he says, “Slim. Well.” The first words to his daughter in four years. As he collapses in the overstuffed chair, she notices that he is not well. Not slim. Two-hundred-fifty pounds on five foot ten. All these years his weight has trailed her like Claudius. She is sad, repulsed, confused that she could ever have been so fearful of this man, her father. He plops a packet of snapshots on the coffee table and surveys her apartment. He takes in the Indian wall hangings, small Guatemalan rug, purple gladiolas in the plum Japanese vase. Does he remember the vase? Does he remember when he brought it back for her in high school? Or was it college? She does not remember. He regards the vase, puzzling. When he notices her noticing him, he shifts his glance. “An electric typewriter,” he says, considering her neat desk from a distance. He will not go closer. He has never intruded. “But I guess you need it for your work.” Can he imagine the months it took to convince herself that she needed an electric typewriter to be a good union organiser?
