80

I spent the next morning picking out glass and broken dishes from the carpet. Thousands of slivers as thin as pins, sharp on both ends, pricked my fingers. Gloves made the job harder so I finally used a comb, inch by inch through the living room and the dining room. I saved the kitchen floor for last because it was small and easy; just needed to wipe it down with damp paper towels, my knees protected by a scrap of cardboard.

By lunchtime, the floors were safe and I could let the dog out of the basement.

Dad slept.

In school, they were studying Homer, tangents, tonal systems, Dred Scott, and finger whorls. Finn was probably flirting and studying and finishing his applications and saving the world all at the same time. I kept hearing him say, “You take care of him more than he takes care of you” over and over again.

When Benedetti’s office called, I said my father and I had flu again.

* * *

When the sun went down, Dad woke up, chain-smoked, and ate two bologna sandwiches. After eating, he went outside to talk on his cell. I wanted him to start drinking again so he would pass out. I didn’t have to worry about him hurting himself when he was unconscious.

He opened another bottle when he came in, sat me on the couch, and made me listen to stuff I’d heard a million times before: ambushed foot patrols, IEDs ripping open vehicles and bodies, suicide bombers living in ghost villages. The private who was shot in the neck. The guy who removed his helmet to wipe the sweat off his head, and the sniper who blew that head into a red mist that hung in the air for a moment before it dropped to the dirt and soaked the ground.

The thing under his skin took over his eyes and made them look dead. The thing raged and paced, snapped at the dog, yelled at me.

I tried to go to bed around two, but that set him off again. I stayed awake. I listened. Donkeys loaded with weapons. Bloated bodies. The smell of the dead. Flies.

Around quarter after four, he puked all over the carpet and finally passed out. I laid him on his side, put a bucket by his head, and threw a towel over the mess so the dog wouldn’t eat it. I took a long shower to wash off the tears and the stench of whiskey puke.