When I was seven years old, my dad won a duck in a poker game, a white, domesticated duck, fat and ready to eat. He brought it home in a gunny sack and left it in the garage overnight. I woke up on Saturday morning to an unearthly sound below me in the tuck-under garage. I tip-toed to the door in the basement that led to the garage to listen; when I heard no sound for a minute or two, I opened the door a crack and the duck in the sack leapt into the air, squawking with panic. I tore upstairs and screeched to a halt at my parent's open bedroom door. (I wasn't allowed in unless invited).
"Mom! Mom! MOM!" I hissed.
"What?"
"There's something in the garage; it's in a bag jumping around!"
My dad started laughing and swung his feet to the wood floor. He woke himself up by roughly rubbing his hand over his dark morning beard and said, "Let's go see what it is, eh Marty?"
My mother, her auburn hair falling romantically from her bobby-pinned "French roll," perched on her elbows and frowned. "you're not going to take her out in the garage Tom?" she said, forming both and order and question with her words.
He ignored her and repeated excitedly to me, "Let's go see what it is Marty." The fear and excitement of the creature in the garage and the fact I was conspiring with my father against the will of my mother was intoxicating. My father was intoxicating. He had movie-star good looks, intense eyes, a ready laugh, and tinder-box temper. My dad was dangerous.
He in his striped, drawstring pajama bottoms and me in an aqua, synthetic night gown trooped downstairs to conquer the monster in the garage. Dad grabbed the bag held it under his arm until whatever was inside quieted down. Then we went back upstairs and out the back door to the stoop where he slowly loosened the tie on the back and revealed the duck.
I was ecstatic. An only, and often lonely child, I immediately assumed my father had defied my mother's stricture against animals in the house. "Dad, you brought me Daisy," I cried, naming and claiming this unusual pet.
"Oh, wait a minute Babe," he said chuckling, "this isn't Daisy, this duck is for dinner."
"For dinner? I thought this was a pet for me." Outraged, I angrily swatted bitter, heart-broken tears from my eyes and tore to my room to cry in my closet.
"Tom, see? See what you've done?" I heard my mother say. My dad was still laughing, protesting that I would get over it.
Finally my father came to my closet door and told me I could have Daisy. He had tied a string around the duck's leg and the other end to our clothesline pole, and she was quacking and circling the pole in the back yard. All day I tended the duck, plucking grass for her to eat, making sure her tupperware water bowl was full, and fending off the swarms of neighborhood kids who wanted to pet her. One tough boy biked right up into our yard and told me what a stupid pet a duck was. My stout, 7-year old heart defended Daisy until the bully rode off laughing.
I didn't want to leave her alone out there, and when it was time to come in for dinner and to get ready for bed I protested mightily. "The duck.." my dad started. "Not THE DUCK," I corrected, "her name is DAISY." "Daisy," he said carefully, "will be fine. I'll put her in the window well, with a piece of chicken wire over it and she can sleep there for the night. She'll be fine."
I knew she wouldn't be fine. When I ran outside in the morning, Daisy was gone. And rather than search for the duck, we had to go to church. In those days it was a sin to miss mass. When we pulled in after church, a small crowd of kids was waiting in the driveway. "Your duck is in the swamp," one dirty, scraggly kid yelled," and they sped off in that direction.
My dad took my hand and we marched silently down the block to the wetland that bordered our neighborhood. We pushed through a bunch of kids who stood gawking at a listless white duck barely swimming in the shallow water. Blood stained her neck and plump breast. The sun glinting off the swamp water felt like shards of glass piercing my eyes, I shut them and felt faint as blood rushed to my head.
Without a word, my father took off his wing tips, walked into the dark water and gathered up the duck. He took my hand and we made the trip back to our small white rambler with the tuck-under garage. He told me a dog must have gotten the duck.
Though I protested and wept, there would be no nursing the duck back to health. With a tear-stained face, I peeked out the garage door and saw my father put the duck in the gunny sack and place it in the trunk of the Buick along with a hatchet.
