by Shey Stahl
“These are first graders doing this? Shouldn’t they be playing tag and swinging?” You have to admit you were thinking it too. What kind of six- and seven-year-olds act like this?
“And it’s not Callan’s fault the girls like him,” Madison notes.
“No, not at all.” Ms. Sadie smacks my head. “Oh, I’m sorry. I get a little excited when I talk.”
Ya think? Jesus. I rub the side of my head and stare at Madison. She probably paid the teacher to hit me.
Madison snorts, her laughter contained and waits for Ms. Sadie to explain. “You were saying?”
“I wanted you to be aware Callan has been asked to give his account of certain incidents, and while he has been honest, I can tell that it stresses him out when this occurs,” Ms. Sadie explains, finally folding her fucking hands on the table with a gentle sigh leaving her lips. “He just wants everyone to be happy and get along.”
And there you have it. While our son is far more advanced than other kids, he cares. He wants everyone to get along, including his mother and me.
“Does he get along with the boys?” I ask. After what I saw last night, I’m worried he doesn’t have any friends.
Ms. Sadie frowns. “It’s not often I see him with the boys. They tend to gravitate to the ones who play sports at recess and Callan doesn’t seem to have any interest in joining them. I think it’s easier for him to relate to the girls. They’re thoughtful and creative just like him.”
So he doesn’t have any friends but girls. While I wouldn’t necessarily describe this as a problem, I get why Madison and his teacher would be concerned.
I’m staring at Madison wondering how I can make this right when she glances over at me, and then turns her attention toward the teacher. “Well, thank you for your time.”
Ms. Sadie hands Madison a brochure on the school she suggested. “I just want you guys to consider it. I haven’t talked to Callan about it. I wanted to meet with you first, but I think you should look into it. Maybe take a tour and speak with their guidance counselor.”
Madison and I stand, together, and make our way silently to the parking lot. When we’re beside my truck, our eyes meet. “Is he weird, Ridley?”
She’s concerned and worried, and I don’t blame her. You don’t set out to have a child who’s different from others. It’s hard, and you feel bad for the child because they can’t relate to anyone, sometimes you included.
Thinking this is one of those times she wants me to comfort her, I lean in and pull her into a hug. She lets me, but her muscles tense. Maybe it’s the concern weakening her distaste for me but she lets me hold her, the hot Arizona sun beating down on our faces. “Yeah, he’s weird but that’s okay. He owns it and I think it’s to be admired.” And then I laugh. “Now Noah, he’s got issues. He stabbed me this morning.”
Madison jerks back. “With a knife?”
“No.” I silently wonder if stabbing is something he does often. The look on her face tells me this isn’t the first time. “With a GI Joe. It hurt.”
“Oh, well I’m sure you’re fine.” She blows me off like my ruptured eardrum means nothing. “He stabbed Nathalie on last week with a pencil.”
Nathalie is Madison’s beside from and I don’t have any sympathy for her or that she was stabbed by my son. In fact, I intended on high-fiving Wolverine when I get home tonight. You’ll understand when you meet Nathalie. Until then, I don’t even want to discuss her. It’ll just piss me off.
“Callan’s not weird, Mad.” I lean back against my truck, my hands falling away from her. “He’s special, and we have to make him understand it’s not something he did wrong.”
She nods as though she agrees, tucking her hair behind her ear. My eyes are drawn to her neckline, my thoughts then moving onto what I’d like to do to that neckline with my mouth. “I’m going to be late tonight. Can you pick the boys up from Trisha’s house?”
I’m no longer thinking about Madison’s neckline. I’m sweating in fear.
Remember how I said I rushed into daycare this morning and right back out?
There’s a reason for that, and it actually had nothing to do with me running late. Okay, it did, but there’s another reason.
Fear of Trisha. Just wait until you actually meet her.
Have you ever seen Alice in Wonderland? You know the Queen of Hearts lady, right?
