My dad rushes into our living room and grabs his baseball cap before jamming it onto his greasy hair. Then he stumbles over to the hook by the door and pulls a creased trucker jacket onto his shoulders.
“Daddy, what’s the rush?” I ask, astonished. I’m doing some crochet, but my fingers pause as my dad storms through the small space.
“Nothing,” he mumbles with his head down, not meeting my eyes. “I’ve got some work to do over at the bar, and I’m late.”
I eye the window outside. It’s still sunny in the afternoon, and I know Patrick’s shifts don’t usually start until at least five p.m.
“So early?” I ask, dumbfounded. “But you don’t have the key to the Drunken Rabbit, and I don’t think Mr. Posner is going to be there yet. How are you going to get inside this early in the day?”
After all, my dad is a custodian at our local dive joint, the Drunken Rabbit. It pays very little, but to be honest, I’m glad Patrick has a job at all. He’s had a difficult life, starting from when he was two and his own father walked out, leaving my grandma to raise six children on her own. As you can imagine, there wasn’t a lot of adult supervision, and the kids basically ran wild all the time. I think they had three meals a day, but to this day, I’m not sure.
But Patrick turned out okay. He had to drop out of high school to support his family, but he’s never resented anyone for that. His first job was wiping the counters at our local Mickey D’s. It was humble, but my dad said he liked it because there was always food to eat. Evidently, you could eat as much fast food as you wanted while you were working, and I know my dad was sneaking vittles to some of his younger siblings too.
Soon, Patrick graduated to custodial work, and he got a job as a janitor at the local high school. This was definitely a step up because he had a steady schedule instead of picking up shifts, and the job came with benefits too, like health insurance and paid vacation days. My dad was living high on the hog during this portion of his life, and that’s when he met my mom Sunny.
Sunny is exactly as her name indicates: a ray of sunshine, but also flighty and needy. The two of them couldn’t have been more than teenagers themselves when they had me, and at first, everything was okay. But caring for a baby is hard, and eventually, Sunny broke down. She took off when I was three years old, and we haven’t seen her since. Sometimes there’s a long-distance call from some far-off place, but to be honest, those calls don’t mean much to me. I have no recollection of my mom other than mental images of a young woman with long blonde hair who sometimes tickled me under the chin. Other than the voice on the line, that’s all that I remember of Sunny.
But for my dad, it was another story. Patrick was devastated by Sunny’s desertion, and he slipped into a depression for a few years. Needless to say, he lost his janitorial job at the school and we were living on government help for a couple years. Finally, my dad picked himself up and landed this position at the Drunken Rabbit. It’s not glamorous because he washes dishes, mops floors, and cleans the bathrooms, but I’m just glad my dad has a place to go each morning and something to keep him busy. Depression is a very real illness, and sometimes I’m afraid that he’ll slip back into the grey doom.
But it means that my life has been somewhat tumultuous as well. I felt like I had to take care of Patrick a lot of the time, even though I was only five and he was twenty-five. I learned how to scrounge for food and how to make scrambled eggs when I was nothing more than a wee tot. I learned how to shop at the local Five and Dime, and how to negotiate with our landlord so that we wouldn’t have to pay rent until after my dad got his paycheck each week.
Plus, maybe the cycle is repeating itself because just like my dad, I too haven’t been very academically-oriented. After graduating from high school, I got a job at a local craft shop downtown where I sell yarn, glitter glue, construction paper, and sewing shears, among other items, to the yuppie crowd. I have to dress nice and act charming when I’m at work because the downtown area has a lot of fancy stay-at-home-moms who drink five dollar lattes while pushing strollers that cost four figures. Little do they know, but after I lock up the store each night, I head on home to a completely different world: Sunset Residences, the trailer park by the highway.
It’s not so bad. I’ve never known anything nicer, so I can’t say I’m missing anything. The double wide we have is parked in a shady spot in the corner of the trailer park, with magnolia trees growing nearby. We have water and sewage hook-ups, as well as two bedrooms, a small combination living / cooking / eating area, and a tiny bathroom just big enough for a sink and shower stall. It’s not fancy, but it’s fine. I’m comfortable here, and sometimes I even cook using our tiny stove and oven. It’s a doll-sized life, but things could be worse. My dad could be in the hospital for his depression, and I might be all on my own.
