You should be in bed. It’s a fucking school night. How are you supposed to get A’s and be his personal slave?
Instead I kneel on the edge of Dad’s bed while squeezing his back and feet, vigorously. I know what he likes by now; he taught me since I was six years old. “Jenny, you have to squeeze Daddy’s feet good because I’m Greek. And the Greek’s are the smartest people in the world. They know that the feet control the whole body.”
Whatever! Just drop off already. Before my fingers fall off.
I detect the faintest snore. Good. Almost worn out.
But Dad snorts, jolting himself awake. “Jenny, go get a pen and paper. Then come back and sit on the edge of my bed.”
When I return, he reminds me of his pain. “You know your Father doesn’t like to complain about pain, but when that bastard Doctor took my Darvon away last week, that was real pain. I asked God, why? Why would he put your Father through that? Why did he charge me with raising you alone?” Apparently you won’t be sleeping tonight.
“But God told your Father not to worry and that he wants me to send the pope the right version of the Hail Mary prayer. The one we say in church, it’s all wrong.” Oh Dear God. Why have you forsaken me?
You can send random stuff to the Pope? Hi Your Eminence, I’m a lunatic. Also, here’s my superior version of the prayer that Jesus Christ probably recited to the disciples. See, I knew you would like mine better.
He dictates while I write quickly. “Your Eminence, Your Holy Grace, my name is Jenny and I attend St. Mary’s Catholic School. I wrote another version of the Hail Mary prayer…”
He pauses, “You got all that so far, Jenny?” No! No! No! This is your shit. Why is my name on it?
“Good. Now…Holy Mother of God…who gave us…” My hands continue to write but I block out his words.
The next day, Dad drops the letter off at the post office. Nothing will ever come of that.
A few weeks later, a letter from the Vatican arrives in the mail. “Dear Jenny, thank you for your thoughtful submission. His Eminence appreciates your devotion and consideration.”
What? They must be nuts there too!
The next morning Dad marches into school with me. He shows the letter to the principal’s assistant.
“Oh, this is lovely. You must be so proud of Jenny, Mr. K.” What a load of crap. He’s so proud of himself.
“Yes, she a good kid. I thought you would want to see it. I mean it must be pretty rare to receive a letter signed by the Pope, right?”
“Yes, of course. In fact, if you don’t mind, we should hang it just outside the Great Hall.”
Thank God no one ever looks in that case. But this isn’t the end. You know he’ll be gloating for a long time to come.