Mom started to full-on weep.

  “Bizzy boyz gonnn sluch pluh,” Grandpa mumbled, incoherently.

  “Help your Grandfather to his room,” Mom sputtered between sobs.

  Maggie helped Grandpa get up and held on to him, as they walked down the hallway.

  Dad looked too angry to speak, but he looked at Mom and challenged, “Was that supposed to be a miracle healing for me or something?”

  Mom didn’t look at him, she cried, with her head bowed down.

  “You know what would help me stop drinking? Money! If I weren’t so worried about how we’re going to pay the bills, then I wouldn’t drink.”

  “Wrong,” I interjected.

  Dad swung to look at me like he’d forgotten I was even in the room. “What?”

  “You’ve been drinking since I was little. You lost your job two days ago,” I said.

  “Then maybe you’re the problem. Maybe I drink because I have shitty children,” he tossed out there.

  Mom blew her nose a few times. “We do not,” she insisted.

  Maggie returned to her place on the sofa.

  “You’re going to blame Maggie and I for your alcoholism?” I asked, for clarification.

  “What’d I do? Maggie asked, as she rounded the corner.

  He ignored Maggie, “And now I have to worry about providing for your Grandpa, as well.”

  “Grandpa gives you money to cover his expenses,” I said, “Just leave Grandpa out of this.”

  “You can all get the hell out. I drink because it’s the only thing that makes life worth living,” he told us, before turning and heading for his bedroom.

  Mom, Maggie, and I sat in silence, for what seemed like ages.

  “Well, that went well,” I joked, trying humor to ease the tension.

  Mom ran to the kitchen. Maggie slugged my arm and went to her room.

  When I heard Bobby’s truck, I grabbed a few cookies and met him outside giving him the run-down from the intervention debacle. I felt worried driving off for work early.

  Maggie was going out with Bobby leaving Mom and Grandpa home alone, with a super angry, drunk. I wasn’t the church-going type, but I prayed Dad didn’t do something stupid.

  Chapter 8

  Dad was at an interview for a bookkeeper job at a ‘Mom and Pop’ market, on the other side of town. At least that’s what he’d told Mom.

  Before he left, he grumbled about interviewing on the weekend and in his usual asshole way, he’d said the job was beneath his skill set, but somebody had to put food on the table. After the failed intervention yesterday, I had my doubts if he even had an interview.

  Since Dad wasn’t home in time to drive Mom to church, and they only had the one car, I drove her. She played the organ every Sunday, and it was the highlight of her week. Several hours later, Dad still wasn’t home in time to pick Mom up, so I also picked her up.

  At close to one o’clock, Maggie and I left to grab some burgers for lunch. Mom and Grandpa wanted burgers too.

  The house had a more relaxed feel when Dad wasn’t there, although, I wasn’t sure why he’d been gone so long.

  After we had picked up lunch, Maggie and I drove through town with the windows down and the radio blaring, the smell of burgers and greasy fries swirling around inside the car. Life was good; at least it was until Maggie slapped my arm. “Ouch! What?”

  “There’s Dad’s car.” She pointed ahead at the parking lot next to EC’s Lounge.

  Indeed, it was his cream-colored, Impala with the ratty, old, ‘Los Angeles Raiders’ bumper sticker, peeling off the back bumper.

  “Yup sure is.” I jerked the wheel into the gravel parking lot.

  “What’re you doing?”

  “You watch for Dad,” I said, as I popped the clutch too fast and caused the car to skid a bit.

  “What’re you going to do?” Maggie asked, out of her window, as I rounded the car to her side.

  “I’m going to let the air out of his tires, so he won’t drive home drunk.”

  “No, don’t,” she begged.

  “Just watch out for him.”

  “Hurry, then. If we get caught, he’ll kick us both out.”

  We were back on the road in record time. It was a good thing there weren’t any windows at EC’s. I’d never been in a bar, so I wasn’t sure if they didn’t want people looking inside, or didn’t want patrons looking out. Either way, I was grateful Dad couldn’t see what I had done. I thought, when he saw he had two flat tires, he’d call for a taxi.

