Everdeen | When My Father Calls
“It’s endless entertainment for Gram,” he called to tell me after he’d gotten home from breakfast. “She just plops down on the patio, feeds Everdeen, and is as happy as a clam.” I reminded him of the photo he had on his computer, showing that Everdeen doesn’t run now—that she’ll sit on her hindquarters shelling the peanuts, tucking away the fruit and starting over again after depositing her stash in the hole. We laughed the way you laugh when there’s nothing else to do.
“Hey, thanks for coming to breakfast,” I said.
“Sure thing,” he said. I could hear the spring in his brown recliner pop forward with a getting-up motion.
“I’m going to think of more things to tell you on the way to pick up Gram.”
“Okay. I love you, Dad.”
“Love you, too, hon. Need any advice?”
“About training chipmunks?”
“Okay, okay, we can go now. But first, one more thing.” I could hear him open the sliding glass door to the patio. “Everdeen comes when I call her now.”
“Yep. I just have to stand at the screen door and cluck to her and she’ll run right up to me.”
I sat down on one of my kitchen chairs and brushed a loose strand of hair from my cheek so that it wouldn’t stick to the wetness.
“I guess I’ll have to come home to see that, huh?” I said.
Next weekend, I told my father. Next weekend I’d come when he called to tell me what was for breakfast.