Dorian's Run (eBook)

Chapter 10.

Friday afternoon finds me heading back to Half Moon Bay with my sons in the back seat, my first weekend with the boys. Kevin and Jack are excited to see my alternative place and spend time at the beach. They love their unfamiliar room in my apartment. The boys can’t wait to open their suitcases and stuff their belongings into each of the small dressers. We walk to the local coffee shop for dinner. On the way we stop in at “Ken’s Jewelry” to say hi.

Ken is very patient with the boys who are over enthusiastic regarding his clocks. Kevin and Jack push the buttons on several clocks to see them sing and open. I mean they are pushing them all, which makes for a chaotic sound coming from the jewelry store. Once I get my sons use to the rules of behavior about our visit to the store, they settle down. They appreciate that taking turns pushing one clock at a time is a better way to enjoy them. With the boys behaving better, I approach Ken to ask him about selling family jewelry. I tell him, “I will visit my sister on Sunday and will pick up items from her.” I explain, “My sister is still in possession of inventory we had left over from my father’s store.” Ken is interested and says, “I will be glad to look at whatever you have.”

After dinner, the boys and I go back to the apartment to find an old movie to watch on my television. It is not long before Jacks asleep on the sofa. Magnificent time for all of us to turn in. Saturday, we spend the entire day at the beach.

It is great to see my sons enjoying the same beach I played on as a child. How carefree and wild they are. Life before adulthood is so precious. Like every parent, I want my children to have a happy childhood. My mind wonders and I go over the actions and choices I am making. Convince myself it is all for my boys.

Sunday rolls around, I pack up the boys to make our trip to Walnut Creek. I am looking forward to spending today with my family. My Mother, Elena, is standing out front when we drive up. Mom is always excited to see us. There is a special bond between my Mother, Sister, and me. We are survivors; we survived my father.

Everyone is out back getting ready for the barbeque. My nieces are in the pool and the boys are eager to join them. Catherine and Phil are back and forth from the kitchen to the patio, bringing out food and drinks. It is nice sitting in the sun listening to the squeals coming from the pool.

Catherine, Mom and I gather around the picnic table and I tell them, “I have left Carla, we separated, and I am living in an apartment in Half Moon Bay.” Phil monitors the kids in the pool. The lawyer in Catherine takes over, she wants to make sure I protect myself and suggests filing for a legal separation. I tell her, “Too soon.” And continue with, “I know in my heart the marriage is over, I am just not ready to file divorce papers.” Catherine warns me, “If you don’t take the initiative, Carla will do it sooner than later.” My Mother does not say much. Her only comment is, “I am sorry, I worry for the boys.” Catherine means well, looking out for her little brother. “Let this run its course,” I tell her. What I want is Carla to make the next move.

As the day wears on I asked Catherine, “Whatever became of Dads’ jewelry tools.” Catherine says, “There is still an old trunk and boxes in the garage that contains most of the things that did not sell when the store was liquidated.” She says, “Please take whatever you want.”

Enter the garage, I find everything against the back wall. First wiping the dust from the boxes, then moving the trunk out from the garage wall to get it open. Inside are items and tools I remember well. A flood of memories comes back to a time of conflicting emotion. Brian Duffy, my father, was a complicated man. Duffy, as his customers remembered him, was an artist. The custom jewelry he created had his customers coming back for generations. I knew him for his unique custom-made wedding bands that became family heirlooms. Always professional to his customers, he knew how to run a business. There was a cruel side to Duffy that came out when he drank and that he saved for us.

Find everything I am looking for and more in the trunk. There was one particular monocular, handheld loupe which was a favorite of my Dads. Not taking it because of the feelings it conjures. Want only the most practical loupes that help me identify diamond clarity, I find two 10x magnification loupes that are perfect. There is a wooden case that I recall, which still has the complete tool kit. I take two jewelry trays, several stone holders, several types of pliers, and a small scale. Stuff the items in a small dark green nylon backpack I find in the garage. The backpack is a castoff of one of my nieces. One box next to the trunk is full of small black velvet drawstring pouches that would be great for loose stones, adding these things into my new backpack.