  Maggie and I played it cool when we arrived home.

  Mom didn’t want the house to smell like hamburgers. So Mom, Grandpa, Maggie, and I, enjoyed a peaceful lunch on the back patio. We laughed a lot and had a great time together. After we were done eating, Grandpa didn’t feel well and said he was tired, so Mom walked him back to his room.

  When Mom returned, I asked her, “How’s he doing?” jabbing my thumb toward Grandpa’s bedroom. “He only ate a few bites.”

  “He’s been dizzy and a little uncoordinated, lately. Putting his socks on, even, has been a challenge. I’m worried about him,” she replied, adding, “He didn’t feel well after breakfast either, but I’m happy he joined us for lunch”.

  “Me too. What did he eat for breakfast?” I questioned.

  “I made him oatmeal, toast, and orange juice, but he only drank the juice.”

  “Did he say he wasn’t hungry?” I wondered.

  “Yes,” she said, with tears forming in her eyes.

  “What’s up with Dad paying attention to Grandpa lately?”

  “I think he’s making up for the past. He and your Grandpa haven’t always gotten along; it’s been more because your father’s a grump than Grandpa’s problem.” She sounded convinced. “He’s been stressed about his job for some time, speaking of your Dad, he’s been gone a long time.”

  “A grump?” I repeated.

  “Maybe he stopped somewhere on his way home,” Maggie chimed in, “Enjoy the peace and quiet while you can.”

  Mom looked at Maggie with a sheepish grin, and then we all snickered. The joyful mood came to an abrupt stop when we heard the Impala pull into the driveway and stop. Then the screechy sound of the garage door springs as the old door went up. It was like the start-gun at a track meet.

  “Quick, clean off the table,” Mom ordered, as she grabbed what remained from our lunch.

  We jumped from our seats and scrambled to clean up our lunch mess. Maggie joined Mom in her panic to return the patio to its pristine condition, while I went to the garage to toss the trash and see what was taking him so long to enter the house.

  Dad didn’t hear me open the door, which connected the hallway to the garage. He was focused, looking for something, pushing stuff around on the storage shelves, moving things from one side to the other. His arm was stretched all the way to the back of the shelf. He’s probably hiding a vodka bottle, I thought. I watched for a few more seconds. “What’re you looking for?” I asked him while allowing the door to shut with a thud.

  He jumped and turned around, knocking a black, spray-paint can off the shelf in the process. He didn’t need to say a single word for me to know he was sloshed. “Um… Um… Um… lubricant spray,” he slurred, “The car door hinge squeaks.”

  “You were gone a long time for your interview,” I queried as I walked closer to see what he was doing.

  “Are you my mother now?” He glared at me as he swayed back and forth. “I had two flat tires and had to call for road service.”

  I laughed on the inside. “At the market?”

  “At what market?” he replied.

  “Did you have the flat tires at the market, where you had your interview, or on the road?” I said slowly, to help his comprehension.

  “Oh, yes. Yes. After my interview. I went to leave and noticed the flat tires.”

  “Which ones?” I asked.

  “Which what?” He grabbed the shelf to steady himself.

  “Which tires were flat?” I felt like I needed an interpreter.

  “Oh, both on the driver’s side. I think kids pulled a prank while I was interviewing.”

  Again I wanted to laugh but knew better.

  “And then you stopped at EC’s? After you called road service to fix your flat tires?”

  His posture straightened. “Are you spying on me?”

  “When you park in plain sight, it’s hard to miss your car. And I told you the bumper sticker gives you away. Did you even have an interview?” I asked.

  He swung to strike me and fell to his knees.

  “I get you can’t stop drinking. At least do it at home where it’s cheaper instead of the bar. Have you forgotten you’re unemployed now?” It felt like I was the lecturing parent and he was the child.

  “You mind your own damn business, you little shit,” he said, looking up at me as he struggled to stand.

  Maggie opened the hall door and poked her head out. She looked at Dad and then at me. She didn’t say anything, just turned away and let the door slam shut.

