A Song for Julia

“You don’t know nothin’ about Southie in those days,” he said.
    I shrugged and turned to Julia. “What he’s not saying is that back then, things weren’t exactly on the up and up. And Dad was—straight as an arrow. Which is why he’s still driving a patrol car instead of sitting behind a desk somewhere.”
    Dad snorted. “Like I want to be behind a desk.” But behind the snort, I could see the pride in his eyes. Dad and I don’t get along, but don’t ever mistake that for me not having respect for him. He’s a hero—he’s my hero. But I’ve never quite been able to live up to him, so, at some point, I just stopped trying and went my own way.
    Julia’s eyes were going back and forth between my dad and me, and I could tell the wheels were turning, but I couldn’t tell what she was thinking. Maybe I’m just out of practice. I don’t make it a habit of wondering what girls are thinking—most of the time that’s the last thing I want to know.
    “Dougal, you take care of the dishes,” Dad said.
    “I’ll help,” Julia chimed in.
    “Oh, no! He’s not getting out of it! You just sit and enjoy your coffee.”
    I took her plate, and she said, “Thank you, Dougal,” with a wry expression on her face.
    I gave Dad a sharp look. “You’ll pay for that, Dad.”
    The old bastard just burst into a loud belly laugh.
    So I started washing the dishes, as my dad asked, “So you’re at Harvard? What are you studying?”
    “International business,” she said.
    Damn.
    “And when do you graduate? Do you have plans after?” My dad wasn’t exactly being subtle as he pumped her for information. I filled up the sink as they talked and began washing suds over the dishes.
    “Well,” she said, “I’ve applied to graduate school … at the Fletcher School, and Georgetown. I’m probably going to end up going into the Foreign Service. That’s what my dad wants anyway.”
    “Must have been fascinating, growing up in a bunch of different countries,” Dad said.
    She didn’t answer right away, and I couldn’t see her expression. I found myself straining to hear her next words.
    “I don’t know about all that,” she said. Her voice sounded sad. “It’s not a normal life, moving to a new country every three years. Kind of lonely sometimes. You leave behind everyone you know and start over, new schools and new teachers. I don’t know if I’ll ever get married, but if I did … not sure it’s the right life for kids. What about you? You grew up here?”
    I could understand that. Even though I lived in Roxbury now and spent most of my free time in Somerville mixed up in the music scene, I felt grounded when I was in Southie. I knew every block, every park. I knew the neighbors and where they came from, and in most cases, I knew their parents and grandparents.
    My dad answered her question by launching into a story of growing up in Southie, trying to stay clear of the gangs. I knew this was going to take a while. The old man had a knack for story telling and tended to stretch the truth just a little to get some laughs.
    I discreetly turned and watched Julia’s reactions. She looked more relaxed than I’d ever seen her, curled up in her chair, elbow on the table, chin resting in her hand. She had a broad smile, which was remarkable, and her blue-green eyes were wide as my dad waved his hands around, trying to describe the antics of one of the gangs that had terrorized the neighborhood in the 1970s. At one point, she threw her head back in a full-throated laugh, her whole body shaking.
    Watching her like that, I thought she just might be one of the most beautiful women I’d ever seen.
    Not because of physical beauty, though she had plenty of that. It was in her bearing and in her eyes. This was no pill-popping, cocktail drinking college girl who’d never experienced anything in her life. Somewhere along the line, she’d been through something. There was grief and loneliness behind those eyes. And strength like I don’t think I’d ever seen before.
    I didn’t realize I was staring. But at one point, Dad paused in his story at the part where he was climbing in the back windows of South Boston High School, and looked at me. Then she looked at me and met my eyes, and I took a sharp breath. I realized I’d been standing there at least two or three minutes, a dripping dish in my hand, just watching her.
    Stumbling over my words, I said, “Don’t stop, Dad,” and went back to washing dishes like