THE BRISTLES ON THE TAMPED-DOWN welcome mat sting his bare feet as he rubs them dry. Ben barges past, his damp footprints disappearing from the warm linoleum almost as quickly as they mark the path from the mudroom into the kitchen.
Matt follows slowly, listening carefully. Nothing. Good. That’s good. He heard Dad come home last night, stay in the living room for too long. He is always vigilant on nights when Dad is battling memories, when he has been drinking.
He pulls the plug on the sink, the water gurgles past the cereal bowls and glasses. “Stop farting, bro. That’s disgusting.”
“That’s not me!” Ben says but his flashing dimples do nothing to reinforce his indignation.
“Do the breakfast dishes while I start lunch, will you?”
“Aye aye, captain.” Ben salutes and dodges to avoid the fist aimed at his shoulder.
Matt opens the freezer on the top of the avocado green fridge, digs out the package of wieners. He breathes in the cool air as he watches Ben slowly, meticulously run the washcloth around the edge of a bowl. He has no idea where Ben gets that level of precision. Mom maybe? Dad has never been like that.
He puts the hot dog buns on the table, turns around for the pot and is blinded by a beam of light. “What the fuck?” Ben is reflecting the sun off a shiny stainless steel spoon. He bows. “Spotlight on perfection.”
Ben giggles. Kid is full of giggles today.
“Hey, Matt, do you think we can have mac and cheese for supper tonight?”
“What the fuck, bro? We haven’t even had lunch yet!” He laughs. “Yeah, we can have mac and cheese. Chicken nuggets, too. If we can do a lawn today maybe we can stop by the store, pick up stuff for a salad. Fight off the scurvy.”
The kid has hit a growth spurt these last couple of months, ankles and wrists poking through clothes. He is grateful for the hot weather. It means shorts and T-shirts. It means he doesn’t have to bother Dad for money to buy new clothes for Ben. It means having more time to earn the money himself.
“Are you making extra hot dogs for Dad?” Ben asks.
“Yup. Don’t know if he’ll be up to eat with us, but they’ll be ready when he gets out of bed.”
Ben sets three plates beside the buns. Freshly dried glasses go on next. He fills two glasses with milk, slurps from the jug before he returns it to the fridge.
“Hey, get the ketchup and mustard packages. They’re in that cupboard right above the sink.”
Ben clambers onto the counter, fists the packages, dumps them in the centre of the scarred yellow Formica table. The chairs are metal frame, have psychedelic yellow and green patterns on the vinyl that covers both the seats and backs. The kitchen is perfectly coordinated in a style older than Matt.
“Hey, there’s some relish here,” Ben says as the packets scatter across the table.
“Awesome.” He drains the water from the pot then sets it on the table. “Dig in.”
Ben fixes two hot dogs, slathers each liberally in ketchup.
Matt does the calculations. There was a time when a dozen wieners fed them both for four meals. Not any more. He holds back, makes only one hotdog. When Ben starts to labour through his second dog, Matt reaches for another wiener and bun. Three meals now. That’s all they’re going to get. Soon it’ll be two. He needs to find a job. Right-the-fuck-now. “You up to door-knocking this afternoon?”
“Sure,” Ben says. “The usual signs, right?”
The kid sounds like a veteran and Matt is equal parts pissed and proud. “Yeah, the secret code of old people.” He talks through a full mouth, rubs mustard from his lower lip with his thumb. In the five years he’s been mowing lawns and shoveling walks, he has perfected his hunt for willing clients. Older-style homes, older cars parked in the driveway, uncluttered front lawns, half-planted gardens.
“Where should we look?” Ben asks.
“Still not ready to lead, young grasshopper?” He takes a big chomp of wiener and bun, wets his mouth with milk, swishes it around. Ben throws a disgusted look his way. “I noticed a few houses on the other side of the school we can hit up.”
“Sounds good.” Ben pushes back his chair.
He grips Ben’s arm, stops the kid from standing. He tips his chin at the doorway. “Hey, Dad. There are a couple of dogs here for you. I can nuke them if you want.”
“No, that’s fine.” Dad’s voice is scratchy. He tucks his yellow golf shirt into his opened jeans, cinches his belt. The crest for Rath’s Garage stands out in electric blue on the bright yellow. Dad’s eyes are red-rimmed, his face covered in three-day-old whiskers, the purple bruise on his jaw fading. He hangs in the entryway a moment, keeps his eyes on the boys. Matt holds Dad’s gaze. He is brazen. It is Dad who ducks his head. He shuffles to the fridge, pulls on the stainless steel handle, lingers. He retrieves a Blue, twists the cap, flicks it into the sink. A loud clatter.
