by Xavier Neal
When I finally arrive downstairs, the choice of television show returns a glower to my face.
It’s not just the fact that I don’t really care for anime cartoons. It’s the unknown answer to why my son likes Sailor Moon. Is it because he likes that she’s a slightly ditzy blonde in a short-as-fuck skirt, or is it because he wants to be a slightly ditzy blonde in a short-as-fuck skirt? And if it’s the latter, how the fuck am I supposed to handle that?
“Dad,” Kenny croaks as I park myself on the couch beside him. “Can I be Tuxedo Mask for Halloween?”
All right, so maybe it’s the first theory.
“I think it’s so cool to throw rose darts.”
Back to confusion.
“Bud, it’s February. We can talk about Halloween when it’s closer, okay?”
He quickly nods.
After taking his temperature, testing his lymph nodes, and doing a rough examination of his mouth to see no signs of infection, I decide against going to the doctor. I administer some child allergy meds and inform him he’ll be staying home from school for the day. My morning progresses a little off course between the struggle to not only wake up Kyle but to convince him he has to go school even though his brother doesn’t. Somewhere midbattle, Sienna swoops in an attempt to help, which doesn’t. Instead, Kyle somehow turns her into an ally, and she agrees there’s no harm in letting them both stay home. I don’t bother dropping the truth bomb that that’s easy for her to declare since she’s going to be at work all day or counter attack by reminding her that she never let that shit fly when I suggested it in the past. Eventually, I get Kyle dressed, fed, and dropped off. Kenny passes out from the medication in the car and having to carry him inside reminds me of just how tiny my boys aren’t.
My oldest drifting in and out of sleep allows me to work on little shit around the house, yet forces me to play more appropriate television than Game of Thrones. Fighting the nicotine cravings that nowadays only seem to spike when I’m stressed out about my marriage has me shoving handfuls of Skittles into my mouth and anxiously searching to hammer something, so I feel more at ease. Around noon there’s an unexpected knock on the door executed by an even more surprising face.
“Hey Tri,” I warmly greet, arm resting on the door frame.
“Did you say Tri?!” Kenny squeaks.
She pops her head underneath my arm and peers around me to speak to Kenny. “Hey, handsome!”
His lack of response pulls my attention over my shoulder.
Kenny’s giving her an adorably shy wave in between trying to pat down his hair.
Unable to resist fueling the situation, I say to him, “Why don’t you go use a brush? Maybe brush them teeth, too. I bet Tri doesn’t wanna smell string cheese when you’re talkin’ to her.”
He immediately darts off the couch for the stairs, making it hard to believe he’s under the weather at all.
As soon as he’s out of ear shot, and she’s back in her respective personal space, I shake my head. “Now, I know my boy has a crush on you. There are only two people he moves that fast for, and the other is the pizza delivery guy.”
Tri softly giggles.
“What’s goin’ on? Need somethin’?”
Her cringe is unusual. “Kinda.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Well, George has locked himself in his bedroom in protest, and Hollis was going to rush home from a job interview to handle it, but I told him not to because he needs this job.” She briefly pauses. “Okay, so he really doesn’t need this job because he’s got money, like a lot, but he needs this job, ya know? For his sanity. For George’s sanity. Fuck, for my sanity. What woman wants her boyfriend just hovering over his father, clearly in need of a hobby or something to do while she’s at work?”
I give her a sympathetic smile.
Glad Hollis and George have her.
She’s got this warm and loving spirit to her that I think is more or less keeping the peace between the two. Again. It’s a fucked-up situation. A sick parent not wanting to be coddled and a responsible son just wanting him to be healthy. I imagine Pop would behave similarly if the situation ever arose, which I pray like hell it never does.
“Anyway, I told Hollis not to worry because I would handle it.”
“And by you handlin’ it, you mean I’ll handle it.”
“Kinda.”
The response lifts my eyebrows.
“George likes you-”
“George likes you, too.”
“Oh, yeah, he loves me, but right now, I’m the enemy because I’m siding with Hollis on the topic of doors.”
“Doors?”
“Hollis wants to remove the door to his father’s room and bathroom for easier accessibility as well as potential emergencies. George is taking it as his basic right to privacy is being removed.”
“That’s because it is.”
“But for safety reasons.”
“Y’all are towing a thin line between cautious and oppressive.”
Tri’s hands fly into the air. “What do you want from me? I’m trying to be the supportive girlfriend and the impartial referee. It’s not an easy balance.”
“Fair enough.” The squeak in her tone has me surrendering my hands. “What do you need from me?”
