A.N.: With Rene's sage advice, I've reordered my first chapter to read a little smoother, and I'll add the disclaimer here that I'll also stick in the first chapter; that this story begins in the 'present', and then skips back in time. A bit disorienting, yes, but I think you'll like it. Have a good one.
I met Donald five years ago. Or, I should say, my father met Donald. At a computer convention in Silicon Valley. According to legend, Don was going 'incognito' as he always did in public, wearing sweat pants, a trench, and a wide brimmed hat, looking utterly ridiculous. As if he didn't stand out enough, part way through the convention his hat fell off. My father apparently took pity on him, and brought him into the men's room. I asked him why once, he told me about how at 'his age' odd bodies didn't matter much anymore. I thought it was charming.
That was the thing about my dad. He was a great person, always a humanitarian. He and Donnie struck some sort of rapport that day. Enough to bring him home for dinner. That's where I met him. The two were talking about pulse converters, or some other science fiction jargon, over a bowl of spaghetti. Now, living with my father, I'd seen a lot of strange things. But a giant human-turtle hybrid in sweat pants eating spaghetti in my living room took the cake. My father had a good laugh about it; both of us equally shocked to see the other. He also had a very broad sense of humor, my father.
So from then on, Don became a regular sight around the house. Or what I assumed was a regular sight. He spent all his time with my dad in the lab downstairs. The entire bottom floor of our house was converted into a giant laboratory, so even when I did go down to use one of the computers, I rarely caught site of him. He seemed to be making my father a working hermit too.
My dad was a retired technical engineer, and worked his own projects out of the house. Whenever Don came around he became a total recluse. I suspect they were even sleeping down there sometimes, seeing Don sneak out in the morning. Eventually I began taking food down to them, knowing they were too single minded to feed themselves.
Nearing dark, the door finally cracked open. Shaking her keys out of the lock, Angela dropped them in her purse as she bumped the front door all the way open. A pair of pizza boxes were held under one stretched arm, and she set them on the dining table before she fell over with them. Closing the door and tossing her purse on the counter, she cast a glance to the lab door. It was closed, signaling her dad and his assistant were working. She leaned over the dining table, adjusting her frizzy mass of light brown curls in the waxy reflection. Pulling a hair band from around her wrist, she tied her hair back and took the pizza boxes back up, taking them to the lab.
She ventured down the rickety steps cautiously, the dim light over the stairs never quite adequate. Downstairs was a bevy of electronics and equipment. While she was more than fluent on regular computer systems, she never had same flare and genius of her father. So she never spent a lot of time in the lab.
Following the sound of Aerosmith, Angela made her way through the maze. Her father also prided himself on being music buff. It sounded like the platform was the center of action that day. Coming up on the back of the lab, she saw what seemed to be a souped up easy-chair, looking much like a go-cart. Sparks tinkered out from beneath, bouncing out beside two protruding legs. Don. She nudged his foot and the hiss of the torch turned off. He rolled out from beneath and sat up on the sliding board.
"Hungry?"
"Yeah." He set the handset of the torch aside, twisting down the gas release of the tank. His arms were big, cut deep and hard with muscles, which continued down his chest. She looked away, and set the boxes on the nearby chair, the only clear spot in the place. It wasn't right to be thinking about him like that. After all, he was a turtle. "Thanks Angela." He smiled.
"Sure. Pepperoni, artichoke and tomato." She could see his eyes light up, but he was too shy to go for it. Fortunately her father came back and he seemed to relax.
"Hey sweeth'art!" He boomed over the music. His slackened surgeons mask completed the image of a jolly Santa, which he was well aware of. "Aye, you brought us lunch! Lemme wash up!" He pulled off the mask and headed for the sink.
"More like dinner." She countered, but he was already off again. "Time flies, right?" Don nodded.
"Thank you for the pizza, though."
"Of course." She sighed, heading back to the stairs. The hissing torch started up again behind her.
That was the way most nights went. For about four months. That's when the accident happened. One night in the lab the system backfired and caused an explosion. Don wasn't there that day, which I suppose was good. I don't know what the EMTs would've thought of him.
