by Louisa Howerow

They stood at the front door, he struggling with the key, his daughter leaning into him ever so slightly.

The neighbor's cat eyed them from the lawn, waiting to reclaim her space under the warm car.

"Good to be home, eh," said Pete.

Jennie seemed not to hear.

Maybe it was better this way. What could he tell her? Your mother and I talked about grown up stuff when you were at Grandma's. Your mother cried about losing the baby and I said we’ve got to move past this. Meaning I’m tired. Meaning I don’t know how to make the pain go away. Meaning shut the hell up; it’s been a year, already.

He watched Jennie place her shoes neatly inside the closet. Like mother, like daughter, he thought ruefully, and did the same.

"I have to water my flowers," she said.

"Go to it, girl." He motioned her onward and headed for the sofa. His body ached all over. It had been a long day. Work, then the hospital visit to see his wife, and now picking up a distraught daughter from school. He needed sleep, a quick pizza order for supper, and more sleep.

"I need help."

"What for?"

The girl's small mouth made soft slurping noises as if she were sucking a mint. The fingers of her left hand twisted and untwisted a strand of hair. "To hold up the petals."

He wanted to tell her she would be fine. The plants wouldn't know if her watering was A or A+, but was no escaping. She would stand there till she got her way. "Well, let's get on with it."

His daughter's bedroom looked out over the backyard: a swing, two silver maples, not much else. Last year, he had built her a dormer window. African violets were lined up on the sill. Their heart-shaped leaves flared out beneath the bright purple-blue flowers.

The plants and a small green watering can with a long curved spout were gifts from Grandma, his mother. The can was partially filled with water.

"The water has to sit," Jennie said, as if she were answering a question he hadn't yet asked. She placed the spout under the tuft of leaves, did not ask her father to hold them up, and poured gently. No water drops spattered the dark velvet leaves.

"Good job," he said, by way of encouragement.

"Saintpaulia. African Violets are called Saintpaulia," she said.

"How do you know that?"

"Grandma told me. They're named after Baron von Saint Paul."

"A saint. Imagine." He couldn't imagine it at all.

"Would you like one?" Jennie pointed to one of the flower pots. "For your office?"

He declined the gift, decided not to tell her that gift plants - from clients, from his secretary - tended to suffer from neglect and ended up in the trash can.

The girl's thin shoulders rose; she held her arms stiffly by her sides.

Don't cry, thought Pete. Don't cry. I don't know what to do with people who cry.

Didn't know what to do with Beth when she became hysterical: shouting, crying, pointing a paring knife at him. "I could kill you," she said. "I could kill myself." He had told her to calm down and she had slammed out of the house.

"We'll have pizza tonight," he said. "Would you like that?"

"We had pizza at Grandma's."

"Right. No pizza, then. Suggestions?"

"I don't care." She flopped down on the bed and stared at the ceiling.

He left her to her flowers, her watering can, the water that needed to stand.

In the kitchen, he took stock of what they had. A box of animal crackers. He heard the bedroom door slam. Canned soup.

His head throbbed and his nose was starting to run. When he was sick, his mother would wrap him in blankets. "Keep still. The sweat will drive the sickness away." She'd make him soup.

That's what mothers did, didn't they? Look after their children, make them soup, read them stories, make sure they were warm. Not run screaming through the streets.

He'd make soup and grilled cheese sandwiches for supper. They'd eat animal crackers and drink hot cocoa for dessert.

A truck driver had found Beth sitting in the middle of Hawthorne Drive sobbing and tearing at her clothes. "It's best if she stays, until we make a diagnosis," the doctor had said.

Pete pressed his hands on the counter, hard. He needed to feel its solidness, its immutability.

"Dad."

He hadn't heard her come in. Our little brown rabbit, Beth had once called their daughter.

She placed her head against his arm. "I miss Mom."

"I miss her, too, sweetheart." He did, didn't he? Pete kissed his daughter on the head. Her hair smelled like spring. He imagined that's what hope smelled like, too.

One thing at a time. They'd start with supper, because that's what fathers do. "We're having soup." He pulled out a pot. "And grilled cheese. How about that! Better than pizza, eh?"

The sky was closing. The neighbor's cat was making her way home.

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