  “So, you drove home drunk, again?” I asked.

  “I had one drink. I’m not drunk. Anyway, mind your own damn business.”

  He was still on his knees, struggling to get up when I went inside.

  Mom passed me in the hallway.

  “What’s going on out there?” she asked.

  “The grump’s drunk again.” There was more animosity in my voice than I’d intended. Mom looked at me with sadness in her eyes. “I’m sorry, Mom,” I said, with a softer tone.

  I was unable to understand why Mom didn’t divorce Dad. She deserved a better life than this. We deserved a better life than this. When I thought about moving to an apartment, I felt a little guilty about leaving Maggie and Mom to deal with Dad. My rational mind, though, told me it was ridiculous for me to feel guilty about leaving them to live with Dad.

  When I entered his room, Grandpa was sleeping on his side, in the fetal position. I went around the bed and sat in the chair next to it. Drool dribbled onto his pillow, and his left eye wept. His brow was furrowed, indicating his sleep wasn’t peaceful. I wondered if he was having a nightmare. He was so still, it concerned me for a minute. I watched his chest for the rise and fall, noting his breathing was shallow. Leaning in close to his ear, I rubbed his pajama shirt sleeve and whispered, “Grandpa.”

  He opened one eye a little. “Water,” he whispered back.

  Mom always kept a fresh pitcher of ice water next to the bed for him, and she checked on him often, to make sure he was comfortable. I held the straw in his water glass to his lips, he sucked and sucked, like a lost newborn kitten reunited with its momma. He drank the entire glass of water then gasped, to catch his breath.

  “Thank you,” he whispered, with his eyes closed.

  “Why are you so tired, Grandpa?” I asked, softly, but he was already deep asleep.

  Chapter 9

  After Dad and I had gotten into it, in the garage, he went to his room to most likely sleep off his mid-day drunkenness. I stayed busy working on my car.

  Maggie sat on the front lawn under the big shade tree, listening to music and watching me work on my Chevelle.

  It was a typical Sunday afternoon in the neighborhood. Little kids rode their bicycles up and down the street. A few houses down two brothers were into a serious basketball game.

  “Can you help me for a minute?” I asked Maggie.

  “Sure.” She bounced to her feet and walked the few paces to me.

  “From the other side, pull the seat cover tight so I can put some hog rings on.”

  “Ewww. Hog rings? From real hogs? How gross!”

  “Are you serious?” I asked.

  She shrugged, indicating she was quite serious. “Just pull the cover tight, okay?”

  Maggie tugged on the fabric. “What was Dad doing for so long in the garage when he got home and why was he on the floor when I looked out?”

  “He was rooting around in the shelves looking for something or hiding something. He gave me some bullshit story about his car door squeaking, but when I called him out for being drunk and stopping at the bar…”

  “Did you tell him what you did?” she blurted out.

  “Hell no! I just said I saw his car at the bar. He lied about the flat tires. His story was he found them flat at the market after his interview. And he thought kids had pulled a prank on him.” I winked and grinned at her.

  “Why was he on the floor?”

  “Because, he took a swing at me and when he missed, he landed flat on his ass.”

  The hall door to the garage opened and slammed, causing Maggie to look out through the windshield. Dad had awakened from his sobering nap and was walking straight toward the Chevelle.

  “Hurry up,” Maggie said to me.

  “Thanks. I’ve got it now.”

  Maggie went inside using the front door rather than pass by Dad, and use the door in the garage.

  “New seat covers, huh?” Dad asked.

  “Yup.”

  “Need some help?”

  “Nope.”

  He shrugged, went into the garage and began to sweep. His behavior was questionable, putting my senses on high alert, trying to figure out what he was doing besides sweeping.

  “Dad, actually I do need some help,” I called.

  “Sure. What can I do?” He dropped the broom.

  When he was sober, or at least, on the sobering end of a bender, he could be somewhat friendly and reasonable. I showed him how I needed him to pull the fabric tight on the driver’s side so that I could attach the rings on the passenger side.

  “Your seat does look old and cracked. I can see why you’d want new covers.”

