Gullivers Travails

A thank you to blackrandl1958 for the invitation to participate in her "

Legend's Day: One More

" event, as well as her editing and encouragement.

It never fails. I was scrambling to get out of my office to begin my weekend on a Friday afternoon when I get that dreaded "one more call."

It was 3:10 PM. I was already 10 minutes into weekend mode. I knew my wife would have been up at the lake house for about two hours now, probably working on her second margarita, wearing that yellow sundress I thought she looked so good in. Yes, Abby was no ingenue at 50, but she was still a gym regular and looked at least 10 years younger. Shit, I needed to stop thinking of my wife, answer the damn phone and get moving.

"I know you're trying to get out of here, Gabe, but the woman on the phone says she's your daughter and absolutely needs to speak to you," said my bookkeeper/right-hand-woman Kate Beckett. "She didn't sound anything like Lauren, though. I've talked to her hundreds of times in the last eight years, and this was definitely not her."

"Perfect," I said flatly. "I'm pretty sure part of your job is to keep insurance agents off my back, Kate."

I heard her giggle right before I punched in our number one phone line and responded, "Gulliver. How can I help you?" I was upset that someone would pretend to be my daughter just to get put through to me.

"Da-Daddy? I'm in big trouble, Daddy, and I really, really need your help," the obviously scared voice on the other end of the phone line said.

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. That voice did belong to a daughter of mine... one from another lifetime ago; one of my two daughters from my first marriage, whom I hadn't heard the first word from since the day she got married three years ago. There was a time when I would have gone running at the mere sound of her voice. Not so much anymore.

"Emily? Emily! What's going on? Where are you? What kind of help do you need?" I asked rapid-fire, my paternal instincts overcoming my good sense.

"I'm dying, Daddy," she said barely above a whisper. "My kidneys are shot... and neither Mom nor Pepper are a match. I know you have the same blood type as me, and I was hoping..."

I could have been a deaf-mute for how I sat at my desk holding the phone to my ear. It had been 15 years since both of my kids from my first marriage basically cut me out of their lives. The last time I saw Emily, I was an invited guest at her wedding three years ago, not even allowed to sit with the family during the ceremony or at the reception. Her stepfather walked her down the aisle and gave her away.

I have no idea how long I sat silent before I heard her calling my name.

"Dad? Daddy? Are you still there?" she called quietly.

"Yeah, I'm still here ba... Emily. I-I need time to think about this," I said.

"Uh... really, Daddy? You need time to think about this? I'm your daughter for God sake," she suddenly yelled at me through the phone line.

"That's awfully convenient, don't you think?" I asked quietly, my tone having changed from concerned to aggravated in the blink of an eye.

I assumed the silence I heard through the line was my daughter suddenly re-thinking some of her life decisions concerning me for the last 15 years. First, she and her younger sister chose to live with their cheating slut mother after the divorce; virtually never visiting with me on the days I was supposed to have them. Then they chose to change their last names to match that of their mother after she married her paramour. The final insult was when I was told that their stepfather was going to pay for the wedding and walk her down the aisle. I could attend the wedding but would be nothing more than any other random guest.

My second wife and I attended the wedding, but were relegated to an aisle and a table well away from the immediate family during the ceremony and reception. Emily even made sure to thank her stepfather during her bride's speech. I might as well have been invisible. Her new husband, whom I had barely interacted with prior to the wedding, also virtually ignored me on the wedding day. My wife and I left the reception after the first hour, and that was the last time I saw or talked to either daughter... until a few minutes earlier.

"Daddy, you know I didn't mean anything..."

"Don't, Emily," I interjected. "Just because I was too trusting of your cheating slut mother to realize she was cheating on me for almost a year doesn't mean I'm a clueless fool. What you and your sister did to me was almost worse, in a way. You encouraged her cheating, and then your behavior after the divorce... hell, we won't talk about that shit."

Another long silence ensued.

"Bu-u-ut I'm your daughter, Daddy. You have to help me," she whined.

"Really?" I responded. "Let me get back to you on that, kid."

I heard her saying something as I hung up the phone.

