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I pull a plate out of the fridge. There’s the remains of a sandwich on it, covered in fuzzy mold. “You know, you can throw shit away sometimes. Unless you’ve got some sort of science experiment going on I don’t know about?”
Dad makes a noise deep in his throat. “What are you, a woman?” he rasps. “You gonna tell me to put up some lacy curtains next?” He lifts the hand that isn’t holding the beer and wiggles his fingers in an impression of daintiness.
“Christ,” I say under my breath, turning away.
When my mother was still around, she tried like hell to make our home like something out ofLeave it to Beaver.The worse things got between her and Dad, the more focused she’d be on whether the throw pillows on the sofa were just so, or making sure there was a little vase of flowers from the garden on our kitchen table. Dad, for his part, treated her like a piece of furniture. Comfortable and useful enough, but easy to ignore.
Mom left when I was fourteen. I guess she finally got sick of Dad’s drinking and womanizing. She took off during the day, while I was at school. I didn’t find the note she left for me until that night. By that time, my father had come home from work to an empty house and no dinner. He had gone from disbelief, to anger, to calling around to anyone who might know where she had gone, to throwing shit against the wall, to making his way through all the bottles of hard liquor we had in the house, to finally collapsing fully-clothed in the bedroom that was now his alone.
The note from my mom was laying on top of my dresser. It was sitting next to a framed picture of the three of us from when I was five or six years old, taken at a cheap carnival somewhere in front of one of the rides. It was short. It just said, “I love you. I can’t take you with me. He’ll come find me if I do.”
And he did try. But with no information on where she had gone — her parents claimed to have no idea where she was — Dad eventually gave up on looking for her. At first, he never talked about her leaving. He never talked about her at all. But then, once it seemed clear she was never coming back, he got bitter. He’d get drunk more and more often, until it was most nights, then every night, and then eventually most days, too. He’d rail about “backstabbing bitches,” and tell me real men like us didn’t need women except to fuck or cook for them.
Even when I was young, I was never all that close to Dad. He wasn’t the kind of father to play with me, or teach me to throw a ball. He didn’t pay a lot of attention to me until I got old enough to start working for him. So I was a bit of a loner growing up, and as an only child I had a lot of time to myself. I was a big reader, too, which he seemed to think was suspicious. “Not something boys did” was the way he grumblingly put it more than once. The older I got, the more concerned he was with whether I was doing what he thought I should be as the proud possessor of a dick. Not long before I met Aurora, he had started asking me whether, in his words, I had “gotten my dick wet” yet. He offered to take me out somewhere and pay for me to get it done if I was “too much of a damn lily.”
When he found out I had a girlfriend — he didn’t know at first that she was the daughter of his richest customer— his main reaction was, “Well, at least you’re not gay, thank Christ. But whatever you do, don’t let her pussy-whip you. You’re the one who wears the pants. Act like it.”
The summer I met Aurora, Dad was still only drinking on nights and weekends. But he was angry and bitter, and I knew enough to limit contact between them. I was embarrassed at the idea of her seeing him drunk. I didn’t want her to look at my dad and see a future version of me. I also didn’t want him to say anything to Aurora about his views on women in general. Even before Mom left us, he had always been what he liked to call “old school” about women. Meaning he thought of all women as belonging to one of two categories: either angels or whores. After Mom left, the two categories shifted, to whores and potential whores. To be honest, I’m not sure he really ever saw women as real people. Maybe he loved my mom at one point, I don’t know. But I sure as hell never saw him act like it.
I knew enough about life that I didn’t want to replicate how my dad treated my mom. I knew enough that I wanted a better relationship than what they had. Hell, back then I even wanted a family. I wanted to prove to myself I could do a better job of it than my old man.
When I met Aurora, I knew within weeks that she was it for me. With her, I knew I was different. I knewwewere different. We’d be solid. We’d be together forever. We’d have a family. Kids who we loved, and who knew we loved them.
Yeah. What a fucking chump I was.
Mentally shaking off the memories, I go into the living room, where Dad has gone to finish his beer in front of the TV. I tell him what all I brought him in terms of groceries. He listens and occasionally grunts, so at least I know he’s hearing me. I extract a half-assed promise that he’ll eat so it won’t all go to waste. I go back into the kitchen to throw away some of the piled-up containers on the counters and haul the trash out to the garbage can. Back in the living room, I sit with him for a couple minutes and try to make small talk. When I figure I’ve done my bit, I say goodbye and take off.
When I get out to my truck, the first thing I notice is that the passenger door is hanging open.
The second thing I notice is that the damn dog is in the back. Munching happily from a ripped-open bag of kibble.
“Get down from there and get back in the goddamn truck!” I shout.
He jumps out nimbly and hops right back into the passenger seat. Looking completely devoid of guilt, I might add.
“Unbelievable,” I groan, wiping a hand over my beard. “I should dump you out with that bag of food and leave you to fend for your damn self, you know that?”
I spend most of the drive back home seriously contemplating whether the appearance of this damn dog in my life is some sort of payback for all the sins I’ve committed. Meanwhile, he just sits next to me, tongue hanging out, looking pleased as fuck with himself.
“I really should just dump your ass out on the side of the road,” I complain.
His grin just gets bigger. He doesn’t buy it for a second.
“Fine. I wouldn’t do that to you. But you are seriously hammering on my last nerve here, Dog.”
Just then, he sits up in his seat. He lets out a sharp bark, his ears perking up at something he sees out the front windshield. I turn to see a lone figure up ahead, walking along the shoulder of the highway. From their build it looks like a woman.
Weird place to be taking a stroll.Reflexively, I tap the brakes and start to slow down. I’m wondering if I should ask if she needs any help. I hit the button to roll the passenger-side window down the rest of the way. The dog barks again, louder this time.
Then, before I know what is happening, he launches himself out the window and starts racing toward the woman.
“Hey!” I yell. I slam the truck into park and bolt out the driver’s side door. Running toward them, I get ready to tackle the dog before he can knock her down or hurt her. She turns around just in time to sidestep his launch, but then he’s bounding around at her feet and she’s laughing in surprise and reaching down to pet him.
And it’s only when I hear the unmistakable music of her laughter that I finally realize who it is.
12
RORY