  There was a faint booze smell oozing from his pores.

  “What motivated you to sweep the garage?”

  “Boredom. When I fell earlier, I noticed how dirty the floor was. Sorry about taking a swing at you, but my anger just took over,” he apologized.

  “Hmmm.”

  “When you’re done working on your car, I think I’ll wash mine,” Dad added.

  My bullshit meter sounded off. To my recollection, Dad had never washed his car. When I was young, he’d pay me fifty cents to wash it. As I got older, my price went up to one dollar, so he moved on to use the younger neighbor kids.

  With my new seat covers tightly in place, I moved my car to the curb and sat there pretending to fuss with something for a few minutes, to see what Dad was going to do next.

  To my amazement, he pulled his car out from the garage, got the bucket filled with soapy water and began to wash his car.

  There was no way I was leaving when his behavior was this bizarre. Grabbing the broom, from where he’d dropped it, I started to sweep the garage and finish the job he’d begun.

  “Son, leave the sweeping. I’ll finish it later,” he hollered to me.

  I ignored him and kept sweeping. “Cole, I said, I’ll sweep the garage.” His tone had turned gruff.

  The broom banged on the concrete when I dropped it. “Really, Dad?” I asked as I walked toward him, “We’re going to argue, now, about who sweeps the garage?”

  “Nothing to argue over. I’ll sweep it. You can go inside,” he said somewhat dismissively.

  “What’s going on, Dad? Do you have booze hidden in the garage somewhere and you’re afraid I’ll find it?” I ventured.

  “What the hell are you talking about?” His posture straightened and his volume clicked up a few decibels, “I’m the parent here. You live in my home, and you will show me some respect. What I do or don’t do, is none of your damn business.”

  Mom opened the hall door and peered into the garage. We stopped talking and looked at her. She looked at Dad and then at me. “What’s going on?” she asked.

  “It’s none of your concern. Go back inside,” Dad snapped. With an airy whoosh of his hand, Mom quickly retreated, and the door closed softly.

  He caught me off guard, when he grabbed my t-shirt, yanked me close to him and snarled, “Just back off.” His face turned ruddy, and his eyes bulged out. His voice was a controlled whisper, “I’m unemployed and going through a difficult time. I don’t need you on my ass.” His focus left me and shifted to something outside the garage. I strained to turn, with my shirt balled up in his fist.

  Mrs. Dearny was standing in the driveway, staring at us inside the garage. Her little dog was oblivious, with his leash stretched tight, as he sniffed the lawn edge. Dad grimaced, let me loose and rushed toward our neighbor.

  Fearing he might take his frustration out on her, I followed to monitor the situation.

  “Move on Edna,” he said, waving his hand, shooing her and her pooch away, “Nothing going on that involves you.”

  “Everything okay, Cole?” she asked me.

  “Fine, Mrs. Dearny,” I replied.

  She harrumphed, yanked the dog’s leash and then walked away. When I turned to go into the garage again, Dad caught me by the shirt back and turned me around. “We aren’t done,” he growled, “You, stay the hell out of my business. You don’t need to be bothered with what I do and where I go.” He twisted his hand to reel me closer to him. My shirt tore, but he didn’t loosen his grip. “Do I make myself clear?”

  “Sure,” I said. My mind raced through the possible consequences if I hit him.

  He released my shirt. When I was on the step to the back door, I turned to face him. “Dad,” I said quietly. He looked at me. “You need help with your drinking. You’re going to hurt yourself or someone else.”

  He waved me away much as he’d done to Mom and Mrs. Dearny.

  Chapter 10

  Sunday had been a long and shitty day. I felt relieved to go to school and get away from my crazy parents. The school was hosting a Career Day. The second and final Career Day for the seniors, like me, still not sure what they wanted to do after graduation. Today was the last opportunity to think about a career or college we hadn’t previously considered.

  Bobby was already accepted into the Sheriff’s Academy. He’d never wavered from following in his dad’s footsteps. I remember as kids he talked about being a sheriff’s deputy. I thought he’d outgrow it.

 

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