The trip up to my lake house took an hour and gave me time to play the memory game. It wasn't a pleasant hour.

******

I thought I had the world by the ass 15 years ago. I was 39 years old, married to my college sweetheart for 16 years, two great daughters and for the past five years I had been the junior partner in a successful Arby's franchise in southern Indiana. Yes, I worked 55 to 60 hours per week, but the work was relatively easy and I was just starting to reap the financial rewards. I was actually looking at buying out my senior partner in the near future and maybe getting a stake in a couple more near-by Arby's franchises.

A few months earlier, I had adjusted my hours to leave my store on Fridays at 3, and only go in on Saturdays for a half-day. The weekend was supposed to be sunny and warm, and I figured I'd get a good jump on my spring yardwork while the girls were at softball practice Saturday afternoon. Then maybe we'd all head over to the Indianapolis Zoo before hitting Cheesecake Factory for dinner.

I was feeling pretty good about things and really didn't really think twice about the fact that Dr. Harrison McCord's car was parked on Donatella's side of the driveway as I pulled my car past his and into my empty garage slot. Harry had been one of Donnie's bosses at a large orthopedic practice in Indianapolis, and she had been his top surgical nurse for the past five years. They worked closely together and Donnie had said they had become friends as well as colleagues. I totally got that because my wife is well-read and personable, and had always seemed to be in the middle of any crowd of people in which she chooses to be part.

I tolerated Harry McCord, at best, finding him to be somewhat insufferable due to his God complex. To be fair, however, most of the physicians at the practice had the same high opinion of themselves, so it's not like his attitude was out of line for his circumstance. Still, he was one of my wife's bosses, so I was never going to tell him what I really thought of him, despite the fact that he didn't seem to have any problem letting me know that I'd never be his equal. He had done this several times at social events since he began at the practice, and it took my wife's continued pleading to keep me from popping him in the mouth.

"I make very good money there, Gabe, more than you bring home, so don't you dare start anything with him. Do you understand me?" she told me at one of the first social events he was at where he gave me attitude and lip.

Several times a year the practice held family events on a Sunday, and soon after Harry became part of the team there was a barbecue at the home of one of the senior partners. I had just finished playing volleyball with a group of parents and kids and was heading for the ice chest holding the beer when I passed by a group of what I assumed were younger male doctors talking about what they wanted to do to several of the nurses on staff. When one mentioned a particular nurse with long blonde hair, blue eyes and big boobs, I knew I needed to... interrupt that particular discussion.

"Make another comment like that about my wife and I'll rip your tongue out of your mouth and use it to wipe my ass the next time I take a shit," I said as I walked right up to the mouthy bastard.

Harry, as I found out his name later, had about three inches and 30 pounds on me, but from looking at him I could tell he didn't belong to a gym and had probably never been in a scrap in his life. I worked out regularly, and as a kid had my fair share of fights. I knew what it was like to get hit by a fist in the heat of battle.

It was at that point that the partner whose home we were at walked up to quell the potential uprising, and five seconds later Donatella grabbed me by my arm, pulled me off to a quiet spot and gave me her upbraiding.

Since that time, Donnie had made it a point to me that I wasn't to threaten Harry or even breathe harshly in his direction any time we were at the same event.

If Harry's presence at my house didn't exactly make me happy, the sight of my wife sitting up against him on the sofa in our living room set my teeth on edge. Before I could express my opinion of the situation, however, Donnie jumped in... hard.

"Obviously, Gabe, we need to talk."

Wow. How cliché. I fought back the urge to attack the smarmy bastard, who was sitting on the sofa smirking at me. I sat silently for several seconds before I realized she was waiting for my response.

"Oh, please, don't let me interrupt. The floor is yours," I said as I made a sweeping motion with my hand.

She actually let out a breath of... relief. Apparently, this was much more stressful for her than I realized. How rude of me.

"Uhh... we really didn't mean for it to happen, Gabe. It just did. We started out as friends... and things just kind of developed. We've been... intimate... for about the last six months," she said.