As a result, Patrick and I lean on each other. In the mornings, before I leave for the crafts shop, I make sure that Patrick takes his daily medication. In the afternoons, my dad leaves for his job and I always make sure to leave the porch light on outside so that when he gets back in the wee hours of the morning, he’s not fumbling around. Together, we’re able to make the rent on our double-wide just fine. Apart, we’d have nothing, not even a place to live.
But today, Patrick is acting funny. To be honest, he’s been acting a little weird lately. He comes in at all hours of the morning, which is normal, but something’s different. Sure, he smells like a chimney, but he tells me it’s the smoke at the bar. Some of patrons at the Drunken Rabbit are lifelong smokers, and couldn’t quit if they wanted to. I’ve suggested those new vaping pens, but Patrick says their problems go beyond a nicotine addiction. These folks are chimneys because they’re in love with the motion and gestures of smoking, and not just merely the chemical high.
But it’s more than the overwhelming smell of smoke on his clothes. He’s been chewing a lot of tobacco recently, and his eyes often dart to the windows of our small trailer, as if he expects to see someone lurking outside.
“Dad, it’s just Mrs. Bunker from two trailers over,” I said the last time his eyes grew shifty.
“Oh I know,” my dad replied while swallowing another forkful of spaghetti. “Mmm, baby girl, this is delicious. Where’d you get the tomato sauce?”
I smile happily.
“It’s from Albertson’s. They had some really great coupons last weekend, and I was able to pick up a few cans of that really tangy tomato sauce that you like. But Daddy, don’t try to change the subject. Why are you so jumpy lately? Did something happen at work? I know Mr. Posner has been ill lately.”
Herb Posner is my dad’s boss and the proprietor of the Drunken Rabbit. He’s a good guy, and has run the place for thirty years, ever since he inherited it from his father. Unfortunately, Mr. Posner recently got sick, and although people don’t like to talk about it, there have been whispered rumors of cancer, the Big C. They say it’s lung cancer from the hellish smoke at his bar, but then again, it could be anything. Our town has been in the coal business for decades now, and although Mr. Posner never went below ground himself, you never know.
But my dad shakes his head.
“I haven’t seen Herb in a while. He’s been in the hospital, last I heard.”
“Oh no!” I exclaim, clasping my hands. “Is everything okay?”
My dad shakes his head, but then catches himself and begins nodding.
“Things will be fine, Mercy. Don’t you worry your pretty little head about this. You just keep working at your craft store, and let me handle business.”
But Patrick’s not cut out for serious responsibilities. I hate to say it, but my dad’s not the most responsible of people. That’s part of the reason why, in addition to his depression, he’s never made it beyond janitorial work. Most people would be some type of manager now, or at least a bartender or a bouncer, but Patrick will never get there. He’s better suited to a life among mops and brooms, with his dust pan in one hand and a wet rag dangling from his back pocket.
“Daddy,” I say, my expression serious now. “You can tell me about it. Maybe I can help.”
But Patrick’s eyes merely shifted to the window again, and his nose twitched. He reminded me of a nervous rabbit constantly surveying the landscape for a predator. When satisfied that none was on the horizon, my dad relaxed again and twirled another forkful of spaghetti.
“No, Mercy,” he admonished. “I’m okay. Everything’s going to be okay. Herb’s going to get better and the Drunken Rabbit’s going to get itself out of this mess. Don’t worry about a thing.”
I let the issue drop because if the problem was the Drunken Rabbit, then I wouldn’t be able to help. Did they get their electricity and water shut off? Were they late on their property taxes? It seems hard to imagine, seeing that they’ve been in business for more than thirty years, but then again, we live in a tiny town that’s suffered from the decline of coal and manufacturing. These days, anything, and I mean anything, could go wrong.
But that still doesn’t explain Patrick’s current level of jitters. He pulls the stained baseball cap lower on his greasy hair and fiddles idly with the knob to the front door.
“Mercy, you’re a good girl, have I told you that?” he mumbles in a low voice. “Your mom and I love you very much.”
I try not to snort. Sunny’s last phone call was at least six months ago, and she sounded like she was in a very loud place. I’m not sure what she was doing, but I could definitely hear a train go by and then a man’s low voice calling her in the background. I thought it was better not to ask.
“I know, Dad, but where is this coming from? Why are you so unsettled? Is something wrong?”
My dad managed to meet my eyes and smile weakly again, but he didn’t answer my question.
