Thirty-One Days and Legos

by S. A. Stovall

“It’s good for her.”

  “It messes up her fur. She likes her fur.”

  “Yeah, well, she’ll chew on her stitches otherwise.”

  To my never-ending annoyance, the cat rips the cone from her neck and tosses it aside. I stomp over to her, and she arches her back, hissing.

  “Com’ere,” I say through clenched teeth.

  Legos dodges me, more nimble than I anticipated, and flies through the living room. I rush after her, irritated that a tiny animal is giving me such trouble. I leap toward the couch, and she bounds over the cushions, dancing away from my grasp, her gray fur flying everywhere.

  I itch as I straighten myself and watch her scamper under the kitchen table.

  “I’ll get her,” Edmund says. “Legos likes me.”

  “Fine,” I say with an exhale.

  I scoop up the discarded cone and examine the thing. It’s annoying, sure, but we can’t trust the cat not to rip up all the vet’s hard work. I turn it over in my hand, wondering how I could improve it. I miss fixing things. Our house doesn’t really have anything for me to work on anymore. Maybe I should dedicate myself to building cat things now that I’m a reluctant cat owner.

  A loud bang from the kitchen startles me. I whip around and find Edmund grabbing at his head, blood running from his beanie.

  “Are you all right?” I ask as I jog over to him.

  Edmund removes his beanie, revealing a gash in his scalp. I glance at the sharp corner of the table and know it’s the culprit.

  The moment he catches sight of the blood, he sobs, his face bright red. The rivulets run faster now that the beanie is gone.

  I looked away for two seconds! Two seconds! How did this happen?

  “No crying,” I command.

  Edmund cries louder. I’m about to reprimand him when he throws his arms around my torso and grips my shirt with a viselike intensity. His tears soak into the fabric, and I take a second to recover from his gesture. I pat him on the back, and he half chokes on a sob. After a quick exhale, I pick him up and walk him over to the kitchen sink. I have to pry his arms off my neck before I can get a rag and soak it in cold water.

  “Don’t leave me,” he says between strangled breaths.

  “I’m not going anywhere,” I say in a calm tone. “We need to clean you up. You’re okay.”

  “I’m not okay!”

  “Stop that,” I say, curt. “I’m here. And when I’m around, I’ll take care of stuff like this, got it?”

  Edmund holds back a snivel long enough to nod his head.

  “Hold still. You’re gonna be fine.”

  “What’s going on?” Luke asks as he exits his room.

  He runs over to Edmund, his eyes wide the moment he spots the crimson.

  “Is he okay?” Luke shouts. “What happened?”

  “Calm down,” I reply.

  “There’s so much blood!”

  “I said, calm down.”

  Edmund lets out an ear-shattering wail, no doubt flustered by Luke’s panicking. Legos responds with a long yowl of her own, like she’s part of his caterwauling pack. Luke frets all around me, moving about as though his clothes are infested with bees.

  “Should we take him to the hospital?” Luke asks. “Maybe we should take him to the hospital!”

  Edmund grabs my shirt and pulls me close. I place a hand on his back and continue my work without any sort of over-the-top reaction, even though my heart is beating harder than it should. It’s not that bad of an injury! I shouldn’t be worried, Edmund shouldn’t be worried, and neither should Luke. Yet here I am, internally freaking out over nothing.

  I have to keep it together. I’m the adult. I’m the backbone to the family—the one who needs to take charge. I won’t let anything else happen to Edmund.

  Edmund’s sobbing gets me tense, and I fear I’m hurting him, but I know his injury needs to be cleaned. I finish wringing out the cloth and wrap it around his head. The gash is superficial. I’ve seen enough injuries and taken enough medical courses that I know nothing serious has happened. Head wounds bleed all the time.

  We should probably take Edmund to get a tetanus shot, but that isn’t an immediate step.

  The cool cloth settles Edmund. He sniffles and wipes his face, smearing blood under his nose, but otherwise he’s fine.

  “He’s going to be all right?” Luke asks me, his voice cracking.

