Beth Ann Fennelly reads
Asked for a Happy Memory of Her Father, She Recalls Wrigley Field
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His drinking was different in sunshine, as if it couldn’t be bad. Sudden, manic, he swung into a laugh, bought me two ice creams, said One for each hand. Half the hot inning I licked Good Humor running down wrists. My bird-mother earlier, packing my pockets with sun block, has hopped her warning: Be careful. So, pinned between his knees, I held his Old Style in both hands while he streaked the sun block on my cheeks and slurred My little Indian princess. Home run: the hairy necks of men in front jumped up, thighs torn from gummy green bleachers to join the violent scramble. Father held me close and said Be careful, be careful. But why should I be full of care with his thick arm circling my shoulders, with a high smiling sun, like a home run, in the upper right-hand corner of the sky?