooking Organization, whose pupose was to titillate the peasants, stuff the agressors, and dissolve expansionism.
Then, alas, as Bill one afternoon prepared a succulent bouillabaisse for Outer Mongolia, he tasted an assistant’s mango chicken, was instantly stricken with botulism, and died. Greif striken multitudes attended his funeral at the mess hut, now enshrined as a museum. Once again war erupted in the Golan Heights. But, somehow, it had lost its kicks; after a week, Arab troops begadn deserting their posts to seek Israelis, and inquire wistfully, “Where Bill Henley?” Life not the same without his cherry blintzes jubilee...”
The sympathetic Israelis ofered the falafel diable. Joining hands, the enemies rushed to the mess hall, thus making war impossible.
Millions paid tribute to Bill. Oh, those inspiring verses to: “Here’s to Heleys Shoofly Pie!” shouted with the usual German gusto. And: “Lest We Forget Bill’s Last Bouillabaisse,” a mournful Tibetan chant. Yes, wherever men carried Bill’s culinary message, war dissolved into pineapple matzo brei and wild duck shishkabob...
Which just goes to show that even a humble school bus driver, unconcious in a minor traffic accident, can achieve world peace if his imagination so wills it -- concluding, gentle reader, our parable for today.
