The Complicated Calculus (and Cows) of Carl Paulsen: Chapters 11–17

And from there the day rolls on, a usual Monday, everyone a little groggy and cranky, but following the routine.

“You speedy folks, I’d strongly advise you to check your work before you ask to be assessed,” Mr. Osterman warns, but with Cathy in charge, there’s nothing to worry about.

One of the definitions...wasn’t very helpful, and the other one wasn’t something that I really wanted to know about: Disparaging and offensive.

He’s not what you call a stellar student, so for him to skip out isn’t that surprising.

“I’ve been wanting to ask you something. I hope it isn’t too out of left field.”
Here it comes. The one consolation: since it’s Cathy, she’ll at least be diplomatic about it.

“I’ve been wanting to ask you something. I hope it isn’t too out of left field.”
Here it comes. The one consolation: since it’s Cathy, she’ll at least be diplomatic about it.

It makes it sounds like we were dating, which in a way we were, though if Andy were to hear me say that, he’d probably have to slug me.

I’m looking for a friend. A best friend. And your daughter seems like the ideal candidate.

“You know, I sort of miss your nightly confabs with Andy.”
My English teacher father and his big words. “Our what?”
“Your phone talks. All this week, after supper, I had this feeling that something was missing. And then on Wednesday, it dawned on me what it was. I had gotten used to it, you talking to someone on the phone, and I missed it. Like background music that you don’t really think about, but nice to have on.”

“You know what I want,” I say. “To keep doing what we’re doing.”
“Duly noted.”

Why she feels like she has to underestimate herself, I don’t know. But she has a way of doing that. I’d seen it in earth science lab, when we’re working on something, and she’ll say things like, “I don’t really know” (even though she does) and, “I’m not sure if this is right” (even though it always is).

I just happen to have superhuman powers of perception when it comes to people.

And then she laughs again, waiting for me to join in, but all I can muster is a weak smile.

One time my dad described Mr. Louden, the guy who runs the funeral home, as a ‘nice guy but a little light in his loafers.’

When I get home, everyone’s already asleep: a big relief because now I have some time to figure out how I’m going to rehash my date in a way that satisfies everyone’s curiosity without having to get into specifics.

Even though it’s completely ridiculous and childish, I feel a little twinge of...what? Guilt?

“So am I right to assume that you’re going to ask her out again?” my father asks. Even though he’s worded the question like a prosecuting attorney, there’s something in his voice, a hopefulness that maybe I’ve turned out okay after all, that I just needed a little more time.

Or maybe it’s better to use my father’s “on the outs” description, though that makes it seem like we’ll eventually be back on the “in” again, which I know isn’t likely to happen. But I know that terminology doesn’t much matter when it comes to how you feel.

I expect to see a big canopy bed, posters of teen heartthrobs on the walls, and a lot of pink.

But Cathy’s bedroom is well, pretty... minimal. I think that’s the right word. Definitely not girly.

A single bed, a desk, a white wicker rocking chair with a green cushion, walls painted the same soothing shade of green.

“I just wish he’d had a lapse with someone else.”

He chuckles; it’s not a relaxed, we’re just having a conversation sort of chuckle, but more strained, like he’s trying too hard.

Besides that, it surprises me to hear my father using a cliché, because those, like cell phones, are something he couldn’t abide.

After that, there’s more discussion about salaries (“I can live with it”—in other words it doesn’t pay very much, but it’s something and certainly better than going broke as a dairy farmer), the housing market (“Really? Not bad for a three bedroom house”), even the possibility of my father doing some tennis coaching (“I’m open to that”), even though he’s never picked up a racket in his life and he despises organized sports almost as much as he despises clichés and cell phones.

And my father is a farmer, no matter what anyone says about how he came to be one and why, and even though he could probably find some explanation for why calling inanimate objects using a female pronoun violated all sorts of rules of the English language.

Mr. Osterman told us once, even though we were studying rocks and not planets, adding that while he wasn’t an expert, astronomy was an “avocation” of his, without bothering to define what that meant.

More typical farmer logic: beautiful weather must always be paid for by bad, to make sure everything stays in perfect alignment.

She might not want to have anything to do with this place when she grows up. Or she might just take after her mother and corral some young man into taking over from me.

Fatherly intuition? If there is such a thing, I suppose that’s it. I wondered for a long time if you even knew.