by Shey Stahl
I’m my dad’s only child. That he knows about. I’m sure there are others, but he’s not aware of any that I know of. But here’s the thing. In all those marriages, he went from one to the next and I was never part of their lives together until I was fifteen and I had to be when my mother died and I had nowhere else to go. I lived with him in Boulder City from fifteen to eighteen and moved out the day I graduated. In all that time, four years, he had two different wives and six different girlfriends. It’s amazing I turned out so damn good because the example set by him was horrible.
“I know you think it was something you did, but it wasn’t,” he finally says. “It was never about you, or your mom. I’ll never love another woman the way I loved Evelyn.” By the way, Evelyn is my mother. “I fucked up. Plain and simple, and I never planned on being married that many times. Truth is, I don’t like being alone.”
“You weren’t alone. You had me.”
“I made a lot of mistakes,” he admits. “Don’t be like me. Be there for your boys. Put them before everything else because you never know when you’re going to need them. I was a horrible father. Don’t be like me.”
I’m not a hugger. I’ve never been one. My father? He likes to hug, and I’m not sure why that is. So he pulls me into a one-armed hug and jerks the steering wheel in the process. “Let’s go hunt some pigs.”
That’s if we make it there alive because when he jerks the steering wheel we end up in a ditch and then catapult over it into the desert where he announces, “Perfect spot.”
Crazy bastard.
I said I’d explain my distaste for cats later, right?
It’s later.
Here’s a story for you. I’ve never been into hunting. I once shot my neighbor’s cat with a BB gun in the back. Not my best decision but I was six, and it seemed like a good idea because the fucking cat was an asshole. And I was six, who gives a six-year-old a BB gun? Mike Cooper does.
Anyway, it didn’t kill him. Instead, it broke his back, and I had to listen to it moan outside my window for an hour because it couldn’t move. Well, it could, but it was pathetic. Its front legs worked but the back legs wouldn't. Think of a sit and spin. You know those things you sit on and spin you around? That’s what this cat looked like because it just kept crawling in a circle.
Anyway, the damn thing was loud, and my dad found out and made me go outside and put it out of its misery. So with a shovel in hand, I attempted to kill it. I’ve never felt so horrible in my life. I honestly thought I was going to hell for that. When it was dead, I threw up and vowed to never harm an animal again.
Little hard when your dad’s an avid hunter and drags you with him for his father-son time. In reality, it’s a time when he says, “Hold my gun, I gotta take a piss and if you see a deer, shoot the fucker.”
He one, has a weak bladder and two, doesn’t realize how many bucks I turned my head on.
So there he is, staring down a javelina with his rifle pointed right between its eyes.
“I’m not gonna lie, Dad. If you end up shooting that, I’m gonna have to cover my eyes.”
“You pussy. No wonder Madison wants a divorce.”
He’s real supportive, isn’t he?
The answer to that would be no.
I’m not even paying attention to the pigs, I can’t. It makes me sick to my stomach.
“Noah killed a cat last month,” Brantley tells my dad.
“No shit?” He chuckles, still focused on the pig in his sight. “I knew he was my grandkid.”
A loud boom rattles through the valley we’re in and the pig drops to the ground. I hope he doesn’t think I’m eating pork tonight.
Brantley elbows me. “Your dad is awesome.”
“Ugh!” I say, sounding like Callan when he’s annoyed. I should draw a picture with stick figures and pigs to display my distaste for what we’re doing like Callan does. But I don’t. Instead I’m researching again.
“What are you doing?” Brantley asks, slapping my phone out of my hand when my dad goes to get the pig he murdered.
I grab my phone from the dirt and blow it off refusing to watch the pig get slaughtered. “I’m checking on a vacation to Ukraine.”
He makes a face of disgust, his rifle on his shoulder like he’s some kind of sniper. Which he’s not. Brantley’s never shot anything, that I know of. But then again, he tells me nothing so I really wouldn’t know. “Why?”
“Callan wants to go see Chernobyl.”
“What the hell is Chernobyl.”
“Only the biggest nuclear disaster in the world,” I say proudly, like I know what the fuck I’m talking about.
My dad and Brantley shoot three pigs, toss them in the back of his truck and we head back to dad’s house where he cleans them and I nearly vomit three times.
That’s when they say, “We’re going out,” like I should be excited about this.
“I don’t want to go out.” Though I’m thankful to not be eating those pigs they shot, I don’t want to go out to dinner with them because I know where that will lead. They’ll get me drunk, convince me to go to a strip club and I’ll end the night with another tattoo of Tinkerbell on my ankle. It took me a year to have that one removed and I can still see her wings if I look closely.
“You’re coming with us,” Brantley says, setting a shot of Midleton whiskey down in front of me. “Drink this and you’ll forget about your problems.”
“I don’t want to because if we go out, the next thing I know you’ll drag me to another strip club.”
My dad rolls his eyes as he’s fixing his shirt to make his chest hair visible. At this point, he might as well just unbutton it all the way because he literally has only three buttons fastened and I can see his bellybutton.
