Love Like That, page 7
The Kid whacks the egg and drops it in, all shell. Most of the white slips down the side, onto the counter.
“Decent,” you say. “Just pick out those tectonic plates and we’ll be in business.”
He chases the shells for a while with a spoon.
“They’re too quick.”
“Use your fingers.”
He cringes. “I don’t want to touch it.”
“Jesus Christ.”
You show him how to use the mixer, grease a pan. Everything is half-assed. There is a lot of sighing and slouching and staring, slack-jawed, at the ceiling fan. The floor is a Pollock of batter. For the ten minutes you spend washing dishes, his contribution is to grab the fridge handle, hang from it with both arms, and then let the door swing open with his own weight. “Ow,” he says, each time he smashes into the counter. “Ow.”
You could kill him.
“Just go,” you say.
“You sure?”
“Sure,” you say, and within seconds you hear the chirp of the PlayStation 4.
A half hour in, something starts to catch on the bottom of the oven, and the smoke alarm goes off. You wave at the thing with a dishrag, but another one in the living room has started up, too, where the Kid is. You run into the room. “Don’t worry!” you shout to the Kid, who has his hands over his ears.
When the rag doesn’t work, you try a couch pillow, and when that doesn’t work, you grab a kitchen chair and stand on it to take the battery out, but you can’t reach the alarm.
“These ceilings!”
“What about that chair?” the Kid yells, pointing to the wingback. He is standing up now.
“I don’t think that’s any taller!”
“We could stack them!”
“You think?”
The Kid shrugs.
You heave the wingback to the middle of the room and lift the kitchen chair on top of it. You try to climb it, but it’s too unstable.
“Can you hold it?” you shout.
The Kid braces himself against the back of the chair and you try again.
You can barely reach the alarm, which, that much closer, is unbearably loud, and you are sweating, and weirdly frightened, and the air around you is only getting thicker, and you realize you never even dealt with what was burning in the first place, and the chair beneath you is shaking, and when you look down, you see the Kid grimacing, his face red in places and white in others, pressing against the chair with all the strength in his little arms, in his whole body, to keep you up.
“Hang in there, buddy!” you shout, and he nods at the backs of your knees, and after what feels like several minutes of trying to free the battery—your ears—you finally whack and whack until the whole thing rips from the ceiling and crashes to the floor.
Silence rushes in.
You leap down from the stack and slap him five.
“Wow,” the Kid says, shaking out his arms. His eyes are watering from the noise. “That was badass.”
When the Boyfriend gets home, he is grateful, surprised. You sit around the table and give him your cards. The cake looks pretty nice, actually. You cut a big slice for the Boyfriend, the frosting thick as a book.
“Happy Father’s Day,” you say.
“This looks unreal,” the Boyfriend says.
“I made it myself!” the Kid says.
* * *
Sometimes the Ex-Wife asks for a change to the schedule, which the Boyfriend grants inevitably and unconditionally, and which you only hear about after the fact. It’s your weekend off, but the Ex-Wife has a business trip and has to leave Sunday night.
“So I said I’d just get him on Saturday,” the Boyfriend says.
“What the fuck?” you say. “Why’d you give her the whole weekend?”
“I just thought it’d be easier.”
“For who?”
“Why are you so jacked up?”
“You’re always bending over for her.”
“Relax,” he says. “She’s taking him next week instead.”
“When?”
“Tuesday.”
You gasp. “But that’s a weekday.”
“So?”
“That’s not a fair trade!”
“Fair trade.” He shakes his head. “I don’t know,” he says. “It’s like you don’t even want him around.”
“No,” you say. “But if I had a choice? If I had a choice to be just with you, would I pick it? Sure. Wouldn’t anybody?”
The Boyfriend winces. “But it’s not just me,” he says. He looks suddenly haunted. “We’re a package deal.”
* * *
You start to feel like something’s wrong with you.
* * *
On the Saturday night the Boyfriend gave away, you put on oldies and pour a bowl of cashews for everyone and a very strong drink for yourself, and you all play Sorry!, whose title move goes like this: upon drawing a Sorry! card, you may take a piece from your Start zone and swap it with someone already on the board, thus sending that player’s piece back to his own Start. If one player is on the board, the decision is made for you. If, however, two players are on the board—the Boyfriend, in this case, and the Kid—you must make a choice. This choice should be straightforward—you will sacrifice the player whose position is closest to your Home. But when you dispassionately remove the Kid’s piece and replace it with your own, his lip begins to quiver, and he cranks his fists into his eye sockets. When the Boyfriend pulls the same card, it’s clear he should sacrifice the Kid, but to control the damage you’ve done, he pretends to deliberate and, winking, sacrifices you instead, prompting the Kid to raise his head from the table and, his appetite whetted, grab a few cashews, which he pops jubilantly into his mouth. Although your ass is extremely chapped, you feign indifference, because you are an adult, obviously, and also because you can’t give him the satisfaction, and so you simply tell him to please consider chewing with his mouth closed. The Kid, meanwhile, having finally come upon a Sorry! card of his own—kissing the card several times and waving it in the air—sends your piece back to Start, not even placing it politely but tossing it at you with something worse than jubilance, even though sacrificing the Boyfriend would have benefited the Kid more, and the Boyfriend was already winning and should have been slowed down instead of pushed closer to a win, and you were already losing significantly, having had only one pathetic piece on the board, the one the Kid sent back. But the Boyfriend pulls another Sorry! card and—aware of your increasing agitation—sacrifices the Kid for the objective reason that the Kid’s position benefited the Boyfriend more, which, the Boyfriend explains, is how the game should work, and the Kid, enraged that his father favored you over him, spends the rest of the game taking every possible opportunity to obliterate his father, so engrossed in his vendetta that he does not notice that you are quietly winning, and then have won.