Considering her attitude concerning the good doctor, I can't say I was totally surprised by her announcement, although I was chagrined at her obvious attempt at lying to me. I first noticed that she seemed to be pulling away from me emotionally about 18 months ago, so I stepped up my game: flowers, small gifts and most important, more one-on-one time with her. That didn't seem to work, because about a year ago I noticed she upped her lingerie game under her scrubs and started working later several days a week, where in the past she had rarely worked extra hours. I kept a sharper eye out; if she was cheating, she was awfully good at hiding it... until she no longer wanted to hide it.

I felt my blood pressure spike.

"By my figuring, you two have been intimate... ahaha... been fucking for about the last year... and this didn't just happen. I'd bet he'd been chasing and you've been warming up to him well before that," I said hesitantly, pissed at myself for sounding weak.

I must have been on the money, because my statement seemed to make her angry, while Harrison continued to sit there smirking at me.

"Yeah... whatever, Gabe. I want a divorce. I want half our stuff. I want the girls. I don't care about your little fast-food enterprise. If you fight me on any of this, I'll go nuclear and go after every scrap I'm entitled to, which includes half of your stake in the restaurant. Harrison has more than enough money to bankroll my fancy-ass lawyer... and by the time I'm through with you, you will be living in the proverbial shoebox without a pot to piss in."

"I'll fight you on the girls," I quickly replied. "There's no way I'm going to accept being an every-other-weekend father!"

She snickered like she knew something I didn't. The hair on the back of my neck went up.

I found out why Donnie snickered when I talked to my daughters the next day. Much to my shock, Emily and Trish already knew about their mother and Harrison. In fact, they seemed to revel in their knowledge.

"Mom's hot, Dad. She needs a hot guy. And he's a hot, rich guy," Emily commented.

I suddenly felt sick to my stomach.

"Sorry to tell you this, Dad, but you're not hot... and kind of boring. I can't wait to live with him and Mom," Trish said.

"Wait. What?" I mumbled, barely able to stop the expletive that was in my head from coming out of my mouth. "You two already know about your mother and Harrison... and you're good with it?"

"We've known for about a month now, Dad. Mom swore us to secrecy," Emily said. "Said we'd both get a new car when we turn 16... and Harrison's got a real nice house, too."

I was sitting in my chair at the kitchen table until Emily told me she and Trish knew about the affair. Reflexively, I jumped up and started pacing about the room.

"Yeah, Dad. We're going with Mom. We'll still see you every other week... unless we're doing something," Emily said cheerfully.

"Did either one of you ever consider saying something to me about your mother cheating?" I asked.

The girls looked at each other and smiled self-consciously. At least I hoped it was self-consciously.

"Uhh... not really," Trish said.

I wondered if the two could hear my heart breaking. Losing their mother was one thing. This was at a whole different level.

We had a decent amount of equity in the house and there was no alimony. Child support was going to take a big chunk of my income, however, so by the time the dust settled, Donnatella was right: I would be living in a shoebox without a pot to piss in... and that was without putting up a fight. Fuck.

I wound up in a small two-bedroom apartment, although as it turned out I really didn't need the second bedroom for when the girls came to visit... because they almost never visited. They were way too busy most times to visit formerly Dear Old Dad.

At first, after the divorce, I buried myself in work to make up for losing my family and half of my stuff. I had no desire to enter into another relationship so soon after my betrayal. Gradually, though, I found I missed having at least someone with whom to share my life. So, I did the next best thing: I went to an animal shelter and picked out a dog. He wasn't a handsome purebred, but his eyes showed character, something that none of the members of my former family displayed at the end. He was about 80 pounds of brown dog with some black in his face, about five years old, the shelter staff figured. I named him "Levon" to honor Levon Helm of The Band, who I always considered one of the most low-key rockers of his era.

Levon went everywhere with me that a dog was allowed. In my small apartment, he usually was sitting half on top of me on my small sofa. I joked to him that he was my emotional therapy dog. I talked to him all the time, discussed my new hopes and dreams with him and told him the occasional joke I heard at work that day. I know that he probably didn't understand too much of what I told him, but the fact that he listened attentively to me was good for my soul.

Interestingly, on the few times my daughters visited me at my apartment, Levon usually stayed as far away from them as he could. He seemed to merely tolerate them. I can't say I blamed him.