“You’ve always been so strong, Mercy, ever since you were just an itty bitty baby yourself. You took care of me and made sure I had clean clothes and food when I was in my depression. You were my caretaker, even though you were in elementary school yourself, and I’m proud to have raised a strong, able woman under my roof.”
I squint at him, my hands pausing at my crochet again.
“Yes, but where are you going, Dad? The bar won’t open for another few hours.”
My dad frowns but then smiles again.
“Can’t a man go for a walk?”
I stare at him.
“You never walk, Daddy. You love your truck and take it everywhere.”
After all, we may not have much, but my dad’s candy apple Ram 3500 is his pride and joy. He makes sure it’s cleaned and buffed always, with nary a scratch. It’s got a pair of longhorns mounted on the front bumper, so that it’s a mix of vehicle and animal, topped off with the American flag peeping out the back window.
“Aw, you know my Laramie Long Horn,” my dad says. “She deserves a break every now and then.”
I shake my head.
“Since when? You love being seen driving that thing. You haven’t walked anywhere in ages, not even to the store to grab milk.”
My dad just sniffles a bit before shrugging.
“Mercy, you’re a good girl, and your old dad wants to take a walk. As I get older, I’m learning to appreciate nature more. I like seeing the trees, the grass, and the flowers. I’m even thinking about taking a class on nature appreciation at the community college.”
I squint at him.
“Are you serious?”
“Yes,” he replies, pulling the brim of his cap down lower. “Now be a good girl, Mercy, and make your dad proud, okay?”
Before I can say anything, Patrick lets himself out of the trailer and stumbles across our small patch of dried grass. Then sure enough, he jams his hands into his pockets and strolls off, as if he’s really going for a walk. Who knew?
But where is he going? Why is he going? My dad has never been an outdoorsy person, and while the weather is okay, he’s not one to enjoy the sunshine or the smell of leaves. I know he’s up to something, but I just don’t know what it is.
With a sigh, I turn back to my crochet. We’re coming up on the holiday season, and I’m making a hat for my boss Althea. It’s going to be green with white snowflakes around the brim, and there will be earflaps with two red tassels dangling below. Very Christmas-y, if I do say so myself.
Instead of letting myself wonder about my dad, I focus on my work. My hands are nimble and I’ve always been good with homemade projects. In fact, I’ve thought about opening my own store selling crocheted children’s goods on Etsy, but I haven’t gotten around to it yet. Evidently, you need to have a business bank account before you can open up shop, and I don’t have one of those yet.
But I already know what I’m going to call my store. It’s going to be known as Mercy’s Mindful Treasures, and there will be all sorts of soft yarn goods to purchase. For example, I’m planning on crocheting some baby sweaters, hats and booties for newborns. I also have some crocheted yarn animals stockpiled, as well as some finger puppets that kids would love. Although right now, I’m still working full time at the crafts store downtown, I know that at some point I’ll be able to open up Mercy’s Mindful Treasures and devote myself to my art full-time.
Thinking happy thoughts, I smile to myself while my fingers loop, spin and weave. The hat is coming out nicely, if I do say so myself, and Althea will love it. We bond over our shared adoration of yarn goods, and I think she’s making something Christmas-y for me too.
Suddenly, I’m startled from my happy thoughts by a sharp rap at the door. What? Who could it be? We hardly ever get visitors, and we already repaid the money we owed the Benedicts from three trailers over. So who’s knocking so demandingly right now?
Sighing, I put down the hat and get up, scraping the floor with the chair. I hate being disturbed when I’m on a roll because it can be hard to get back into the zone. I love crochet, don’t get me wrong, but sometimes all I want is a solid hour or two to focus on my work, and nothing more. I wish other people felt the same way sometimes.
With a petulant expression on my face, I fling open the front door but then stop in my tracks because the men on the doorstep are breathtakingly gorgeous. In fact, I know them because they’re my dad’s buddies from work: Derek and Drake Stone. The two men are bouncers at the Drunken Rabbit, and they have the physiques to prove it. They’re each at least six four, with broad chests, strong arms, and long, powerful legs. Both brothers have blazing blue eyes with deep chestnut hair, and as I stand there, Derek smirks.
“Hi Mercy. Do you have some time for a chat?”
The air in my lungs whooshes out in a huge breath because what could these handsome men want with me? Suddenly, I can’t wait to find out.