I stare at his chest like I’m offended by his choice of attire, because I am. It’s gross. “This isn’t Miami Vice. Why are you dressed like that?”
He blows me off by waving his hand in my face. “I look good. And no, we won’t drag you to a strip club because the last time we went you yelled, ‘You bitches gonna let me titty fuck you later?’ in a blonde’s face.”
“That was one time and I was in college. You can’t blame me.”
Brantley chuckles and downs his own shot. “Well, it left a lasting impression on said titty bar because you’re not allowed back there… for life.”
I wave my hand at them but I take the shot anyway. “They didn’t say life.”
“I was there. They did.”
I roll my eyes and flop my head down on the table I’m sitting at. And no, I won’t explain that night because I don’t remember it. If it wasn’t for Tinkerbell, I’d swear they were making it all up.
“What’s wrong with you? Where’s your balls?” my dad asks, and my head shoots up from the table because I know exactly what’s coming out of Brantley’s mouth next.
And it does. “Madison skinned them. He let her wax his nut sac.”
I glare at him. “I told you that in confidence,” I seethe.
“No, you didn’t. Nathalie told me.”
“Ugh!” I groan again.
My dad groans too. “Get off your ass, you pussy. I’m hungry.”
I END UP going out to dinner with my dad and Brantley and we don’t go to the strip club. Well, they do after dinner, but I don’t go with them. I stay at the house where they drop me off and FaceTime Callan and Noah while trying to read Madison’s every expression as the boys sit on her lap. This, her, them, it’s all a reminder as to why I have no business being at a strip club. I’m still in love with my wife.
The day Brantley and I leave, my dad offers me some advice I take to heart.
“Are you willing to be there for your boys no matter what comes their way?”
I nod. “Yes.”
Why do I feel like I’m on trial here?
“Are you willing to raise them to be young men and not pussies?”
Is he referring to me? What a dick. He probably is. But I answer with, “Yes.”
“Are you willing to push them to become men and treat women with respect?”
Again, is he fucking talking about me here? He certainly isn’t talking about himself. This man doesn’t know respect around women.
When I nod, he shoves my shoulder, once and pushes me into the side of my truck. “Then don’t give up on them. Don’t make the same mistakes I did.”
I’m not at all sure how to process his words of wisdom or bullshit, but it makes me think on the drive home. I will never be like Mike Cooper.
That’s sad to say, but my mom once told me my father may not be an example of what to be like, but at least he was an example of what not to be.
So as I head home, my intention is to never make my boys feel like any of this is their fault and set a good example for them. Not a sixty-two-year-old bachelor who’s been married four times and shoots pigs for fun.
It’s been fifty-two days since Madison filed the paperwork and every day closer to that sixty-day deadline is about as painful as stabbing myself in the heart repeatedly.
I wake up every morning and think to myself, this can’t be real, can it? It’s a joke, right?
I wish it was.
I don’t know why I go by the new house when I make it back to town Friday morning. Maybe because I built the place and I want to see it one last time. I’m not sure.
When I started building this house, Madison, Callan—Noah didn’t really give a shit—and I were so excited to have something of our own that I built and I took pride in that. I took pride in the fact I was creating our home we’d share for years to come, and my craftsmanship would welcome them. Everywhere they’d look, they’d see me in this house, even when I wasn’t there to be with them.
I wondered even now with me not living here if Madison wouldn’t think of me when she was here. Would Callan proudly tell his friends, “My dad built this house himself.”
How did it fall apart right before my eyes? Part of me knows I only have myself to blame for all this. If I would have paid attention, saw what was happening, maybe I could have changed before it all went to shit.
As I stand there staring out the house from the backyard, I get the feeling I’m not alone. You know when someone’s standing behind you. I also don’t need to turn around to know who it is because whenever she’s around me, I feel it. I feel her. “I see you got the key so you must have the signed divorce papers I left for you too. I just want you to know I’m willing to walk away, give you what you want, but I’m not giving up custody of the boys. You will let me see my sons whenever I want. Joint custody is the only option, so don’t even think about trying for anything less.”
When I do face her, she’s crying, and though I’m not surprised she’s in tears because she has been the last three times I’ve seen her, there’s something different about her I can’t place.
“What’s wrong? Isn’t the house what you thought it would be? If there is something you don’t like, just tell me and we’ll change it. I want you and the boys to be happy here.” What the fuck am I saying? I want her to be happy? Is that even true?
Of course it is. She’s the mother of my sons. I absolutely want her to be happy because right now I see my mother standing there, crying, asking my father why we weren’t good enough for him. I don’t remember that many of their fights, but I remember that one.
I’ve never been one to comfort people. I always feel awkward doing it so I just stand there with my hands in my pockets wondering what I should do. She wanted a divorce, yet she’s constantly in tears. Isn’t that the opposite reaction if it’s something you want?
“The house is perfect. I haven’t seen the inside yet, but it’s just like we dreamed.”
My stare drops from hers as a pang of sadness hits me. This house is exactly what we dreamed of. Everything we ever wanted, I gave them. “I’m glad you like it. Maybe it will give you that fresh start you’re looking for.” Look at me not being bitter. See. And you thought I was only an asshole. Admit it, you thought it a time or two.
