MATT LIFTS BEN’S BARE LEGS, plops down on the couch, drops Ben’s feet onto his lap, groans.
Ben raises his eyes from Shoeless Joe. “What?” He doesn’t even tilt his head, simply stares up through too-long bangs. That move is impressive.
“You need a visit from Edward Scissorhands.”
That makes the kid move. Quickly. He covers his head with his book.
“You’re looking like a sasquatch, bro. Should give you a buzz cut.”
“No way. You’re not touching my hair,” Ben says. “And, anyways, that’s not what you were going to say.” Ben squeaks his bare back along the vinyl couch as he gets comfortable, book now laid open on his sticky chest. Neither of them have a shirt on. Too fucking hot for that.
Matt groans again, squeezes Ben’s toes. He shouldn’t have come into the living room. He can’t share this with the kid. Dad has been MIA too long and the money is almost gone. With this heat, yardwork is practically non-existent and he has been dipping into the bread bag. “What? You a mind reader now? Dial 1-900-PSYCHIC BOY?”
Ben pulls his foot from Matt’s lap, nudges him.
He lunges for Ben’s foot and Shoeless Joe hits the floor with a light thud. A heavy thud follows and they jump.
“Boys?” Dad’s voice is alcohol hoarse, too loud.
Ben shifts quickly, pushes his back into Matt’s chest.
“Dad?” Matt says. The word comes out soft, too soft. He clears his throat, calls out again. He rests his hand on the back of Ben’s neck, feels the shiver that glides through the kid.
Dad appears in the entryway. He braces his shoulder against the wall, tucks his hands into his front pockets. His yellow garage shirt is wrinkled, sweat-stained under the arms. His gaze rests on the boys huddled on a single cushion on the couch.
“Dad, hey.” He can’t tell if Dad is in the middle of his latest binge or riding the tail end. His face is covered with days-old stubble, distorts a purplish bruise along his cheek bone. Matt slides out from behind Ben, grips the back of the couch with one hand. Silence always makes him nervous. This Dad, quiet and hungover, home in the middle of the afternoon, is a wounded dog. “You want me to make you something to eat? Lunch maybe? It’s, uh,” he eyes the starburst clock above the TV, “two, I guess. You hungry?”
“No,” Dad says, pushes off the wall. He stops behind the couch. “Not hungry. Thought I’d grab a couple hours of sleep. Maybe a shower. Got a shift at five.”
“Oh,” he says. Dad still has a job. There is still money coming in. He loosens his grip on Ben’s shoulder. The red marks from his fingers fade pink.
“But, hey,” Dad heaves his hip on to the top of the couch, “the boss says he can give you a shift or two.”
“At the garage?” he asks.
“That’s where I work, isn’t it?”
“Well, yeah.” He plants his feet a little firmer on the floor as Ben pushes his weight back. “I just wasn’t sure that was going to happen.”
“Told you it would, didn’t I?”
Ben tenses and Matt’s grip tightens again. “Yes, you did.” He prays gratitude is coming through and not uneasiness.
“Matt doesn’t need a job at the garage,” Ben says. The kid’s voice rings clear in the hot air.
“What’s that, boy?”
“Matt doesn’t need a job at the garage,” Ben says, voice still firm but not as loud.
“Working in a garage is good enough for your old man but not good enough for your brother?”
“No, that’s not what I mean,” Ben says quickly.
“That’s not what he’s saying,” Matt speaks over his brother.
Ben rushes on. “We’re cutting lawns now. We’re busy with that.”
“Yeah,” he says. “We’ve got a few houses we’re — ”
Dad strikes out, pulls Ben by his hair. Ben is over the couch before Matt can move. Skin hitting skin spurs him into action.
“Dad! What are you doing?” He vaults the couch, stands between his father and a fallen Ben. The whiskey is strong on Dad’s breath.
“Get out of the way, Matt. Gotta teach this boy not to be so proud.”
“Dad.” He pushes his father away.
Dad kicks out, his toes grazing Ben’s hip. The boy gasps then crawls on his feet and hands, back pedals to the wall.
“Stupid fucking kid!” Dad’s face is red, the purple bruise a dark shade of eggplant.
“Ben.” He doesn’t dare look at his little brother. “Go to the bedroom.”
The boy pushes himself up the wall, stands unsteadily.
“Now,” he says and Ben is gone.
“What the fuck, Matt?” Dad tries to shoulder past him.
But he fists his hands in his father’s work shirt and won’t move. “He didn’t mean anything by it. Just wanted to let you know we were working. Jesus. That’s it.”
“Stupid fucking kid.” Dad deflates with each word. He leans his head on Matt’s shoulder then straightens up almost at once.
He lets go of his father’s shirt, but still doesn’t move.
Dad takes a step back, sways. He swipes a hand across his mouth. “What do you need?”
He carefully schools his features. He needs to go to Ben. But even more, he needs his father to leave. He weighs feeding Ben, keeping a roof over Ben’s head against consoling the kid right-the-fuck-now. “Power bill’s coming due. And I need money for groceries.”
Dad pulls his worn leather wallet from his back pocket. He folds twenties and fifties into Matt’s palm, closes the boy’s fingers around the money. He keeps his hand there a moment longer. Then he turns and leaves. The door slams shut.
Jesus fucking Christ. Just when he is lulled into a comfortable state of being, everything changes. Or nothing changes. That’s what it is. They keep moving, but nothing changes, it never gets better.
He runs his fingers through his hair. He can’t take this. He can’t fucking take this. He needs something. He thinks about Kennedy in the school hallway, Kennedy in the bleachers at noon hour. How she looks at him. He thinks about pushing her up against the wall and fucking her senseless. Ten minutes of nothing but pure bliss. It has been too long since he has been able to forget it all.