  The doorbell rings before I have a chance to answer him. I grab his arm, pull him close to his brother, and motion to the cloth. “Hold this here. I’ll be right back.”

  Luke complies with my command and holds the cloth. Edmund wraps his arms around his older brother and sits quiet, though he sniffles with every breath. Once I’m certain they’ll be fine, I walk to the front door and swing it open.

  “Hello?” a woman says, a clipboard in her hands.

  I blink for a few moments, wondering who she is and why she’s here, but I follow her gaze as she examines me from head to toe.

  Blood. It’s everywhere. All over my white T-shirt, blatant for the whole world to see. Not only that, but I itch constantly—the fleas won’t leave me alone, and I’m certain my skin bears the marks of a thousand bites. Behind me, Legos hisses and yowls, no doubt plotting my death for daring to place her in a cone.

  And then the woman glances into the house, her attention centered on the droplets of crimson across the tile, and the brothers by the kitchen sink.

  “I’m here to perform a welfare check,” she says. “My name is Rose. May I… come in?”

  Oh, goddammit.

  I exhale, attempting to expel my tension. “I can explain,” I say. “We were going caroling.”

  The look on her face—one eyebrow lifted, her lips pressed tight together—she doesn’t like any of this. Still, I can’t seem to stop myself from attempting to explain the situation.

  “He bumped his head,” I say, my voice rising as I motion to Edmund. “And the cat, well, the cat was running around like a lunatic, and I was trying to catch her, and while I wasn’t looking, that’s when it happened. Bam! Out of nowhere. I swear I was watching him before that. The blood—it’s not as bad as it looks. I’ve seen hundreds of head injuries. Trust me, I’m a federal park ranger.”

  “I believe you,” Rose says, her thin lips widening into a smile. “I’ve performed thousands of welfare checks, Mr. Williams. This doesn’t even come close to the top twenty situations I’ve stumbled across. Kids will be kids.”

  Oh.

  She’s a reasonable human being. It’s a Christmas miracle.

  I inhale, hold my breath, and then step to the side. “Right. Come in.”

  Rose steps inside and brushes off snow that’s latched on to the fur accents of her coat. “I need to speak to the children. You said one bumped his head?”

  “That’s right,” I say. “And how long will this take? I was serious about the caroling. My husband will be disappointed if we cancel. We collect money and donate it to the local soup kitchen.”

  “This shouldn’t take too much of your time,” she says, her voice low and almost devoid of emotion.

  She has bad news. It gets me uneasy.

  Rose walks into the kitchen, and I spot the cat darting across the floor.

  “Don’t step on Legos,” I say.

  Rose glances around at her feet.

  “I mean the cat.”

  To my surprise, Rose laughs. “Ah. Legos. That’s the perfect name for a cat. No one wants to step on Legos.”

  Heh. I never thought of that. I chuckle to myself, amused with Edmund’s clever name, even if it was on accident.

  Rose stops to examine Edmund and Luke. They both greet her with nods and “hellos,” but otherwise they say nothing. I wipe up the blood from the tile, straighten the table, and glare at Legos. This is her fault.

  “No,” Edmund screams.

  I snap my attention to him and see Luke holding the wet cloth.

  Edmund sniffles. “I want Carter to do it.”

  L
uke sighs and holds out the rag so I can take it. I walk over and dab Edmund’s injury. Rose writes something on her clipboard and offers me a smile. “Luke, Edmund, how do you like it here?”

  They both nod, but Luke practically jumps at the question. “It’s great. They’re great. We love it here. There’s absolutely nothing wrong.”

  “I love Legos,” Edmund says. “Both kinds of Legos. And I have both of them here.”

  Rose gives Luke an odd glance before forcing a smile. She writes something else without looking at her clipboard and watches as I work on Edmund’s head. The kid hugs my torso, seemingly content that I’m the one caring for him. His trust warms my spirits, even if I’m being judged by a social worker the entire time. Rose studies the moment and writes another comment on her clipboard.

  Once finished, I throw the soiled rag into the sink.

  “Should I leave you three alone for a bit?” I ask.

  Rose nods. “That would be appreciated.”

