Long Face
By Ann Kammerer
[this is the second in the four part series–
read Once a Good Girl from the beginning]
Long Face
Mr. Lindell complained a lot about his daughter. He’d emerge from his office and stare out the window, raising up and down on his toes, his wingtips squeaking as he wiped his forehead with a handkerchief.
“I don’t get it,” he’d say. “She was such a good girl, never any trouble to me and her mom. But now, well, look at her.”
His daughter was tall and slender and had bouncy blonde hair. Her name was Deborah, but he called her Debbie except when he was mad. She drove a sleek silver car and wore tube tops, short skirts, and heels. Her boyfriend Len was slender, too, with a penchant for flared pants, leather vests, and medallions. Neither worked, although Debbie had been a dental assistant for six months, only to quit, saying the dentist was “touchy-feely.”
“I don’t know what to think,” Mr. Lindell would say. “’Cept that Len. He’s a bad influence.”
Debbie called the office at least twice a day, sometimes more.
“It’s Debbie,” she’d say. “Put me through to my Dad.
”I’d tell her he was in a meeting, or in court with a client, even though most times he was there, mouthing the words “take a message,” before changing his mind, grabbing the phone, asking what she wanted.
“Calm down,” he’d say. “Talk slower.”
I could hear Debbie, her voice a blur of sharp to sweet, him saying OK, don’t worry, I’ll fix it, I’ll take care of it, it’s fine.
Hanging up, he’d scurry out, walking to the bank three doors down. When he got back, he’d catch his breath and crack bad jokes, asking if I’d heard the one about a horse walking into a bar, the bartender asking ‘why the long face?,’ me laughing, even though he’d told it a million times.
“You’re a good egg,” he’d say. “Debbie. Well I love her. But she has no drive. No ‘get-up-and-go.’ Not like you.”
He held out a coffee cup. I poured him some, thinking about Debbie and her slim boyfriend, how Mr. Lindell said they ate out a lot and went to bars, buying clothes on credit in between.
“Damn if I shouldn’t make her pay down that Master Card sometime,” he’d say. “Maybe she’d think twice then.”
I looked at my watch. My bus came in 15 minutes. Mr. Lindell paced, his hands in his pockets jangling his change.
“I’m sure she’ll be fine,” I’d say. “Debbie I mean. Some people take a while. You know. To figure things out.”
Mr. Lindell’s hand shook. He pushed in his cheeks with his thumb and forefinger, then pinched his bottom lip.
“You’re probably right,” he’d say. “Go ahead and go. I’ll close things up.”
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