That’s what Trisha looks like. I’m not lying. Every time I look at her, I have this fear she’s going to say, “Off with their heads!” and chop my head off. Before you label me a pussy here, I had a bad experience one time on a subway in New York where this lady, who was kinda sorta dressed like the Queen of Hearts, offered to give me a blow job when I was seventeen. I was seventeen and it was a blow job. I still said no though because she looked fucking crazy.
Turns out, I was right. She was crazy and proceeded to lick my shoulder for an hour on the subway, and when I told her to stop because it was making me sick to my stomach, she tried to cut my throat with a plastic knife and said, “Off with your head!”
I never returned to New York and never will.
“Why do you have her watch them? She’s crazy.”
Madison waves me off. “Just because some cat lady who looks like Trisha tried to cut you with a plastic knife doesn’t mean Trisha’s crazy.”
“I don’t trust her.”
She reaches into her purse as if my concerns for our children’s safety means nothing to her. “She nearly killed me.”
“Who?”
“The Queen of Hearts lady.”
“Oh my God, you’re such a baby.” Her smile tugs at her lips, and I feel like I’ve at least accomplished something here. Opening the door to her car, she gets in, and I push myself away from my truck to stand closer. “Can you pick them up or not?”
“Yes, I can.” I stand with my body in the door of her car so she can’t shut it. “Can we talk tonight?”
It’s not hard to miss the way her smile fades and the panic sets in. “Sure.”
Sure. She gave me a sure. That’s a start, right?
Backing away, I allow her to shut the door because I have to get back to the jobsite, finish with the plumbing inspector and attempt to get at least a start on hanging drywall.
The entire way back to the jobsite, I keep thinking of the way she said sure. Like she wasn’t sure, but wanted to. I can’t help but think she doesn’t want the divorce. She couldn’t, could she? We’re perfect for each other. We get along, we laugh, we have great kids and similar upbringings.
Part of what drew Madison and I together was our similar childhoods. A father missing from the picture.
And then I think, is that why she wants a divorce? Because she thinks I’m missing from the family?
Well, I admittedly gathered that much last night, but I keep going back to the fact that she said she didn’t love me. I have to show her that love is still here.
My ideas range from bringing home flowers to maybe a gift, but would anything material convince her I loved her? She knew I’d buy her anything and everything I could. And she knew I loved her so it had to be more.
Chocolate cake? She’s a sucker for flourless chocolate cake. Baking it myself would probably score me the most points, wouldn’t it? Too bad I can’t cook. The last time I tried I caught the microwave on fire. In case you’re wondering, if you make cup of noodles, remember to add water to the cup.
When I’m back at the jobsite, Brantley’s hanging drywall in the living room with Trey, who I thought wouldn’t be back for a few more days.
“What are you doing here? I thought Brantley said you were advised to take a few days off.”
Trey pushes his black hair from his face, nervously watching me. He mostly talks to Brantley and not me. Though he’s never said it to my face, he thinks I’m intimidating. I don’t know where he gets that from. I’m a pretty easy going guy to talk to, right?
Maybe don’t answer that.
“Um, I know they did, but I need the money a
nd I can’t miss out on work.”
I can understand his drive and need to work. I’ve been there before. But… I follow rules. Most of the time and Labor and Industries isn’t someone I’m about to fuck with.
Turning to the counter, I grab my drywall saw, and he backs up. “You can’t until you get a note from the doctor that says you’re cleared for work.”
Does he think I’m going to stab him with this? By the way he backs up another step, he must think so. “I know, but I thought maybe you could make an exception for me.”
Doesn’t he realize I don’t make exceptions for anyone? Apparently not. “Can’t, man.” I wave him off. “While I appreciate your work ethic here, you gotta have clearance first.”
Trey grumbles something I can’t hear and rolls his eyes. “Fine. I’ll go get clearance.” And then he limps away.
“You could have let him stay,” Brantley notes, wheeling the drywall lift over so we can get started on the ceiling first.
