Fix This

Fix This

D. A. Ratliff

The dragonfly landed on a budding branch, glanced around, then flitted away as I wished I could. I watched the diaphanous winged creature fly toward the next perch as the chatter from the garden party guests returned to my head. Time to join the real world again, if one could call this pretentious gathering orchestrated by an equally pretentious man–my father–real.

The center of attraction stood among his adoring crowd, the hangers-on who had never worked a day in their lives, spending their time playing tennis or yachting in the bay. They gave him money for causes, and he celebrated them as patrons of the arts, or the downtrodden, whatever cause was the flavor of the month. There was always a mark.

“Look at him.” I turned to find my sister, Camile, standing behind me. “He sure loves the limelight.”

“Always has, and when it doesn’t come to him, he manufactures it. Today, he is celebrating raising five million dollars for a children’s hospital. A noble cause but last time I looked, Cami, you did all the work.”

“Laurel, since when did that matter to him? He had nothing until he married Mom. It was all her family’s money.”

I watched my father climbing the steps to the small stage erected on the top level of the patio. Martin Pollack was formidable. Charismatic, brilliant, and a total con man. I hated him. Blood was not thick in our family. Camile and I and our brother Lawrence hated this man who gave us life. And we had reason–he killed our mother.

Across the yard, I watched Lawrence and knew he was seething. Our mother had been dead for five months, and yet, instead of grieving, “Dad” had a new friend, Monica Saunders, a socialite who had outlived two husbands to collect a large estate. She was twenty years younger than dad, not much older than me, and we knew she was angling for her third husband. When Dad motioned for Monica to join him at the podium, Lawrence lunged forward only to be held back by his wife. I knew how he felt. It took all that I could not to rush to the stage myself. Then Dad spoke.

“Ladies and gentlemen, friends, so wonderful to have you join us on this momentous day. Nothing is more rewarding than knowing that your generosity will benefit many ill children. The Charlotte Clayton Pollock Foundation’s impact is legendary. As you know, Charlotte is gone now, but I am pleased to announce that Monica Saunders is joining the Foundation as the spokesperson. I offer a toast to you, our patrons, the Foundation, and the new face of the Foundation. Cheers.”

Through the chorus of cheers, I heard Cami gasp and felt her hand grab my arm. She whispered, “Laurel, what’s he doing?”

I patted her hand. “Don’t worry. We’ll fix this.”

And fix this we will.

In the late afternoon, true to form, my father, who hated suits, headed upstairs to change into casual clothes. Fifteen minutes later, a scream came from the rear foyer entrance, and a guest ran onto the patio.

“He’s dead. Martin fell down the stairs. The banister gave way. He’s dead.”

I locked eyes with my sister and brother. We could have sworn he had the banister repaired after my mother fell to her death in the same manner. At least, he thought he had.

With satisfaction, as the stunned guests reacted, I watched Monica Saunders’ expression turn from smug to panic as she realized her gravy train lay dead at the foot of the stairs.

Something flitted in front of me, and I saw the dragonfly land on the branch beside me. I smiled. He didn’t get away with it, Mom. We made sure of it.

***

Author's Note: I wrote this story for What's Next?, a weekly writing workshop exercise on Writers Unite!, a Facebook writing group. WU! posts a photo image and provides the opening sentence, and the writer tells What's Next?