After dinner, spent from a day of crying, I asked my dad where he took Daisy. He kept his eyes on the monstrous television as Ed Sullivan introduced the next act and told me he took the duck to a farm across the river in Savage, where she could recuperate. On that bloody Sunday, my father lied to me and he knew I knew it.
"Mom! Mom! MOM!" I hissed.
"What?"
"There's something in the garage; it's in a bag jumping around!"
My dad started laughing and swung his feet to the wood floor. He woke himself up by roughly rubbing his hand over his dark morning beard and said, "Let's go see what it is, eh Marty?"
My mother, her auburn hair falling romantically from her bobby-pinned "French roll," perched on her elbows and frowned. "you're not going to take her out in the garage Tom?" she said, forming both and order and question with her words.
He ignored her and repeated excitedly to me, "Let's go see what it is Marty." The fear and excitement of the creature in the garage and the fact I was conspiring with my father against the will of my mother was intoxicating. My father was intoxicating. He had movie-star good looks, intense eyes, a ready laugh, and tinder-box temper. My dad was dangerous.
He in his striped, drawstring pajama bottoms and me in an aqua, synthetic night gown trooped downstairs to conquer the monster in the garage. Dad grabbed the bag held it under his arm until whatever was inside quieted down. Then we went back upstairs and out the back door to the stoop where he slowly loosened the tie on the back and revealed the duck.
I was ecstatic. An only, and often lonely child, I immediately assumed my father had defied my mother's stricture against animals in the house. "Dad, you brought me Daisy," I cried, naming and claiming this unusual pet.
"Oh, wait a minute Babe," he said chuckling, "this isn't Daisy, this duck is for dinner."
"For dinner? I thought this was a pet for me." Outraged, I angrily swatted bitter, heart-broken tears from my eyes and tore to my room to cry in my closet.
"Tom, see? See what you've done?" I heard my mother say. My dad was still laughing, protesting that I would get over it.
Finally my father came to my closet door and told me I could have Daisy. He had tied a string around the duck's leg and the other end to our clothesline pole, and she was quacking and circling the pole in the back yard. All day I tended the duck, plucking grass for her to eat, making sure her tupperware water bowl was full, and fending off the swarms of neighborhood kids who wanted to pet her. One tough boy biked right up into our yard and told me what a stupid pet a duck was. My stout, 7-year old heart defended Daisy until the bully rode off laughing.
I didn't want to leave her alone out there, and when it was time to come in for dinner and to get ready for bed I protested mightily. "The duck.." my dad started. "Not THE DUCK," I corrected, "her name is DAISY." "Daisy," he said carefully, "will be fine. I'll put her in the window well, with a piece of chicken wire over it and she can sleep there for the night. She'll be fine."
I knew she wouldn't be fine. When I ran outside in the morning, Daisy was gone. And rather than search for the duck, we had to go to church. In those days it was a sin to miss mass. When we pulled in after church, a small crowd of kids was waiting in the driveway. "Your duck is in the swamp," one dirty, scraggly kid yelled," and they sped off in that direction.
My dad took my hand and we marched silently down the block to the wetland that bordered our neighborhood. We pushed through a bunch of kids who stood gawking at a listless white duck barely swimming in the shallow water. Blood stained her neck and plump breast. The sun glinting off the swamp water felt like shards of glass piercing my eyes, I shut them and felt faint as blood rushed to my head.
Without a word, my father took off his wing tips, walked into the dark water and gathered up the duck. He took my hand and we made the trip back to our small white rambler with the tuck-under garage. He told me a dog must have gotten the duck.
Though I protested and wept, there would be no nursing the duck back to health. With a tear-stained face, I peeked out the garage door and saw my father put the duck in the gunny sack and place it in the trunk of the Buick along with a hatchet.
After dinner, spent from a day of crying, I asked my dad where he took Daisy. He kept his eyes on the monstrous television as Ed Sullivan introduced the next act and told me he took the duck to a farm across the river in Savage, where she could recuperate. On that bloody Sunday, my father lied to me and he knew I knew it.
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