Snapping on my tool belt and grabbing my screw gun, I shrug. “I know, but with the way my week’s going, I’m not about to piss off LNI too.” I motion to the sheetrock. “Let’s get this done. I need to pick up the boys in a couple hours.”
Brantley stares at me. “You’re going to leave work early two days in a row?”
I stare at him because he can’t see it. I’m not even sure I understand what’s happening either. It’s similar to when my mother died. Not as bad because her dying was pretty fucked up, but I remember when we found out she had cervical cancer. It was a Tuesday. Ten weeks to the day, on a Tuesday, she died. I was numb for days, motions and words, everything around me was almost robot-like. I attempted life, but inside, I wasn’t there. I feel that way today.
And it’s not lost on me yesterday was a Tuesday. It’s officially the worst day of the week. Monday, you’re good now. Tuesday? Fuck. You.
“I have to,” I tell Brantley. “If I’m going to convince Madison she still loves me, I have to make an effort to be more present in their lives.”
His brows scrunch together in confusion. “Did she tell you it’s because you’re not around?”
“Yeah, something along those lines. She said a lot of things I might not have heard, but one was me not being around, and the last one was her not loving me anymore.”
“Well, that kind of shit doesn’t just happen overnight.” Brantley reaches for the other end of the sheetrock, and we lift it together onto the lift. “Maybe you’re just not seeing how much you actually fight or disagree.”
I try to think back to our last disagreement. Sure, we have arguments but nothing that stands out as a fight. I’m also not a yeller. If something’s bothering me, I usually stay quiet.
Don’t look at me like that. You think judging by the way I need answers, I’d be one to get in your face and yell until my point’s across. Am I right?
Well, you’d be wrong. Sure, I want answers, but if something’s really bothering me, the kind of shit that sparks the heated arguments where words are screamed and bounced right back, I don’t do that. I grew up with a father who yelled at my mom, me, everyone. He’d yell until he was red in the face, but not a damn thing ever made any sense to me.
In turn, I don’t yell at Madison so I wouldn’t consider any of our arguments to be fights.
Now she may have a different theory on this, which, apparently by the papers in the glovebox of my truck would attest to, she definitely thinks differently.
“I wouldn’t say we’ve been fighting.” Reaching for the handle of the lift, I begin to crank it up as Brantley steps on the ladder to screw the ceiling boards up. “You know since we took on multiple homes in the last three months, I haven’t been home much, and when I am, I’m sleeping.”
“She can’t really blame you for that though. It’s not like you’re fucking around on her. You’re working.”
“I know.” As I say that, I’m not sure I believe what I’m saying. I see it one way, but I know she sees it another. “She said we could talk tonight so I’ll head home early, pick up the boys and then see if we can talk about it.”
Brantley nods, but I’m not sure he gets it. He’s a bachelor, never been married and I doubt he ever will. He has women he hangs out with, and he fucks around with Nathalie a lot, but being tied down is not for him. He’s always been that way too.
“Ask her out on a date,” Brantley suggests, his arms above his head screwing in the drywall as I hold the crank steady.
“What do you mean? Like take her to dinner?”
“Yeah, but actually ask her instead of just taking her to dinner. Make it her choice.”
He has a good idea, doesn’t he? If this was me trying to get a girl to fall in love with me, I’d ask her out and attempt to make her see just how great of a guy I am before I take her to bed to seal the deal.
I could ask her out, get a babysitter and make her feel special but not because it’s a birthday or an anniversary but because I made time for her out of the blue.
I knew there’s a reason as to why I’m friends with Brantley. He thinks like a guy trying to get pussy every night of the week. And not just any pussy. He wants the variety pack which means he has to work a lot harder to collect all the different flavors there is to offer.
Now, how to ask her out?
Do you see the woman with the red hair and blue eyeshadow?
Scary, isn’t she? And she strangely resembles the Queen of Hearts, doesn’t she?
In your head, you’re totally picturing her saying, “Off with your head!” aren’t you?
And to think Madison willingly leaves our children with this nutball during the day. It’s ridiculous.