The Boyfriend grins. “Good game,” he says, and shakes your hand.
“Seconds!” the Kid says. He will not look at you. He grabs a card from the stack. “Dad, you and me!”
“There’s no seconds in Sorry!,” you say. You rip the card from his hand so hard you’re afraid you’ll see blood. “Learn how to lose, dude.”
The Kid blinks at you, soggy-eyed, then stomps to his room.
The Boyfriend is looking at you funny. “What?” you say.
He shakes his head. “You’re pretty hostile to him.”
“I’m not hostile.”
“You don’t love him.”
Love? You don’t know what to say. Your heart begins to pound. Your heart is always pounding these days. You fold up the board and tuck it into the box. You collect the pieces into a baggie and pinch it closed. You gather the cards, pat the edges of the stack smooth, and wrap it in a plastic band. The Boyfriend watches you in silence.
“Well, no,” you say finally. You tuck the lid of the Sorry! box over the bottom. “Not like you.”
The Boyfriend nods. “That’s hard for me.”
Your face grows hot. “What if I adopted some random kid and brought him home?” you say. “Would you be in love immediately?”
He closes his eyes, as if your very words are too bright. “But he’s not random,” he says. “He’s mine.”
“But he’s random to me!”
He shakes his head, bewildered.
“I don’t think that’s my job,” you say.
“What is your job?”
“I don’t know,” you say. “To tolerate him. To be kind, to pack a lunch once in a while, to make sure he doesn’t become a rapist.”
He blinks at you.
“I like him,” you try again, as he pushes back from the table. “I enjoy him. Not all the time, but sometimes.”
“Tolerate,” he says, heading for the Kid’s room. “Listen to you.”
* * *
When the Kid is over, you start staying out of the house altogether. You spend whole weekends at your sister’s or your parents’. You visit friends. Sometimes you just get fucked up at bars alone and flirt with ugly men. When you’re gone, the Boyfriend texts you pictures of the Kid because, you guess, he hopes you miss him, or wants you to miss him, or has convinced himself that when you are inevitably beset by a warm, bourbon glow at the sight of the Kid deep-throating a foot long at the county fair, the Kid pointing triumphantly at a golf ball in a hole, the Kid freshly weed-whacked at Supercuts, you will realize you have missed him all along.
Each time a new one rolls in, you look away, stunned and blinking, as if you just got flashed.
* * *
One Saturday, the Boyfriend gets called into work, so you tell the Kid to put his bathing suit on. You are going to the beach. “Why?” he says. “It’s not even hot.”
“Autumn closing in, man. Remember Bob Seger?”
“Who?”
“Hustle,” you say, halving a glistening watermelon. “Pretend you’re late for baseball.”
You carry a chair and he drags a chair and you carry the cooler and he drags the bag and you set up camp at the edge of the wet sand. There are crickets. You play catch with a tennis ball for a while, but you hate catch and you’re sick of chasing down the balls you fumble, and after a while you drop into your chair and point to a boy digging a ditch by the water. “Go make friends,” you say.
“How?”
You pull a Frisbee from the bag and hand it to him. “Ask him if he wants to play.”
“You do it.”
“I don’t need a friend.”
“Me neither.”
“Your call,” you say, and rest your head back.
You listen to him fidget, sigh, adjust the arms of his chair, pull off its head cushion with a protracted scratch of Velcro, open the cooler and rummage through the food. When you open your eyes, he is looking at you. “What?” you say.
“Is there juice?”
“Did you pack any?”
“Ugh,” he says, and bangs his head against the chair.
You close your eyes again. “Try to meditate,” you say.
“How?”
“Imagine your thoughts as taxis. When one comes, don’t get in it. Just let it drive away.”
“I don’t have any thoughts.”
“Then you’re ahead of the game.”
He is quiet for a minute.
“I’m bored,” he says.
“Where’s your book?”
“I think I forgot it.”
“Sandcastle?”
“I’m not a girl!”
“Jesus Christ,” you say, through your teeth. You point to the boy. “Go.”
“I’ll just sit with you.”
“You don’t want to.”
“I do, too.” He pushes out his lips and makes the sideways peace sign of a gangsta. “Look at me,” he says, pointing back and forth between you two, his head bobbing as if to a beat, the Boyfriend’s old sunglasses low on his nose. “I’m balling.”
“Uh-uh,” you say. “Go take your balling ass over there.”
“What if he says no?”
“Then I’ll kill him.”