  I exhale and exit the kitchen, and the three of them head into the boys’ room.

  This month couldn’t possibly unfold any slower. Each painful day reminds me why I lived a hermit lifestyle to begin with. I enter the living room with a terrible weight hanging over me.

  I throw myself on the couch and lean my head back on the cushions. Being a father is hard work. So many times I want to curse—it makes me appreciate my own parents a little more. I didn’t spend as much time with my mother, but she had a calmness to her that permeated the air. And my father, while strict, hardly yelled or became upset. He was a font of wisdom when we got ourselves into trouble.

  Legos jumps into my lap, and I flinch. Has she come to exact her revenge?

  The feline spins in a circle, kneads my leg with her claws, and then lies down, purring.

  Wait, what? I thought she hated me.

  I pet her on the head. She purrs louder.

  “Is this a trick?” I whisper.

  The cat says nothing, obviously.

  I scratch my arm and groan. “I haven’t forgotten what you’ve done.”

  She licks my hand, and I catch my breath.

  Well….

  Legos does look cute up close. In general, I like wildlife; I just like it in the wild. The majesty of a bald eagle in flight, the beautiful coat of the otter, and even the vibrant colors of the white-tail deer—they’re a sight to behold.

  I glance around, confirming I’m alone. I scratch Legos behind the ears and relax against the couch. “Maybe I should just go with the flow,” I mutter to her. “Maybe I’m too tense. Taking everything too seriously.”

  A flea leaps off her and onto my lap.

  Or maybe I’m totally justified in my anger.

  I stand and attempt to toss the cat onto the couch. She latches her needlelike claws right onto my junk, somehow piercing the denim of my jeans! It takes all my willpower not to punch her. Instead, I grab Legos by the scruff of the neck, yank her from my pants—biting back a guttural growl as I do so—and place her onto the couch with my teeth gritted hard enough to strain my jaw.

  The front door opens, and I flash a glare to whoever decided to walk into my house.

  Owen lifts both his eyebrows the moment he catches sight of me. I exhale, letting my anger go with it, but the rage hasn’t drained from my system yet. He walks over and gives me a half smile.

  “One of those days, huh?”

  “Eh,” I say.

  Owen perks up. He unslings a backpack off his shoulder and dusts off his green-and-gray park ranger uniform. “Look here,” he says. “This will make you feel better. I got everyone bells. And chimes. And Christmas hats!”

  He unloads a classroom’s worth of Christmas gear from his backpack. The pack must be part clown car, because it holds way more than I ever expected.

  Before I can comment, Rose exits Luke and Edmund’s room. The silence that follows her gets me anxious again. The boys stay in their room, and she enters the hallway with her lips pursed.

  “You’re the other father?” Rose asks, her gaze on Owen.

  Owen nods. “Yes. And who are you?”

  “My name is Rose. I’m a social worker here to perform a welfare check and deliver some sad news.”

  “Okay. What’s the news?”

  “Mr. Weppler, Luke and Edmund’s biological father, has passed away.”

  I hear Owen catch his breath, and I remain speechless.

  “How?” Owen finally asks.

  “He took his own life.”

  Eh. This month of Christmas could have been replaced by a thirty-one-day-long torture session and I doubt many would see the difference. I itch my elbow and close my eyes. Rose came here to tell the boys that? I suppose it’s better than keeping it a secret, but I can see why they haven’t left their room.

  “Needless to say,” Rose continues, “the court appointment on the nineteenth has been cancelled. There are no more kinship adoptions available.”

  “They don’t have any other biological relatives?” Owen asks, disbelief thick in his voice.

  “The boys have one great-aunt, and one grandfather. Both are in nursing homes, and over the age of eighty-five. Since both of them have state-appointed guardians, they aren’t legally capable of adopting. Not to mention the grandfather has a severe case of Alzheimer’s.”

  Owen glances back at me, and I shake my head. I guess their father’s death clears up the legal trouble, but it adds a dark cloud to the whole adoption I don’t think we’ll be able to shake. The man killed himself from depression. If I were his kid, I might ask myself why my love and existence wasn’t enough to keep him around—which can really weigh on someone. Suicide is no joking matter.