As soon as I walk in the room, I spot Noah on the floor lying on his stomach with his ear to the floor like he’s listening for something. I’m not entirely sure what he’s doing, but this is Noah we’re talking about. He also likes the floor, if you couldn’t tell. For a month, he slept on the floor because he said it was more comfortable than his bed.
Give the little guy a break. When I told you he’s three, I meant newly three. Like his birthday was last week so let’s go easy on him.
“Hey, buddy,” I say. His head snaps up at the sound of my voice.
Crawling to his feet, he runs to me, his arms locked around my neck. Don’t worry, I made sure to check his hands first for GI Joes. “Daddy home.”
“No, I’m here to pick you up.” I level him a serious look. “This is not your home.”
“Madison said you were picking them up,” Trisha says, leaning into the wall with a baby on her hip. “I didn’t think she was serious. Have you ever picked them up?”
Jesus, harsh much? What’s with people these days? They act like because I work during the day and don’t have time to do these types of things, I’m not present in the world at all. Was this the way it was for men in the thirties and forties when women couldn’t work and were forced to just be housewives? Did society just assume there wasn’t a man at home?
I don’t look Trisha in the eye. I can’t. It scares me, and the last time I looked her in the eye I had nightmares about New York subways for three nights. “Yeah, well, I am. Where’s Callan?”
“Right here,” he says from behind me, his backpack on his shoulder. “Why are you picking us up?”
“Mom’s running late tonight.” I smile, but it’s more uneasy than pleasant. “Just us boys for a little while?”
Do you hear the fear in my voice? And did you notice my words came out like a question?
Callan does, and his eyes widen a bit, but he corrects the look before I have time to ask what he’s thinking. I probably don’t want to know.
Noah refuses to let go of me, so I carry him outside like a gold chain wrapped around my neck.
“I’m hungry.” Callan opens the door to the truck as I open the other side to put Noah in his car seat. “Can we get dinner?”
“Yeah, what do you want?”
He thinks for a moment climbing into his bo
oster seat. Tapping his finger to his chin, he then shrugs and reaches for his seat belt. “Can we have McDonald's?”
I laugh. “You remember how Mommy was upset with me last night?”
He nods.
“Well, if I get you guys McDonald's, she’ll probably kill me.”
“Why?”
“Something about their nuggets being poison.” Rolling my eyes, I hand Noah his Batman mask he dropped on the floor of the truck. “I don’t really know. How about hamburgers from that roadside place you like?”
Noah lifts his fists up in the air and I flinch, thinking he’s about to hit me again. “Yeah! Boogers!”
Callan chuckles at Noah and turns on the DVD player. “You mean burgers, Noah.”
I END UP taking the boys to get hamburgers and milkshakes at a little roadside joint I like to go to. Have you seen a three-year-old amped up on a chocolate milkshake?
It’s pure insanity. I’ve never seen him this crazy, and you saw what happened this morning with the GI Joe.
Take a look around the front yard. Do you see that tiny kid about the size of a one-year-old? It’s Noah. He’s small for his age. He’s trying to make friends with the neighbor’s cat by dragging him out from under my truck by his tail.
I hate to break it to him but judging by the look in that cat’s eyes, friendship isn’t in their future.
“Noah, don’t do that to the cat. He’s going to scratch you.” I no sooner get those words out and what does the cat do?
Scratches him. And not just once. It’s like a bitch slap that just keeps coming. He even gets on his back legs and tries to run after Noah.
Callan shakes his head beside me. “That cat hates Noah.”
I can see why if that’s how he treats animals. Can cats sense evil? Or is that horses?
Either way, it ends in tears and loud screams. “Cat stupid!” Noah screams, holding the side of his face.
He runs to Callan and hugs him, which isn’t surprising, but I’m curious why he didn’t run to me first since I’m his father. Kneeling in the grass, I reach for his hand to pull it away from his cheek. “Look at those battle wounds, Wolverine.”
