Castles on the Sand

Twenty-Seven

“I'm um, going to try to invoke a higher authority.”

“What? Report him to the state? Or the fed? What?”

I don't dare say it aloud. It sounds too stupid, but I want to believe that it could work and I have to try. “Please?” I beg.

“Can your father resist blue eyes like those?” says Alex.

“Yes,” says Kirsten, “but I'll come with you. You saved my sister's life. I guess I owe you one.”

The three of us plus Kirsten's daughter, whom she carries on her hip, arrive at the Inn ten minutes later. I know it's the Beales' dinner time, which is why I also know they'll both be in the house. I knock and ring the doorbell three times before I get an answer – I also know they have a habit of not allowing interruptions at dinner.

Mr. Beale jerks the door open and stares out at us. “What do you want?”

I take a deep breath. Do this, I think. “Let us in.”

He looks me over for a moment, then steps back and lets us past him, into the living room which has its furniture set up again, but is still missing most of its floor. Kirsten gives him a wide berth and turns to keep her child as far from him as possible. Alex looks him straight in the eye and Mr. Beale glares right back, so my first order of business, once we're all inside, is to step between Alex and Mr. Beale. I don't bother to sit down. I'd lose my nerve if I did. Kirsten goes by the window, bouncing her daughter gently.

I point at the cross stitch of the Bible verses on the wall and will my hand not to shake. “I've always wondered about that, so I looked it up today.”

Mr. Beale folds his arms across his chest.

“It's weird, because in that story, the father of the prodigal son is all happy when the son comes back. He was even standing out, watching and waiting for his son to return. Kirsten's here, and you don't seem to even care.”

“Has she come to beg forgiveness?” asks Mr. Beale.

“Hmm,” I say, “interesting. You read that parable lately? The son doesn't just ask for forgiveness. He asks for a job. A really low paid job. But clearly the forgiveness part is what you care about, not employing your daughter to help her pay the bills.”

“Kirsten's never asked us for a job,” says Mr. Beale.

“The son in the story asks for a job because he remembers his father as a good and just man who treats people well, so he'd rather be a lowly worker in his father's house than out in the world. See, the story is about a child learning the hard way that his father is a good man and that he was lucky to have such a parent.” My courage starts to give, I feel it shift like sand being eaten away by the tide. “I think the moral of the story is, you don't get that ending unless you play your part.”

“Well, thank you for that,” says Mr. Beale, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

And my anger flares up, and with it, a second wave of confidence. “Listen, who are you to think you deserve any great blessings or whatever? Because that's why you have that on your wall, isn't it? It's because you think that story is about how no matter what you do to your daughters, it's their fault and they'll someday come to you and say, 'Gee, you were right, Dad. We're sooo sorry.' And you're going to cling to that belief even when trained professionals say that you need to re-evaluate your parenting style.”

“I think that's enough,” he says.

“Oh yeah? Well I don't care. Your thoughts aren't what I care about. I'm not here because you think I should be. I'm here because I know you're making a mistake, and you can pick on me all you want. You can drive me and my mom out of this town. I don't care. I am not your problem. You are. Even when I'm gone, your problems will still be here. Your daughter will still be in foster care and you'll keep doing the same stupid thing that put her there in the first place, too blinded by your own pride to catch a clue and grow up.”