“Can you come on over and remove his door?”
I unhappily groan at the suggestion.
“Just until Hollis gets home. Then they can work out what to do next.”
“Is that the best you’ve got?”
“I think installing a curtain rod and a curtain would suit them both. It’s easy to move or maneuver in worst case scenario situations, plus it gives the illusion of privacy which I know is all George really wants. I even went out and bought the stuff.”
“On your own?”
“Yeah!”
“Tri, you barely know the difference between a nail and a screw.”
Fairly sure she doesn’t know it at all, but I’m trying to not look like a raging asshole.
“Okay, so not all on my own. I had a guy at Harry’s Hardware help me out.”
“Meaning, you got the most expensive shit he could sell you.”
“Beside the point.”
I lightly chuckle. “Well, that’s definitely an easy install…or uninstall if they both hate the idea after you convince them to try it.” All of a sudden, Kenny arrives at my side reminding me of a very important side note. I peer down at my son and ask, “You think you feel up to goin’ over to George’s house with me? I need to do a favor for Tri.”
Just hearing her name reddens his cheeks.
“Please?” Tri sweetly asks. “It’d be a big help to me.”
Like he’s incapable of speaking at all, he simply nods.
“Let me get my tool box. We’ll meet you over there.”
It doesn’t take long to grab the object, nor does it take long to relocate to George’s place. Over the past couple of months or so, I’ve been making minor adjustments just like Hollis requested. George didn’t complain about any of them. I yanked up old, loose carpet, put in hardwood. Replaced the toilets and installed grab bars by them. Helped rearrange furniture and put shit in storage to create an easy space to maneuver around with his walker. At the moment, outside of this door fiasco, I’m between switching out the sinks to be motion activated and replacing door handles with levers. I’m also painting the doors but that’s definitely a me preference instead of necessity.
Unscrewing George’s door unfolds differently than anticipated. Instead of just drooling over Tri or whining about why couldn’t he bring his tablet because he’s bored, Kenny actively participates. He asks me about the different types of screwdrivers. Excitedly holds onto the screws. Questions if I ever did this at our house and seems impressed by the answers.
Once George’s bedroom door is officially off, I lean it against the wall and give Tri a moment to talk to him.
He’s sitting on the edge of his bed just staring into space.
The h
eartbreaking sight has me tugging my son closer.
I hope like hell he doesn’t have to go through this with his Papi.
“George,” Tri cautiously begins from the empty doorway.
“You took my door,” he grumbles, head falling forward. “What’s next?”
Her shoulders noticeably drop. “I’m…replacing it.”
His face slightly angles our direction.
“Eddie-”
“Hey, George.”
“And his handsome son Kenny-”
“Hi, Mr. George!”
“-are going to also remove the bathroom door, but we’re replacing them both with curtains.”
Consternation is clear as day.
“It’s a good compromise,” I back her. “You still get the right to shit in peace, but they can get to you a lot quicker if there’s complications.”
“Swear jar,” Kenny mumbles under his breath.
George perks up though I don’t know if it’s because of my son or the idea of not having a total loss of freedom. “Come on in then. Bathroom’s that way.”
I prepare to grab the tool box when Kenny beats me to the punch. Surprised, yet again, by his actions, I ask, “You got it?”
“Yup!” He adjusts it in his grip. “Think I can help unscrew the next one?”
His excitement for what I love most in the world sends thrill soaring through my veins. “Yeah. I’ll get the top one, you can get the bottom.”
We busy ourselves with the door, which prompts George to tell us stories about Hollis helping around the house at Kenny’s age. One tale easily flows into another while I realign my son’s hands to get the task done. He struggles a bit, needing me to loosen the hold, but once he has the hang of it, he flies through the action. Pride pierces my face as well as Tri, George, and Hollis who arrives just in time to witness his glory. Thankfully, they don’t fight in front of us. They simply praise Kenny for being a great assistant during the installation process and reward him with ice cream since candy might hurt his throat.
I pass on the dairy treat and take the brief moment in time to brag via text message to Big Foot about my oldest son’s accomplishment.
By the time we’re walking back through our front door, it’s clear whatever sick feelings he was fighting have been vanquished.
“That was so much fun!” Kenny flops down onto the couch. “Can I come with you to do more stuff at Mr. George’s house?”
I plop down beside him. “Usually do it while you’re at school.”
An idea reveals itself immediately on his face.
“No, bud. You can’t fake bein’ sick to work on Mr. George’s house with me.”
His frown is expected.