  “We offer resources for foster parents,” Rose says. “There are support groups, parent-child counseling, and retreats you can go on to make sure the kids remain healthy and positive.”

  “We’ll do everything in our power,” Owen says.

  I nod. “Whatever it takes.”

  Rose gives us both a wary smile. “I’m sorry I had to deliver such sad news. I hope you and your family have a wonderful night caroling.” She shakes my hand, then Owen’s, and walks out the front door. The chilly wind that follows is the perfect punctuation to the end of the dismal conversation.

  “Think we should go talk to the boys?” I ask in a low voice.

  “No,” Owen says. “Let them stay in their room until they’re ready to come out.”

  “You don’t want to remind them of the caroling?”

  “If they don’t want to go, I don’t think we should force them. Not now.”

  To my surprise, the door to the boys’ room opens. Edmund and Luke walk out, neutral expressions until they reach the living room—then forced smiles.

  “We’re ready,” Luke says.

  Edmund chimes in with, “I can’t wait!”

  “Are you sure?” Owen asks. “We don’t have to go anywhere. We could—”

  “We should go,” Luke says, cutting Owen off. “Please.”

  I give Owen a sideways glance. I can tell he’s just as conflicted as I am. What’re we supposed to do? Insist they stay home and dwell on the terrible news? Maybe the caroling will be good for them. Then again, it seems so sudden. Kids don’t cope this quickly. At least, no kids I’ve ever known.

  “Are you two okay?” Owen asks.

  Luke nods. “We’re fine.”

  The silence that follows says otherwise, but it’s clear the kids don’t want to discuss it.

  “If you guys think you’re ready,” Owen says with a halfhearted smile. “Let’s get in the truck. I have bells and hats for everyone.”

  “After we put a bandage on Edmund’s head,” I say with a sigh.

  I’M NOT fond of caroling.

  I don’t know the words to the damn songs because, unlike everyone else, I didn’t grow up singing them all the time. Typically Owen would go by himself and raise money with a few other park rangers. They donate everything to the local soup kitchen, and now it�
�s become a tradition.

  This year the turnout is huge. Forty-five people. It’s not a group of carolers; it’s a whole damn band.

  My breath comes out in hot clouds of mist as the sun sets in the distance. I hold the donation bucket as the others perform, attracting whole crowds with their bombastic singing. Owen doesn’t hold back. He reenacts the songs like it’s a cheesy high school play. He loves throwing himself into the snow during “Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer,” and all the kids in the group laugh.

  Well, all except for Luke and Edmund.

  No matter how hard they try to act like they’re having fun, both of them are terrible actors. They smile when they catch anyone looking at them, but otherwise they’re silent and disturbingly emotionless.

  But Edmund’s resolve cracks with each additional song about merriment and family. During “It’s Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas,” he gets red in the face and sniffles. When everyone sings and Mom and Dad can hardly wait till school starts again, I see him tear up and sob.

  Luke kneels next to him, and I jog over, having known something like this would happen. We should have stayed home and let the kids deal with this whole mess at their own pace. Forcing them to interact with so many others isn’t the way to manage stress.

  “Edmund, stop,” I hear Luke say as I draw near. “You’re only making things worse!”

  I push the brothers apart. “Enough, enough. We’re going home.”

  The other carolers give the boys odd glances before moving away, no doubt to give us privacy.

  “We shouldn’t go back,” Luke says.

  “No, we shouldn’t have come out in the first place. C’mon. Let’s head back to the truck.”

  Edmund sniffles and walks up to me, his eyes bloodshot. “I wanna go home.”

  “Yeah. Me too.”

  Although the group continues to sing, Owen breaks away from the crowd—in the middle of his performance—and rushes over. “Hey, is everything okay? What’s going on?”

  “We’re leaving,” I say. “The kids aren’t feeling it.”

  Luke shakes his head. “This is important to Owen. We shouldn’t cancel another outing.”

  “We can do it again next year,” Owen says with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Everything’s fine. If we need to go back home, let’s go back home.”