The Building
Ellen Metcalf
was his little girl. Emily would have asked her father to play in the sandbox more often, but asking Mr. Hessler to do anything was not easy. Actually, it was easy to ask; it was just not easy to get the thing done. He would do it eventually, but it took time. First he would say no, then he would list all the reasons why he couldn’t, then he would say, “Maybe,” then he would agree as the victim of persuasion, then, grumbling, he would do it. And then, ironically, he would enjoy it. Mr. Hessler ran his home-based business the same way. A simple order could take months to fill and then only after considerable grumbling and procrastinations. Emily wondered why her father acted that way. Mother had given up wondering, and aside from arguing, never talked with Dad much anymore. They lived apart, together. But Emily didn’t care. She was Daddy’s little girl. There was something about his tall, graceful six feet and dark brown hair that drew Emily to the buckeye brown eyes that matched her own and made her forget all his imperfections.
Sometimes she thought he looked like an artist as she watched him methodically, delicately sand a piece of walnut molding until it almost shone. No one else seemed to see him as she did. She watched as he glued the walnut to the edge of the coffee table he was building. The dark wood edging set off the table’s light oak in a beautiful contrast. Emily knew no one built anything better or more beautiful than her father. But he always worked alone, perfectly, depressingly constructing a masterpiece.
At least five weeks had passed since their last rendezvous with the medieval life in the basement. She had been reminded by its cracked walls while bringing up a pizza from the freezer for supper. She would try to get her father to play with her tonight. He would fix it.
Emily began her opening arguments at the supper table. “Dada, will you play with me in the sandbox tonight?”
“Well, I have a lot of work to do.” The answer was so predictable that she could have said it herself and saved the trouble of asking the question except that she knew this was only the preliminary argument in the evening’s case.
Emily reached for a fresh slice of pizza and tucked a loose lock of blond hair behind her ear but avoided eye contact in an attempt to appear nonchalant, “Just for a little while before bed. The castle is all broken and falling apart.”
“Well, we’ll see,” and that was where she stopped begging, for the time, knowing that her defense had hope if she didn’t push it too far.
After supper, Emily washed and put away the dishes without complaint for the first time in weeks. The soap bubbles crackled and dispersed and she put her hands in the hot dish water with a determined speed to get the job done as soon as possible. She usually complained about washing the dishes, there were always so many, and her mother made her run the rinse water very slowly to conserve water, but tonight the motivation for finishing
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