I certainly did.
“I love it, but I want to live in it as a family, not just Callan, Noah, and me.”
I’m confused. Did she just say that? Reaching up, I scratch the side of my head. “What do you mean as a family?”
“I never wanted the divorce,” she whispers.
“Excuse me?”
“Do you remember the day you got the papers, that morning in the shower?” she asks, afraid to look at me. I’m not sure why she’s asking. Or maybe I do.
“I do.” I stare at my hands instead of her face, trying desperately to shut down and not care about anything she’s about to say to me in fear it will only hurt.
Our eyes catch then, despite me not wanting to look at her. She tilts her head, a wince to her features.
“That morning, I told myself I wasn’t going to do it,” she admits, but there’s more she isn’t saying.
I shift my stance and shove my shaking hands in the pockets of my shorts. “What are you talking about?”
“Me filing for divorce….”
I groan. I don’t want to keep talking about this anymore. “Mad, I signed the papers. We don’t have to keep hashing this out. I get it, you want a divorce, and I’m giving it to you.”
“I don’t know….” Look at her face, she really doesn’t and she’s talking in circles. She’s lost in thought and then says, “This past month has been hell without you. I hate it.”
There’s part of me that doesn’t want to stand here and listen to her say anything else. And then I do, because I deserve that much, right? The diligent side of me wants some fucking answers. I want the bloody, gory details that led up to my slaying.
Might be a bad example considering, but still, it’s true.
As we stare at one another, it’s as if the air around us stills, my focus entirely on her.
“I miss you, Ridley,” she says, opening herself up, showing me herself, leading into something. What, I don’t know.
“Why, Mad?” I whisper into the night, the setting sun around us lighting up the side of her face. “Why did you use me that morning only to rip my heart out hours later?”
We’re both silent, but I can tell by the tension in her body she’s working herself up to say something, finally.
Her eyes are puffy, wearing these last two months on her face. “Can you listen to me?” she begs desperately, hopeful I might.
“Only if you tell me the truth,” I say smugly.
She nods, blowing out a huge breath like she’s completely ridding her body of oxygen. “Can you just please listen to me and hear me out?”
My mouth goes dry looking at her. Waiting for my answer, she’s taking large even breaths, warming herself up for something, or maybe settling her nerves.
I throw my hands up in the air. “Jesus Christ, just tell me already.”
Frowning, her frustration takes over. I can tell after our argument at the hotel that night, it’s still affecting her and she’s struggling to express herself to me now. Dropping her head forward, it’s like she’s giving up.
“I get it. You did what you needed to do,” I finish for her, ready to walk away.
That’s when her eyes lift to meet mine. “It’s not like that, Ridley.”
I nod, my voice hitching when I say, “Then what was it like? Because the way I see it, you wanted a divorce and you put me through hell for it.”
She tips her head to the side. “You believe that, don’t you?”
My heart jumps, my eyes tearing up, filling with the sadness I know too well these days. “How can I not believe it?”
“That’s not everything,” she says, regret thick as her glossy eyes return to mine. “You don’t know everything.”
“What are you talking about?”
I don’t like the way she says I don’t know everything. It makes me feel like she’s hiding something from me and I immediately wonder if she’s cheated on me. Is that why she wanted a divorce? She said it wasn’
t that at the hotel, but maybe she just couldn’t tell me at the time, and now it’s eating at her, and she has to tell me the truth. My face contorts with the thoughts, my heartbeat increasing with every breath it hurts to take.
“About me asking for a divorce….”
The way her voice trails off has my heart in my throat again and my skin prickling with anticipation of her lies.
“I filed for divorce to get your attention,” she whispers. “I was trying to think of ways to get your attention, make you see our problems were more than either of us realized, and Nathalie suggested I file for divorce knowing it wouldn’t be final for a while and would give us time to work things out.” Her eyes drop with the admittance, unable to hold mine anymore. “And right before we left for Sedona, I found out I was pregnant, and it confused me even more. I lied,” she says, stepping toward me with a good amount of hesitation. “I never wanted a divorce. I was so frustrated with you and your lack of being present in our lives that I wanted to shake you up. I just… I wanted you to be around more, and I didn’t know how to come and talk to you.”
I stare at her in disbelief. Did she really just say that to me? Am I getting this right? The last two months have been a joke? She played me to get my attention?
Madison starts to fidget and breaks the silence. “Ridley say something.”
Say something? She wants me to say something. I don’t think she wants to hear what I’m thinking. I’m almost certain she doesn’t. Does she even understand the deceit I’m experiencing in this moment? It’s like I’m the Greeks in the Trojan war.
Have you ever heard of the story of the Trojan horse? If you haven’t, it goes something like this. When the Trojan Paris ran away with Helen, the Spartan king’s wife, everything went to shit and war broke out. Think about it. His wife ran away with another man. I’d be pissed too. Anyway, this fucking war went on for something like ten years when the Trojan’s thought they’d overtook the Greeks.
But that wasn’t the case at all. Now comes for the curve ball, the lie. The deception.
