The Fourth of July was supposed to be easy. They'd had everything planned out; he would meet them at home thirty minutes before they were leaving, shove over to Madeline's to pick her up (and either pray she wasn't drunk, or get a big kick out of it), and be in the city in time for hot dogs, hamburgers, Marianne's famous potato salad, and the orchestra. When he pulled up to the house, he saw a habitat he did not recognize, on a carefully plotted piece of land, and his hands ached. His shoulders ached. He felt sick to his stomach.
The garage door opener still worked, and he pulled into the driveway and hit the button, letting himself in through the garage and into the kitchen. Jake was there on the couch watching cartoons, the girls upstairs getting ready, he guessed. The dog came flying in with his nails scratching at the floor, and Willis bent down to rub a hand over his head warmly, greeting him. "Hey, buddy," he laughed and stood back up, heading over to the couch.
"Hey, Dad," Jake robotically offered.
"Hey, son," Willis echoed him. "How goes it?"
"Fine, Mom's upstairs and Rachael's always on the phone."
That made Willis grin. It was certainly true; but, his daughter was edging on the height of her teenage years. It was bound to only get worse.
Upstairs, he heard soft chatting from Rachael's room, and bypassed to turn into the master bedroom. The door to the bathroom was left cracked, but he knew better than to startle his wife. Even when their marriage was at its gleaming best, he knew better than to startle her. When she descended, however, he let himself study her curves and her freshly manicured fingers while they dropped pearls into her earlobes.
"I didn't hear you come in," she offered without much eye-contact, busying herself with getting ready for the trek to the festivities. "How was your drive?"
"Fine, not much traffic actually. You look nice." For what it was worth.
"I feel like shit, but thank you I guess."
"Madeline is still coming, yeah?" He watched her loop a string of pearls about her neck, though it did little to distract him from eyeing the curves beneath the folds of her blouse.
"Yes, she always comes, David."
"Is Rachael bringing any friends along?"
"No, Rachael is not bringing any friends along. This is a family event."
"All right. Well," his fingers went to rub at his forehead, completely baffled for conversation. He watched her do what women did with their hair, and he watched her fingers, imagining things she would no longer appreciate. But then, he noticed the ticket. "You're not wearing your ring?"
"No."
"I am," he frowned and looked at his hand, then back to hers.
"Well, I can't."
"Why?"
"We're separated, David."
"Then why am I being forced to go to this Fourth of July Independence Day bullshit?"
When Marianne spun around, Willis feared his life.
"Fourth of July Independence Day bullshit, hmm?"
"You know what I mean."
"Oh, yes, I know what you mean," she sneered at him. "I lost them."
"What?"
"The rings. I lost them in New York."
"What do you mean you lost them?" Willis stared at his wife.
"I mean I found a fellow, fooled around, and left them."
"Wait-- what? That isn't losing them, Marianne. That's fucking leaving them."
"Potato, pahtahto," she taunted him.
"And what do you mean you fooled around? You've been fucking someone?"
"Well, sort of. Once."
"You fucked someone. Once," he reiterated.
"I did. And it was nice."
"Who the fuck are you?" Disgusted, he shook his head and rubbed at his eyes, blinking. "My Marianne does not fuck strange men."
"Your Marianne is gone, babe." Leaning over her dresser, she checked her teeth in the mirror, slipping into her heels. Even to a picnic, she'd wear heels.
"Yeah," he shook his head and walked past her to round up the kids to go. "You've got that right."
"It's so easy to just give up, Dad."
First came his daughter, this little red thing that popped out of his wife kicking and screaming (not crying, screaming), who worked on her own schedule from diapers to high school (and still going), who was a slightly less exotic image of her mother, but could still pass for a fairly attractive kid (he figured she'd be stunning once the braces came off, and he'd have to kick young boys' asses throughout her pre-college/college days). But then came his son, who did not put up a fight (he could've fallen out in the middle of a field, forget the hospital fuss), who was quiet and silly and magical and barely resembled his father, but the little ways he did were enough. A breath of fresh air. Something -- someone -- to look forward to.
"I know," Willis leaned back in his plastic chair, crossing his ankle over his knee, a red cup in hand. "But, you've gotta think, what have I always said about taking the easy road?"
"That it might take less gas," Jake paused for a sigh, "but it won't be nearly as fun." Mutter.
"Something like that," Willis grinned, his eyes lighting up from behind his sunglasses. "So, next time, what are you going to do?"
"Not hit Thomas back," mumble-mouthed.
"And?"
"And... Uh..."
"Don't..." Willis prompted.
"Don't... uh..."
"Take the easy road," he whispered loudly.
"Oh. Right." Jake leaned back in his chair and let out a belly full of air in a long, exasperated sigh. "Can I go now?"
"Uh, no."