It was a little more than two years after my divorce when I called over to the local high school to leave a message for my older daughter. She hadn't stopped by my house to collect her birthday gift from two weeks ago, so I wanted to remind her to do that. I knew the school didn't allow students to use their phones during the school day except for emergencies, so I tried to leave a message... except the secretary who answered the phone told me they had no students registered by that name. I was just about to berate the stupid woman when a terrible stray thought hit my brain. I asked her if she had a student registered as Emily Cord. She replied in the positive, so I told her to leave a message for that student.

"By the way, who is listed as this student's parents?" I enquired.

"Dr. Harrison and Donnatella Cord," the secretary responded.

I was none too happy with that response, and I let her know that I should be listed as Emily's father, no one else.

"Our listings come directly from the students. They can list whomever they want as parents and emergency contacts, if those are different," the woman on the other end of the phone said.

I growled through the phone connection before asking if they had a listing for a Patricia Cord as well. She answered affirmatively. By this point, my heart was broken into little pieces and I could feel the beginning of an ulcer in my stomach.

Emily showed up at my door at 8 that evening, ringing my bell. When I answered the door, I could see her mother's car in my driveway. As usual, I didn't rate a kiss hello.

I handed her the birthday present but didn't release it immediately.

"How long have you been going by Emily Cord?" I asked, my tone none too kindly.

"Probably since the beginning of the school year, Dad. Why?"

I shook my head slowly, holding my tears in check.

"No reason. Just curious," I said.

I was sitting at an outside table at a local Dunkin drinking a large black coffee and eating a chocolate cake doughnut one Sunday morning when Levon paid me back big-time for adopting him.

"Is it okay if I pet him?" asked a woman's voice from somewhere behind me, obviously talking about Levon, who was laying at my feet munching on a dog biscuit I had brought along with me.

"Yeah, sure. He's completely harmless," I said as I turned to face the voice and found it was connected to a short woman in a Cubs hat carrying a cup of coffee and a newspaper.

The woman set her coffee and paper down on the table and proceeded to scritch Levon on his head and ears, murmuring sweet nothings as she did so. Levon responded happily as he always does to that kind of attention, his tail wagging quickly. Having nothing better to do, I appraised Levon's new friend from head to toe, and determined she was a curvy package in her tight, short jean shorts and tight Cubs crop top.

I invited the woman to join me after she finished scratching my dog and she did, introducing herself as Melanie. She appeared to be a few years younger than my 42.

"Melanie? Like the singer from the 1960s? No last name?" I asked in a joking manner.

"Actually, it's Melanie Kalakidesus," she said, pronouncing the last name slowly, as if I was a slow child, "But most people screw up my last name so much I just started telling people only my first name. We Greeks are just this side of Polish people for having unpronounceable last names."

We both laughed at that, one of the few times I can remember laughing in the presence of a woman in the last few years.

"Gabriel Gulliver here. Gabe to my friends, and Levon's friends as well. Can I offer you a dog biscuit on his behalf?" I inquired.

She giggled and I was hooked.

We talked for about 30 minutes. In that time, I found out she was a 35-year old divorced mother of two pre-teen sons whose husband had cheated on her and then abandoned the family several years previously. She worked for an insurance company and while she was doing okay for herself and her boys, there wasn't room for a lot of indulgences. Her Sunday morning coffee at Dunkin while her boys were with their grandparents was one of the few.

She looked slightly embarrassed when she revealed the last fact, her cheeks going red and her big brown eyes looking down at the table.

"The kids' father is a deadbeat... dad," she said with more than a little anger in her voice. "Oh hell, he's a deadbeat fuckhead, is what he is. Pardon my French."

Her eyes were blazing when she looked back up at me.

"I don't mind that he isn't paying my alimony, but how could he not support his own kids?" she queried rhetorically.

"He'd probably be happier if he had kids like my daughters. Even though I pay my support, they want nothing to do with me. They've got a rich, younger stepdad now and would be completely happy if they never had to see me again," I said. "That's why I got Levon. I needed someone to share my life and dog biscuits with.