He came down the stairs, brandishing a copy of The New York Times.
I don't think I'd ever seen my father so angry.
"Nothing!" He threw the paper on to the kitchen table. "Not a word about my work!"
"Charles..." Mama stuck her head in from the dining room. "You can't control what they print. There's nothing you can do--"
"Oh, there's something I can do all right," Papa said. "They promised me. They promised they'd run the story this time. Bastards--"
Mama blushed.
Papa looked at me, standing by the door. "I'm sorry, Rebecca. I didn't mean to curse like that."
"It's ok, Papa. I once heard a boy say that in the school yard." I smiled my little girl smile. I'd always be his little girl. "It's hard being an inventor of something. My friend Janey once wrote a great poem--and it was so good, no one believed she really wrote it."
Mama was next to him now, her arms around him, trying to soothe him. "No one believes in people who invent things in their garages any more. It's all big corporations now. No point beating your head against the wall."
"There's a point," Papa insisted. "What's the use of inventing anything if no one knows about it?"
"You can't really blame the newspapers," Mama said. "If you don't even have a patent, how can you expect the Times to--"
"Patent?" Papa yelped. "How am I supposed to go about getting a patent on this machine? Just file a blueprint of my design with the Patent Office? It's a time machine, for God's sake! If someone else built it, if it fell into the wrong hands, it could wreak havoc on our world!"
"Ok then," Mama said. "How about some good hot oatmeal for breakfast?" She gestured towards a simmering pot on the stove.
"Let's sit down and eat. Forget about the Times. There's nothing you can do about it."
"Yes, there is." Papa sat down, ready to eat, but not mollified, "They promised me they'd print the story this time. Now they're going to pay."
)