"Why not?"
"You just got sent home from school, Jake. It might be all fine when Dad is around, but when your mom gets home--"
"'When your mom gets home' what?" Marianne leaned in the doorframe of the backdoor, folding her arms loosely over her torso, watching father-and-son in the back yard. After no one responded, she repeated, "'When your mom gets home' what, Willis?"
"You'll be in for it," he looked straight into his son's eyes. "So be ready."
"Well, the Wicked Witch is home now," she rolled her eyes to herself, since no one else was paying attention. "Jacob. What are you doing home?"
"I got in trouble," he muttered.
"Speak up," Marianne barked. "Look me in the face and tell me what you're doing home from school. Right now."
"Marianne," Willis started.
"You've said enough, thank you," her eyes glared at her husband who so easily made her out to be the bad guy. And since that was the role she'd taken on in the household, even though she was the one home for the kids while her husband so-called 'worked' all week out of town, and missed his children growing up, she milked it. She played the bad guy with every ounce of her being. Because these children knew who was really raising them. "Speak, Jacob. Now."
"I hit a kid," he muttered again.
"You hit a kid? What do you mean you hit a kid? What kid?"
"I hit him in his fat face," Jake stuck the toe of his shoe into the dirt and dug at it a little. "Because he hit me first."
"Who hit you first?"
"Thomas."
"Thomas who?"
Jake sighed.
"I said, Thomas who?"
"That neighbor kid. You know."
"Mary Allison's son?" Marianne eyed Willis.
"Yeah," Willis looked over at her, then took a drink from his cup. "He clapped Jake in the jaw, right, Jake?"
"Uh-huh," Jake looked like he was about to cry.
"Oh, dear," Marianne rolled her eyes around in her head some more and groaned, pushing off of the doorframe. "Jake, go inside. Chores, then homework."
"Am I grounded?"
"You heard me. Chores, then homework. I need time to think."
After Jake quietly removed himself from the backyard and disappeared into the bowels of the house, Marianne folded down into the abandoned chair, draping a slim leg over its other. She stared at her husband for a long while, her lips parting and snapping back together silently, her jaw unhinging then quickly clamping shut.
Willis sat quietly with intermittent drinks from his cup, thankful that the black sunglasses propped on the bridge of his nose were concealing his eyes completely. He didn't want his wife to know just where they roamed, avoiding her at all costs.
"Well," she finally sighed and lowered more in the chair, her lanky limbs dangling all everywhere. "What are we going to do?"
"He was protecting himself," Willis had no trouble defending his son. It was his right as a father, wasn't it?
"God, David, he's out fighting with boys and being sent home from school--"
"Boy," Willis corrected her. "He hit one boy, who hit him first, and he's a damn eight-year-old kid. Did you seriously expect him to know any better?"
"Oh, sure, defend him. Tell him it's fine to go around hitting other kids, getting sent home from school. That's just like you, Willis. This is just like you."
"Just like what, huh? So I think it's fair that my son didn't act like a fairy and go running away from some bully, crying to his teacher. So I think it's better that he showed that kid up and stood up for himself. So sue me for being glad about that." He didn't bother telling his wife the piece of conversation she missed where he actually reprimanded Jake for hitting the kid. She wouldn't really hear him, anyway, he knew.
"You are so..."
"So what?" Willis's tone was on the brink of upping the volume a notch or two.
"Not the man I married," her voice trembled and she pressed her fingers to her lips, her eyes slanting away from him.
"Oh, come on, don't do that," Willis sighed and reached out for her, but then returned himself to his normal posture when left lingering. "Marianne, it's not like that."
"You have been so mean lately," more trembling. She refused to look at him. "You never call here anymore, you're gone all of the time, Rachael is giving me the worst time and now Jacob is out hitting kids and getting sent home, and you're not here, Willis. You're not here, not when I need you the most, not when I feel like things are falling apart and you took a vow to help me put things together."
"But I am here, I picked Jake up from school, I'm here right now talking through his consequences--"
"That's not what I meant," Marianne snapped at him, cutting him off dryly. "You, Willis, are not here. Your heart is not here."
Willis was very good at keeping his cool in situations like these. Ever since he was a young boy, he knew how to control himself when he was under attack -- physically, emotionally, in any way that could drag him down. He was not accustomed to letting the best of him hurt; he had the pride of a lion in his gut and when threatened, he sat stone-cold. So when his wife said these things and flung her words at him like bullets, it threw him to feel his solar plexus get stabbed until it throbbed. Behind his thick plastic shades, he stared at his wife with a disbelief he didn't know he would ever feel. But even now, even feeling like this, with his wife who hated him and a kid who beats up other kids, he could not move his mouth to save his life. All he could do was sit and stare.