Matt slackens his hold on Ben’s arm.
“Hey, Dad,” Ben says, eyes cast down.
“Benny.” Dad makes his way over, drops into the chair next to Matt. He draws his plate across the table. The glass remains untouched. He pinches both wieners from the pot.
“There’s some relish here, Dad.” Ben fishes two packets out of the mess of ketchup and mustard.
Dad takes the packets, smiles briefly at the boy. Ben’s dimples show and Matt’s throat tightens. Making Dad happy with packets of relish shouldn’t bring on a full-fledged smile from the kid. It just shouldn’t. In Ben’s world that small smile fills the Dad-quota for at least a month. Matt keeps his face carefully blank.
“What are your plans for the afternoon?” Dad takes a long pull from his bottle, almost empties it. “Grab me another, Benny.”
Matt lifts his chin at Ben’s glance. Ben takes another beer from the fridge, twists off the cap, flicks it into the sink. He places the opened bottle on the table.
“Thought we’d check out the neighbourhood a little.” He never tells Dad about the work he tries to line up. Dad sees it as a personal affront. “It’s nice out. Almost summer weather and it’s only May.”
“Did you need us to do something?” Ben asks, slides his chair closer to Matt.
“No.” Dad moves on to his second beer. “I’ve got a shift later at the gas station. Starts at six. I’ll work through until midnight.”
“You want me to make supper early? We can eat at five.” He hopes his tone passes for eager.
“Nah. I’ll pick something up there. Easy enough to do. And it’s free.” Dad pushes his chair back, stretches his long legs under the table. “I can probably get you a shift or two at the station. You interested?”
Ben clutches the back of Matt’s shirt, pulls hard.
He slouches to relieve the pressure. “Would I work the same times as you?”
“Probably not. The shifts I work, Cal’s already on them. The usual guy. You’d probably get a Saturday or Sunday. Even a couple morning shifts before school starts.” Dad straightens up, rests his elbows on the edge of the table. “Then you can work there through the summer.”
“Sure. Ask.” Matt grasps Ben’s arm, rubs his thumb over the smooth flesh on his wrist. The kid’s breathing slows down, his death grip loosens.
There is no danger of Dad getting him a shift. Dad just needs to offer. Matt knows that, but he doesn’t know why. It is as if Dad is hungry to do more, tells himself he can do more. But he never delivers.
“Come on, bro. The dishes are calling your name.” He will explain to the kid later why he doesn’t have to worry about being alone with the old man.
The cold bitter liquid goes down smoothly. It is the only thing that goes down smoothly in his life. It stings to hear the need in Benny’s voice, see the spark of anger in Matt’s eyes. But he gave up a long time ago figuring out how to do anything about either. He is too tired. Too tired to make an effort. Too tired to care enough. This is who he has become and he can’t be anybody else. He gave up on that possibility a decade ago.
He leans back in his chair, takes another swig, holds it in his mouth, swallows it slowly, slowly. He rubs his hand along his jaw, flinches when his thumb brushes against the bruise. Goddamned asshole. The man wasn’t supposed to be home for a couple more days. He’d had it planned. He didn’t want to be moving the boys, not with less than two months left in the school year. Denise said her husband was working a two-week-in, one-week-out shift. It used to be a game, fucking another man’s wife. How long he could make it last without being found out, without getting his ass kicked. It was the excitement that drove him. Teetering on the edge made him remember what it meant to live, to feel. Now, it is only about forgetting.
A thunk on the counter as Benny sets down a glass brings him back to now. He shifts in his chair, watches the boys move around the kitchen. They are quiet. They are never this quiet when they think he is gone, when they think he is not listening. They dance easily around each other, a push here, a tug there, Matt’s top lip raised in a half-sneer, the corners of Benny’s eyes crinkling in suppressed laughter.
He pushes his chair away from the table suddenly, a harsh sound cutting through the boys’ camaraderie. He tightens his grip on the nearly empty beer bottle. Matt and Ben stop. Frozen in domesticity. But this is no fucking Norman Rockwell painting.
“Everything okay, Dad?” And just like last night, Matt is moving, positioning himself in front of the younger boy.
“Yeah.” He clears his throat wetly.
Matt watches him, Benny peeks out.
Jack pinches the bridge of his nose as an ache builds behind his eyes. This throbbing, this emptiness, this loss, this is what he knows. This is what keeps him from going on. And there is no going back.