* * *
At home, you collapse onto the couch next to the Boyfriend.
“I owe you one,” he says.
“How’d it go?” you say.
“Why don’t we ever play the lottery?” he says, patting his thighs so you can give him your feet.
“Because we’re stupid,” you say.
The Kid comes into the room, smelling of hand soap. “What would you do if you won the lottery?” you ask him.
The Kid thinks about this. “I’d get a Mustang.”
“What color?” you say.
“Hot blue.”
“A hot blue Mustang,” you say. “That’s it?”
“Yeah,” the Kid says. He is watching the Boyfriend press his thumb against your insole, slowly. “And then I’d pay a scientist to make Mom and Dad never die.”
“Awww, buddy,” the Boyfriend says, patting the cushion beside him. He lifts your feet and slides closer to you, under your legs, all the way to your hips, to make room for the Kid. When the Kid sits, your feet are in his lap, but when you pull your legs in, it’s not comfortable—your knees are in your fucking mouth—so you start to get up.
“Stay,” the Boyfriend says, his hand tight on your foot.
“There’s no room.”
“You’re fine.”
“Can I have one?” the Kid says.
“What?” the Boyfriend says.
“That,” he says.
“A massage?”
The Kid nods.
The Boyfriend chuckles, shrugs. “Why not?” he says. He spreads his arms agreeably. “I’ll take any and all.” The Kid swings around, grinning, and sticks his feet in the Boyfriend’s lap, touching yours. You freeze, then watch with horror as the Boyfriend takes the Kid’s foot in his hand. “Who says men can’t multitask?” he says.
“That’s it,” you say, ripping your foot away, and storm from the room.
“Get up, buddy,” you hear the Boyfriend mutter to the Kid as you stomp into shoes, and then he is coming down the steps, barefoot, to your car, which you are already backing out of the driveway. “Honey!” he calls out.
But you don’t stop. You just tear down the street, watching him shrink in the rearview mirror, and wonder when you’ll leave him.
* * *
When you get home late, drunk, the two are in the living room, watching a movie. The Boyfriend jumps to his feet when you walk in the doorway. The Kid scrambles to hit pause. “Are you hungry?” the Boyfriend says, straightening his shirt.
You point to the Kid. “Why the hell is he still up?” you say. The Kid looks down at the remote.
“We waited to have dinner,” the Boyfriend says.
“I didn’t want you to.”
“Did you eat?”
“No.”
His face brightens. “I made pasta.” He hustles into the kitchen, motioning for you to follow. You find the table set for three, napkins folded into crisp triangles under the forks, a bowl of spaghetti in the center. There are candles.
“It’s overcooked,” you say.
He frowns. “How can you tell?”
“It’s fucking white.”
The Kid has come in, too.
“He did the table,” the Boyfriend says. “I mean, I lit the match, but he’s the one who thought of—”
“I really don’t care,” you say, and you close the bathroom door behind you.
When you get out of the shower, the Kid is alone at the table, eating. Candlelight flickers across his face. “Where’s your dad?” you say.
“He’s on the phone.”
“You guys have a romantic dinner?”
The Kid looks down, embarrassed.
“Do you want more?” you say.
“No.”
You grab the bowl of pasta and dump the rest of it down the sink. The Kid sits up straight: he’s remembered something. “But thank you!” he says.
“Don’t talk with your mouth full.”
The Kid swallows. “So,” he says formally. “How’s work?”
“Work?” You look at him funny.
“Yeah.”
“I don’t know,” you say. You grab a broom and start to sweep. “It’s work.”
The Kid nods.
“Move your feet,” you say. He raises his legs so you can sweep under him. “How’s school?” you say.
He looks down at his plate. “It’s school,” he says.
“Something happen?”
He shrugs.
“What?”
“I don’t know,” he says. “Kelsey always talks to Timmy now.”
“That’s lame.”
“Do you think I’m too short?” he says. “Timmy’s taller.”
“Nah. Mark Wahlberg’s only five-eight.”
“Who?”
“A hot actor. Al Pacino’s short, too.”
“Al Pacino?”
“If you’re done, take your plate,” you say. He pushes his chair back and grabs his dish with both hands.
“And they’re grown men,” you say, as he rinses the dish carefully, front and back. “That’s as tall as they’re going to get. You’re just a kid.”
The Kid puts the plate in the sink and sighs.
“Dishwasher.”
He studies the rack for a while, then sticks it in.
“It’s facing the wrong way.”
“Huh?”
“The plate,” you say. “Flip it around.”
“Oh, oh,” he says, and fixes it.
“I might be taller than your dad,” you say.
“Really?”
“Hard to tell.” You sweep the dirt pile into the corner of the room, then lean the broom against the wall. “His posture sucks. He’s like an orangutan.”
The Kid laughs.
The Boyfriend comes into the kitchen. He tosses his cell phone on the table. “What are you guys laughing about?” he says.
“Who’s taller?” you say. “You or me?”
He scoffs. “Is that even a question?”
The Kid claps his hands. “Back to back!” he shouts.
You roll your eyes, then turn around and wait. You feel the warm press of the Boyfriend’s shoulders. “No cheating,” you say.