"Yeah," her voice cracked and she wiped the mascara from under her eyes with the knuckles of her index fingers. "This is just like you." Pushing up from her seat, Marianne left Willis sitting there in his chair.
It didn't take going to New York to create or run away from problems. Both of those could happen simultaneously just by sitting in a chair.
He'd tried the door, but it was locked. The next best thing he had was a Subway napkin stuffed into his back pocket, and a pen in his shirt. Gum stuck it to the front door, his sloppy writing reading:
I'm sorry for last night. Going home for the weekend and maybe longer.
We'll meet again.
Willis
No one ever claimed him to be a Tolstoy; but maybe, just maybe, someday he'd find the right words at the right time.
I looked out this morning,
and the sun was gone
Turned on some music to start my day
Then lost myself in a familiar song
I closed my eyes, and I slipped away
It's more than a feeling
When I hear that old song they used to play
And I begin dreamin'
Till I see Marianne walk away
I see my Marianne walkin' away
So many people have come and gone
Their faces fade as the years go by
Yet I still recall as I wander on
As clear as the sun in the summer sky
It's more than a feeling
When I hear that old song they used to play
And I begin dreamin'
Till I see Marianne walk away
I see my Marianne walkin' away
When I'm tired and thinkin' cold
I hide in my music, forget the day
And dream of a girl I used to know
I closed my eyes and she slipped away
She slipped away.
It's more than a feeling
When I hear that old song they used to play
And I begin dreamin'
Till I see Marianne walk away
I see my Marianne walkin' away
boston
The air smelled like summer should: a slowing progression of scents that wafted from lilacs to burgers to chlorine-clad bathing suits to sunscreen-slathered limbs, his nostrils flaring out every so often to take it in. He loved summer; born in January he swore he was either extremely early or extremely late, refusing to believe his mother who told everyone and their brothers that the kid was a 'miracle baby'. Bullshit, he was not a miracle baby, he was the miracle baby, motherfuckers. But he never let his pride show on his face -- it only quietly stirred in the pit of his stomach, his mouth lightly flung up in its one corner lopsided-like. Modest Willis at his very best.
When his nose got tired of sucking up pieces of summer cookout, his eyes went to absently gazing at his wife's miles of legs sticking out from the skirt of the bottom of her swimsuit. Marianne was always so modest; a model's body with June Cleaver's heart, she'd won his soul the first time she ever pouted her lips at him. He felt himself harden at the sight of her, and slanted his eyes over to his son who was shoving a hotdog down his throat. Sans-hardening, he reached for the wrist of his wife and braceleted it with his fingers loosely.
"Hnn?" Busy with bringing condiments in from the kitchen.
"Nothing," he didn't budge, but watched her fool with tomato slices on a paper plate. "Need help?"
"Tsst," she hissed at him with a click of her tongue, giving him the usual I can handle it attitude.
"No, I think you need help," his wolfish grin spread over his mouth like wildfire, and he turned to straddle the picnic bench, pulling her down onto his knee. "Sit, sit, you look absolutely famished,"
"Williswouldyoustop?" Her hands went out to shove gently at his shoulders (she didn't know how to hurt anybody and couldn't, really, if she tried), batting at him lamblike before she pushed up from his lap. "Not in front of the kids, huh?" Murmuring, her thumb jutted over to Jake.
"Fiiiine," Willis groaned and teetered on the bench, reluctantly letting his foot flop down on the patch of grass beneath the table. Defeated, he took a hamburger bun and slathered all the goods on it -- ketchup, mayonnaise, globs of relish, and the -- "Mustard!" He yelled over his shoulder towards the propped open French door, leaning his ear out for a response from his wife. "Hun? Mustard!"
Yeah, yeah, fine, fine, he heard from the kitchen, and when he turned to look, the same slender wrist was holding a fist full of a bottle of mustard, wiggling it around tauntingly. You want it? Come and get it, he was already hardening before she finished her sassy comment, and he pushed up from the table and walked across the yard. Thank God for a boy and his hotdog -- Jake didn't make a sound.
"You," he snarled as he walked towards his wife, who was grinning foolishly at her husband, "are a bad wife."
"Yeah?" Her mouth was widening, her bedroom-lit eyes giving a come hither look. "Why don't you teach me how to be good?"
With his feet shuffling towards her, they danced themselves back towards the counter, his palms pressing to the lip of the counter. "The things I could teach you," he murmured into her neck before snapping at her ear, losing himself in her arm loosely tied around his neck, giggles bubbling up from her throat.
"You guys are so gross!" Coming from a screeching daughter was enough to break the mood, and the wolf backed up off the lamb, shamefully wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Just disgusting!"
"Oh, dear, your burger is ready!" And like that, Marianne was following Rachel out to the yard, begging her to put something in her slender highschool-conscious stomach.
Ah, the joys of fatherhood.