We say our goodbyes and I drive my sons back to their mother in Foster City. Carla is on the phone when we walk into the house. She is having a hurried conversation that I know she does not want me to hear; it makes me wonder what she was doing on her weekend. Kiss the boys goodbye, and tell them, “I will be there to pick you up tomorrow after day camp.” The boys sit in front of the TV and Carla walks me out to my car. She asks, “So how are things going.” I inform Carla, “The boys spent the day with my family. I have shared our situation with my Mother and Catherine.” “Oh” is all she says. Carla confides to me, “I am worried about our finances and the coming school year. There are always so many extra expenses in September with the boys and preparing for our classes.” Our growing sons need fresh school clothes. They also play on their soccer teams and need the fees that went with that. As teachers, Carla and I spent our own money for supplies. The parents of our students are always helpful. If they only appreciated how many teachers give back of their own salary for student needs?

That evening, back at my dinette overlooking Main Street, I empty the contents of my new green backpack. I lay out the jewelry trays, scale and several of the pliers. The jewelry from the French Chateau is still in the pocket of my windbreaker. Retrieve the items, I concentrate on removing the gemstones from their settings, first the bracelet, then the rings. Use the loupe to help magnify the prongs of the setting, I bend the prongs back until the stones pop out. There are twenty nice size diamonds in the bracelet. Remembering my Father’s words, I hear his voice saying, “The secret to jewelry making is in understanding the 4C’s, the best way to test a diamond. It is this harmony that decides the value of a stone.” Diamonds come in various shapes; round, princess, emerald, marquise, oval, pear and radiant, to name a few. The bracelet I am working on has round cut stones. The color of a diamond refers to its whiteness. My dad liked a color scale of D (colorless). The cut was important to the brilliance and sparkle of a diamond. The clarity showed the tiny imperfections found in the stone. It is rare to find a diamond without even the slightest imperfection, the higher the grade of the diamond, the lesser the imperfection. The last determination of value for a diamond is weight. The 4C’s of testing are shape, cut, color, and clarity. Most customers associate the word “carat” with a diamond size. A carat is a measure of weight. The shape is always a individual preference. Sit in my kitchen with feelings of my Dad around me. There were parts of Brian Duffy that were great.

Brian Duffy was handsome and I could see why my Mother had fallen for the boyish man with the funny accent. By the time they had kids, Dad’s accent had faded. You only heard it when he was drunk or angry. My parents met in 1948, just after World War II ended. My Dad had come over on an educational visa to study business. Duffy had a relative, Uncle Patrick, who lived in San Francisco. It was Uncle Patrick that had sponsored Duffy and provided him a place to stay while he pursued his education. I remember meeting my Dad’s Uncle Patrick a few times when I was a child. Things happened fast for Brian Duffy once he got to America.

He met my mother, Elena, at a dance and within three months they had married. That was Duffy’s insurance that he never returns to Ireland, because he never did. My Mother worked at Wells Fargo Bank in downtown San Francisco. Duffy attended school and took a part-time position in a jewelry store. They rented a small apartment near the ocean on the other side of Golden Gate Park. My sister was born the day after their first-year wedding anniversary. I arrived four years later. My father became a jewelry store manager. Both my parents worked long and hard for my father’s dream. When I was eight, we moved to San Bruno, where my Dad rented a space and opened “Duffy’s Jewelry Store.” During the week, my Dad was a very professional businessman. The minute he came through the door Friday nights was an unconventional story. He loved his Jameson’s Whiskey, which was the one Irish tradition he continued from his homeland. Once drunk, the focus of his anger aimed at my Mother, Elena. There were so many humiliating scenes that ended, on over one occasion, involving our neighbors or the police. Dad was never hauled away or arrested. It was a different time. Brian would storm off to the bedroom, slam the door, and the cops let him sleep off his...