Page 86 of Rough

He taught me to answer a direct question with a direct answer. As far as he was concerned, it was a matter of respect. Although we played around often, his clearing of his throat was a reminder to adhere to the principles he instilled in me.

“She asked me why I wanted to go on a date with her, and why I thought she was attractive.”

He took a nibble of the bacon. “What’d you tell her?”

“I told her I liked all of the things about her that made her different than me. Like her rinsing dishes, and then her cabinets are a mess, and mine are organized. Then I said I liked it that she didn’t let me run over her. You know, how she ain’t afraid to tell me to fuck off, even though she doesn’t actually say fuck off. It’s weird…”

I paused and pondered how to continue.

He wrinkled his brow. “What’s weird?”

“Reminds me of you and mom.”

“What does?”

“Her and me. What you always called balance.”

“I’ll be damned.” He tossed his bacon on the plate, and pushed it aside. “She beat me in Scrabble the other day.”

That shocked me. Then, I filled with an odd sense of pride. “Really?”

He nodded. “Damned truth. She’s a good kid. Maybe you and her should play it sometime.”

My parents had played Scrabble every Friday since they were in their teens. The thought of doing it with Tegan made me nervous, and I didn’t find it very appealing.

“Maybe.”

“Might sound strange,” he said. “But the foundation of your mother’s and my relationship is that Scrabble box.”

I stared at him in disbelief. “How the fuck can that be?”

“No matter what happened at work, no matter what kind of day I had, no matter who sought the shelter of her safe house, and no matter how sad or depressing their circumstances were, every Friday, without fail, we knew we could count on that game together. No matter what. Through Johnson, Nixon, Ford, Carter, Reagan, Bush, Clinton, Bush, and Obama. Through tsunami’s, earthquakes, hurricanes, the prime lending fiasco, and everything else you can imagine, we had two constants. That game, and our love for each other.”

That same sense of odd pride filled me, this time for my father, and his odd traditions and rules. Friday Scrabble. No fake Christmas trees. No gravy from a jar. No gifts from the internet. If a man doesn’t offer to shake your hand upon meeting him, he’s not worth meeting. Vacations are to be driven, not flown. Padres games are not to be interrupted for any reason. Don’t touch or ask to touch the sacred baseball. The list went on and on.

“Maybe we’ll start playing,” I said.

He nodded and then met my gaze, “Do something for me.”

“Okay.”

“One of these days, I’m not going to be around. Whenever that day comes, call her Kid from time to time, just to remind her of me, would ya?”

“Who knows if she’ll be around,” I snapped. “And why would you say such morbid shit?”

He grinned and shook his head. “Just forget it, shithead. Do something else for me?”

“What’s that?”

“Come by tonight and help your mother move the bed to the other side of the room. She’s ready for a change.”

I stood. “Hell, I can move it now.”

He glared at me. “God damn it, I don’t want the motherfucker moved now. If I did, I would have said get your ass in there and move the bed. I’m not sure where she wants the fucker. You can move it tonight. Jesus, Brad.”

“Settle down, old man.” I laughed at his temper. “Where is she?”

“She’s fuckin’ gone. Shopping. And she went to see her girlfriends.”