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“Dad! Dad!” I’m shouting and chasing after him, trying to catch up.
He nods at me, waving me off. I toss my hands up in the air. I will not go to the meeting alone. I watch him walk off toward what I assume is another sports bar. His friends wave back, assuring me they’ll see him home. Liars are what they all are.
I’m running down the remaining steps of the church and practically the next block down the street. It’s Sunday mid-morning and foot traffic is light, but it doesn’t matter. I’m humiliated.
I contemplate going back to my apartment or back to my father’s house, where I promised to cook Sunday dinner the way Mom used to do it. I’m so caught up in the painful memories, I don’t realize I’ve taken a bus back and I’m already down the first aisle of the grocery store, filling my basket with what I need.
I’m futzing with a casserole pan when a knock on the door distracts me from what I’m doing. I set the timer and peek out the peephole. Dad is back, and with him three of his drunken buddies. They prop each other up and I wave them inside the house.
“Syd, my baby girl.” He reeks of alcohol and failure.
I push him off from hugging me. It’s hard enough trying to shower the stench off.
“Can you bring him into the living room to sleep it off?”
They help him inside and dump him on the faded couch cushions. My mother is rolling in her grave at the sight of her once-handsome husband wearing a cheap suit, stained tie, and rolled onto her floral couch with a sad lethargy. There’s nothing left between the two of us without her vibrant energy keeping us together.
“Wish we could stay, Sydney, but the Mrs. has dinner waiting.”
I nod to his sergeant. It’s the same old story: Dad is fun to hang around and even better when he’s buying drinks, but when the fun’s over I’m the lucky one they bring him back to. Otherwise he’d probably close the place down drinking and playing cards all night long.
I stay long enough for Dad to sober up, eat some casserole, and roll himself into his chair in front of the television. We don’t speak about what happened and I don’t bring it up. Another day down, another hopeless situation where I’m nothing but a bystander to his destruction. He’ll be too hungover to cook for himself and he won’t have the cash for takeout. I doubt the stove is used unless I’m here, and I don’t dare leave Dad money because he will use it for the next card game.
I clean up the kitchen and make him containers to take to work for the next few days. They match the untouched ones still in the fridge from the Sunday before and the Sunday before that one. In my pain and rage I pull them all out and toss them with a vengeance into the garbage can. He mumbles from the living room for me to keep it down in the kitchen. I bang things louder and throw the containers harder into the trash bin. By the time I’m done the fridge is as empty as my heart. My feelings remain as bruised as the overripe bananas on the counter. I throw those out too.
“Dad, I’m leaving.” I peek into the living room and see him sound asleep. I cover him with the throw blanket knitted by Aunt Shirley in a chevron pattern to match the team colors of the Red Sox. My borrowed navy heels go into my purse and I slip on flats for the walk home. I guess going home to an empty apartment to cry is like making a sound in the forest. If only the trees are there, will anyone hear me? I lock up the house and say a little prayer that his bookie is as drunk as he is and doesn’t come knocking on the door.
“Syd?”
I slam the door back and brace my hand against my pounding heart.
“Jesus, Sergeant Puthe.” My hands start to feel clammy with sweat at being startled and confused.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you,” he says, but I don’t feel the apology behind his words.
“Can I help you?” I have enough going on in my life without having this added to it.
Sargent Puthe is someone my dad went to the academy with. His wife babysat me a few times growing up, when my mother died and Dad had to work overnight shifts. Luckily Puthe and my dad shared the same work rotation, so I was never alone with him. The way he is looking at me has me wishing I’d decided to stay inside with Dad, even though he’s blissfully passed out at the moment.
“You know we all care about your dad.” He steps closer to me, getting in my personal space. He smells like heavy cologne and ham hoagies with far too much vinegar.
My stomach continues to churn and I scan the street for any escape. Puthe’s partner Patrolman Farrow is sitting inside their squad car. He looks like he’s engrossed in the paper. I doubt he will hear me if I scream, and that worries me. Will they all turn a blind eye to what’s going on?
I smile tightly and lick my dry lips. I regret that instantly when Puthe focuses on my face, presumably my lips. His hand moves and rests by my head and left shoulder near the doorjamb, blocking my escape down the front step. I release a breath being held in my chest and look him directly in the eye as I straighten my back, attempting to stand taller.
“If you guys cared about my dad so much, you would encourage him to stop. In fact, you wouldn’t offer to bring him to the bar and you certainly wouldn’t spot him money for bets he has no right to make.”
“Aw, Syd, come on. When you see the shit we do, you need to blow off steam.”
“No. What my father needs is rehab, not a one-way ticket to an early funeral.”
“Now that’s an exaggeration, kiddo.”
My gaze follows his as he looks back at Farrow in the car. He turns back to lean in, and I scrunch myself up against the door as far as I can go, scratching my back against brick. I don’t have enough room to lift my knee and get him in the balls like I want to. My mind is telling my throat to scream, but the sound gets choked between my lips.
“Why won’t you help him instead of hurting him?” I ask, attempting to appeal to his humanity.
Puthe sneers and spittle hits my face. The urge to vomit makes me gag.
