Chapter 9: The Working Girl

The last two weeks of school went by in a blur. As a senior, I didn't get much homework, and my internship kept me very busy.

Mom and Dad came to the graduation ceremony, took pictures and met some of my classmates. When the hugging and giggling were done with, Dad drove us home. I was scheduled to start working full-time two days later.

On Monday, May 22nd 1995, I pulled up in front of the Paverud Associates building ten minutes early. I was dressed nicely in a calf-length skirt with its matching jacket and a cotton blouse. I was a little nervous, but I'd done the work and I was fairly confident in my abilities.

It was the same accounting firm where I'd done my internship, and I knew a few of my co-workers, but full-time is very different from being an intern. For one, I had to work from 8 am to 5 pm — with an hour for lunch — and being the last one hired meant I got all the jobs no one else wanted to do.

Computers were starting to be used in businesses everywhere, but at Paverud and Associates, handling paper was still the norm. The company was a full-service firm, doing everything from payroll to auditing and taxes for several businesses in the area, and my first task was helping Roberta Mayhew with payrolls.

Roberta preferred to be called Bobbi, and was an absolute wizard with a calculator. My job was to confirm name and hours worked, and she would calculate deductions. Stack after stack of paper was handed from us to the person who would actually print the checks. As each company payroll was completed, they were sent to the mailroom for delivery.

As the week went by, I learned that we were the dumping ground for scut work, like checking invoice totals for one of the partners, or confirming audit sections. The work was repetitive, but I got a little thrill of satisfaction when something I was working on turned out correctly.

My eighteenth birthday was quiet and celebrated with family at home. Mom gave me clothes and Dad added $2500.00 to my checking account. It was a Sunday, and after supper Dad invited me to go for a short walk. It wasn't warm enough for shorts just yet, so I put on a pair of jeans and a sweater, and then joined him on the porch. We set off hand in hand, walking east.

Dad turned to me with a smile and said, "Congratulations."

"Thank you," I replied.

"Do you have any plans for college?"

"Yes," I said. "In the fall, I plan to take a CPA course at Bismarck Junior College two nights a week. It'll take me two years to finish, but then I'll be able to get a better-paying job."

"Or open your own business," Dad grinned.

"I don't know about that," I demurred. "Lots of responsibility with that choice."

"Changing the subject," Dad said, "how would you feel having your own place?"

"I'm saving for my own apartment, but they want so much for deposits and stuff, I'm not sure I have enough yet."

"I was thinking more along the lines of letting you have the house so Mom could go traveling with me," he said.

Intrigued, I asked, "How would that work?"

"Well, your mom and I haven't worked out all the details, but I want to buy a motor home. Traveling can get pretty lonely at times, and your mom and I want to spend more time together. We'd basically sign the house over to you — we would continue to make the payments until you could take over — and when we'd come for a visit, we'd use your room."

"Daddy!" I protested. "That's crazy! It's too much!"

"Wait, Punkin, " he replied. "The house isn't as expensive as you might think, and with your salary you can afford the utilities and so on. I'd leave you something extra in case of a major breakdown, and when you turn 21 we'll sign over the deed to you."

"Can you really afford to do that?" I asked.

"Consulting on demolition jobs pays quite a bit better than being a Colonel in the Army, Hani." His voice dropped and he continued, "You're old enough and smart enough to be on your own; you'll need a good credit history if you want to buy a new car, or another house later on. Doing it this way assures we both get what we want. I've spent too much time away from your mother the last 25 years, and I want to spend what I have left with her."

"That's romantic," I said softly.

"Having a place of your own means privacy, sweetie. Maybe you could have some romance of your own," he smiled.

The size of his intended gift silenced me; thoughts of the responsibility that went with home ownership boggled the mind. There was so much I didn't know! His hint at romance was a two-edged sword; was he hinting at grandchildren? How much did he know about my previous relationships, and did he understand my feelings?

We were walking north on Sixth Street when I said, "Daddy, I don't know if Mom told you, but I'm..."

"Gay," he said, smiling. "I know. Mom told me everything."