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CHAPTER TWO
Petra worked the screen-door handle with her elbow, got the door open enough to wedge her foot in, kicked it enough to shove her ass in, and finally made her way into the kitchen.
“Hey, Dad! I brought groceries!”
No answer. His car was in the driveway, and she heard the television in the family room. Whichever talking heads had this slot on ESPN were arguing over whatever sport their talking-head show was about.
She set the bags on the counter and went through the house to the family room. “Dad?”
He was asleep in his recliner. Wearing nothing but a pair of threadbare sweatpants and a beater so old its original white had become a sort of yellowish grey. Great puffs of white hair spilled from the neckline of the beater and covered his shoulders and arms like a pelt. His hands and feet had puffy white pelts as well.
Greek or a hobbit? Tough to tell the difference.
Unfortunately, Petra had inherited her father’s hirsute genes. A few years back, she’d tried to embrace the whole natural body thing, but ... ugh. Some girls looked cute, with fair little hairs on their legs, tidy little groves of silky strands in the middle, and delicate little patches of fuzz in their pits.
She was not a cute hairy girl. She was a small black bear. Ergo, she preferred to be hairless.
Of more interest to her right now were the five Busch cans in the family room—three on the floor beside Dad’s recliner, and one in each of its cupholders.
Beer because it was before five p.m. He’d switch to bourbon then.
Except he’d promised he’d dry out for at least a week. Four days ago, after Petra had bailed him out of jail for his second DUI arrest in less than two years, he’d let her empty the house of booze, and he’d promised he’d take a week off. Atleasta week. They were supposed to be taking it a week at a time. He’d promised.
That had been his compromise offer when she’d tried to get him back into AA.
She sighed. Honestly, after all these years, she hadn’t really expected him to make it a whole week. They’d made these bargains and promises many times, and he rarely upheld his end. Still, even knowing he’d fail, it felt like a betrayal every time.
This time, though, was especially bad. A second DUI in two years? This one was a felony charge. This one meant he could go to jail. Maybe not jail. Maybeprison. Promises and compromises and AA meetings might all be moot.
She gathered up the cans—four empty, one half-full—and carried them back to the kitchen. Her father didn’t stir.
In the kitchen, she rinsed out the cans and tossed them into the recycling bin. Then she sorted the groceries and put them away. In the fridge, she found the rest of the contraband twelve-pack. She pulled it out and set it on the table.
Obviously, she should dump them all and toss those cans in recycling, too. But the thought of the inevitable fight with her father stilled her hand. As did his likely trip to the store to replace the beer—a trip made on a suspended license, while on bail for a felony DUI.
So she left the box sitting on the table for a bit, pondering the question as she tidied his kitchen.
As usual, he hadn’t done much tidying himself since she was last here. Mostly, he ate Marie Callender’s and Hungry Man for dinner, sandwiches for lunch, and cereal for breakfast. There was almost a week’s worth of paper plates, frozen-meal boxes, and plastic trays in the overflowing trashcan, several bowls and spoons with scraps of Raisin Bran Crunch adhered to the sides as if with cement, a few knives with stripes of mustard, more than a dozen coffee mugs and almost as many glasses.
She filled the dishwasher, set it on the ‘scrubber’ setting, and got it running. Then she closed up two bags of trash, put a fresh liner in the can and took the bags out to the garage.
When she came back in, her father, retired banking executive, stood in the doorway between the kitchen and dining room, scratching his belly. He looked bleary and confused, but he perked up when he saw her.
“Petey! Hi.” He held out his arms.
She went to him for a hug. He smelled like sour bread—otherwise known as Busch beer. “Hi, Dad.”
“I didn’t know you were coming today.” He kissed the top of her head.
She leaned back to frown up at him. “We talked this morning. I told you I was going to the grocery for you. You gave me a list.”