“But maybe…maybe we can find a way to do some stuff with our hands together on the weekends.” He peers up at me with a hopeful expression. “Maybe some work around our own house or Mimi and Papi’s.”
“Yeah!” He leans his head against me.
The vibrating device in my pocket abruptly commands my attention.
Without shuffling him around too much, I manage to retrieve it and check the message.
Big Foot: That’s amazing. You take pictures? Send em over.
I smirk at the pride he has for his nephews.
Another text appears on the screen before I can reply. Noticing it’s from my wife, I quickly open it.
Cherry Pie: How’s Kenny? He okay? Did you end up going to the doctor? Should I leave work right now and come take him?
Her concern for our son causes me to softly smile.
Fuck, it’s not like I don’t know she cares.
She’s not a heartless bitch.
I know her putting work first is no different than when I did it. Someone has to work, and we’re fortunate enough that it only has to be one of us at a time. However, is it so fucking wrong to want from her what she wanted from me? A little more family time together instead of in pieces.
Kenny lets out a yawn and snuggles over onto my chest.
My arm falls to hold him protectively in place.
Man, I’ll adjust to not taking her out, not screwing like we’re newlyweds, and even not gushing to her about all the renovation ideas I have for George’s house as well as our own, but I can’t let her keep drifting away from our boys.
They need her.
They need both of us.
That’s something work often made me too blind to see.
I just hope she realizes it before it’s too late.
Chapter 9
“Mom.”
There’s no time to move my mouth.
“Mom.”
I can’t even turn around before he repeats it a third time.
“Mom.”
Is it weird to miss that sound? The constant calling of my name? Okay, so not my name but still my name. I hear my actual name at work around the clock. At first, I thought I missed it, yet now, I miss this.
I miss them.
I miss moments like this.
“Is my penis orange?”
All right…maybe not moments exactly like this.
My head tilts at Kyle, who has now crossed himself into my direct line of vision. “What?”
“I was painting, and then there was a bug, and then I sprayed it at the bug, and then it landed on my shorts, and I sprayed it some more, and now my shorts are wet right on my penis.”
The concern coating his eyes forces me to suppress my laughter.
“Is my penis orange?”
“Like right now or forever?”
His jaw plummets to the ground. “FOREVER?!”
“I mean…it’s paint, small fry.” I lower my cellphone, which I was using to take family pictures. “Stains a birdhouse. Probably stains your penis.”
More horror appears in his complexion. “Dad!”
No regrets.
Better to learn the sense of humor this family has early on and grow some thick skin than end up Sammy Sensitive unable to take a joke.
“Dad!” Kyle cries louder rushing over to where him and Kenny are arranging their birdhouses to dry. “Dad!”
“You dyin’?” Eddie nonchalantly questions, making no real effort to drop his attention to where his youngest is commanding his attention.
“Maybe!”
“Gonna need a yes if you’re yellin’ my name like that.”
I smirk to myself at our similar tactics.
It’s good for parents to be on the same page when it comes to their children. Even if they don’t execute everything the same way, it’s wise to have a united front in the household. On the rare occasions where we don’t see eye to eye about the boys, we never let them know that. Every once in a while, they’ll pull the “Mom lets me” or “Dad lets me” bullshit and get away with it. However, about ninety-five percent of the time it doesn’t fly. We have a standard support line we give, and then argue our opposing viewpoints where they can’t hear. Interestingly enough, ever since Eddie’s become the stay-at-home dad, those conversations are far less. Some of the shit he used to give me push back about, he now understands first hand. I absolutely love it. We’ve been walking in each other’s old shoes for the past four months, and I’ll admit, he’s got a better handle on it than I thought he would’ve. I, on the other hand, am still trying to find my grip.
Kyle shrieks at the top of his lungs. “My penis is orange!”
“You are your Dad’s boy,” Mama unexpectedly states as she crosses over from the house towards us. “And not jus’ ‘cause you’re yellin’ the word penis at the top of your goddamn lungs.”
“Excuse me,” Eddie grunts, reaching for a cloth to wipe his hands. “I never died my dick orange.”
“Red,” she swiftly reminds him. “And unlike my grandbaby, who I’m sure has a good excuse, yours was done when you were supposed to be paintin’ the barn, not paintin’ one of Pastor Mueller’s daughters.”
His face instantly cherries.
“Mama, I love when you make him turn that color.”
; “Oh, it ain’t hard.” Her hand tosses itself my way. “All the boys get embarrassed pretty easy.” She pauses in thought. “Except for Big Foot. That shit went out the window kinda early.”
“Oh, yeah?”