On the way to the hospital my father went into cardiac arrest. He was always an easygoing person. But I guess with age, and cholesterol, the blast was just too much for him… He died in the ambulance. The man who had been my friend and guardian from birth left with no theatrics, no smiles, and no way to tell him farewell.
There wasn't any family in state, since my mother and her sisters had died years ago. So the funeral was small. Just me, some old business partners and a priest. It was a sunny day, which seemed fitting, but I still didn't like it. After the service, I stayed late by the grave. My father and I were very close. Maybe I still wanted to be close to him that night.
"Angela," Hardly enough to rouse her, Angela continued tearing bits of grass from the ground. Another person sat beside her, cautious not to be too close. The hem of ratty khakis belonged to Don. He cleared his throat, making study of the dirt plot before them. Angela sucked in air and tossed a handful of grass in its direction. "It's dark." He reminded her.
"Yeah." She wheezed. He finally caught her eyes, finding them red and dry. The ghost lines of tears ran down her cheeks.
"Ang…" He turned on his hip to face her. Fresh tears began, dad used to call me 'Ang.' "Ang, I'm sorry." She nodded vigorously, trying to fight back the crying fit for awhile. "I'm so sorry for your loss." Reaching over and clasping his shoulder, she swallowed in the tears.
"I'm sorry for you too." He tried to stop her. "No, you and my dad were real close." Another dam broke. She hardly took notice as he pulled her into his arms. Rocking the girl gently, he let her face bury in his coat. It was several moments before she could gather herself again.
"You were his daughter." Don whispered into her hair. "It's okay, how you're feeling." She gulped in air.
"I-HI-HI-I-I feel o-old." Angela clutches the plates of his chest, swallowing down on her constricting throat.
"I know. It's ok." He stroked her back. "Come on," Standing, and pulling Angela gently to her feet, "I'm going to take you home." He acted as a crutch, nearly carrying her through the cemetery. "I'll make some tea."
Those months after his death were very hard. I missed my father terribly, and suddenly had to learn to live on my own at the same time. While money was never an issue, just managing the household and bills was greatly disconcerting. My father had a large deal of experiments and projects, which had to be looked after. Fortunately Don came by every couple of days to keep up on the lab, and help on the paperwork for them that had to be submitted to the companies. Without a partner to putter around the basement with, I saw more of him above ground.
A flurry of papers flew up in the gust of wind. Slapping down the forms, Angela frowned at Don, who quickly closed the front door behind him.
"Sorry." He dropped his keys into his jacket, then hung it up beside the door. "What with the papers?" He looked over the mountain of papers, which coated the dining room table. Pale blue eyes narrowed as Angela scowl/pouted at the paper work before her. Don tried not to laugh.
"We got W-10s, W-2s, something with lots of numbers, here's something that looks important… I think this one is my report card from fifth grade." He came around to her side of the table, looking over the set of papers currently before her. "On top of that, I just found out I'm failing accounting, and –oh yeah- the guy I've been dating just told me he wants to see other men."
"I see."
"What do you think you're smiling at?" She glared at him. He shook his head.
"Nothing." A few moments passed. "Other men?" She groaned, laying her face into the bed of paper. "Sorry, sorry." He chuckled lightly, patting her back. "Look, take these into the living room, I'll order us a pizza, and, uh, give you a hand."
"Thanks." She said weakly. Spotting the pile of used tissues on the adjacent chair, he added.
"I'll throw in some ice cream too, huh?"
"Yeah."
Don helped out a lot at the house. Often fixing my father's inventions in the kitchen that I dare not touch. In return, he had free reign over the lab. Once I confessed how much I appreciated his help and company, he started showing up more often. We would stay up late talking, or watching TV, or playing computer games over the LAN. Often all three.
At some point we decided it would be easier if Don simply moved in. As it was, he spent the afternoons in the lab, came up for dinner with me, and then we spent the night in the living room. He left before dawn, and showed up again while I was at school, back to the lab. I wondered where he stayed when he left. He never talked about friends, or a home.
He took the guestroom at the end of the hall. And for awhile things between us seemed pretty cut and dry. Or at least that's what we'd like to think.
