Chapter 5

Chapter five

 

 

Chapter 5

 

 

Lucas.

 

 

“Can’t I take a damn night off without you yelling at me?”

        “You’ve taken every night off this week, Phil! Do you know what sort of example you’re setting for your children?”

        “What, a three year-old and a kid who doesn’t even look at me? Yeah, I can tell I’m really impacting their lives, Erin!”

        These were the voices I usually fell asleep to, but tonight Mom and Dad seemed especially angry at each other. The fact had me just a little worried. I lied in my bed, quiet but awake, staring up at the black ceiling and listening to my parents’ shouting voices that were echoing down the hall toward me. Dad’s words were slurred, like he was drunk, which would explain Mom’s angry tone. Nearby, a ticking clock was driving me up the wall.

        “Where are you going?” I heard Mom shout.

        “Wherever the hell I want to go! I have no freedom here!” Dad’s slurred voice was fading and I sat upright in my bed, listening. I heard the front door open.

        I threw aside the covers and followed the livid voices of my parents. I crept down the hall towards the living room. The house was dark and cold; my feet were freezing as they pattered against the floor. I arrived at the end of the hall and there was Mom, standing in her nightgown, her face tear-streaked, either with anger or desperation I couldn’t tell. All I remembered was that she looked agonized.

        “Phil, where are you going?” Mom whispered, arms crossed over her chest, hair untidy.

        Dad’s business suit was stained and he was shoving random things into a bag, his face beet red. I watched, fury rising as I stared at my father packing. I didn’t want to think what he was doing.

        “Phil, please stop,” Mom begged. Luckily they couldn’t see me from where I stood; the shadows obscured me in the darkness.

        Mom reached down to grab Dad’s hand and suddenly there was a sharp, smacking noise; Mom’s head was snapped back and fell to the ground, touching her face, tracing the red mark on her cheek with a shivering hand. I stood where I was, horrified, transfixed, and full of so many emotions I wasn’t sure which one was stronger.

        He hit her.

        Mom looked as shocked as I felt, and when she turned her head her tormented eyes focused on me and tears welled in her eyes. Dad looked as though nothing had occurred; he picked up the bag he’d been packing and headed out the door, his footsteps thunderous.

        I drew in a deep breath, trying to diminish the unexpected ferocity that swam through my veins, the vehemence that turned me into a monster for that second, the pure hate towards the man who had once inspired me. I followed my father—if you could still call him that—out the door, out into the cool, starless night.

        The forest bordering our house seemed as ominous as ever. Dad’s dark shape was visible a few yards ahead, walking briskly towards his car. I followed, raging with resentment, until he reached the car and was fumbling to open the door.

        “You’re just gonna leave?” I called loudly to him, wrath leaking through my voice.

        Dad turned and his drunken eyes focused on me, and I took a good long look at him.

        His hair was mussed and his eyes were bloodshot, it looked like he was having a hard time standing upright; he looked like he just wandered out of a bar. This was the man that I’d once thought of as my hero. This unfaithful, deceiving person was someone I’d looked up to once. The thought made my mouth twist into a scowl and made me want to spit on the ground. It made me want to hurt him.

        My hands clenched into fists. “YOU’RE JUST LEAVING!” I bellowed, too furious to bother keeping my voice down. Let the neighbors hear. I didn’t care. “COWARD!”

        He started at that word. “I am not a coward, boy,” he said, staggering towards me. he stopped once he was right in front of me and bent down. I smacked his hand away ferociously once he tried to touch my shoulder.

        “You’re leaving us,” I snarled. “So go. We don’t need you.”

        He smiled, looking dizzy. “Right. You don’t need me. None of you need me!” he stood, throwing his hands up into the air, looking completely delusional. “You don’t need me, boy. You’ve got everything in the world, am I right? But you’ll see... One day you’ll come whining to me, when you’re twenty years old and out of work! Then we’ll see who the coward is!” he spat the last word.

        I stared at him in disgust, wishing I wasn’t as short and scrawny as I was. I wanted to be someone Dad could be afraid of, someone twice his size.

        Dad laughed drunkenly and patted me clumsily on the head; I jerked away. He stumbled back towards the car, and I could only hope he’d get caught driving drunk. I watched desolately as he got into the driver’s seat. It took a few seconds for him to start the car, and when he did he backed out of the driveway and disappeared through the trees.

        That was the last time I saw my father.

 

 

The sun was out and there wasn’t a cloud in sight. It was mid-afternoon, the hottest time of the day, and sweat trickled down my neck as I rode my bike down Alley road. I kept my eyes straight ahead, watching for the upcoming pedestrian.

        I stopped my bike by the community shopping center and locked it to the railing. I was so focused on what I was doing I hadn’t noticed someone else had been watching me until I looked up.

        “Oh—hi, Mr. Reynolds,” I said emotionlessly.

        His withered bull dog sat beside him, his big head resting on his front paws. He looked very tired, or maybe just bored. Mr. Reynolds looked up at me with aged eyes full of an endless wisdom.

        “Hello, boy,” he said jadedly, and took a sip from the whiskey bottle he had clutched in one hand. He looked so frail I wondered how he had the strength to lift his arm very high.

        Mr. Reynolds’ home was right here, by the grocery store. Of course, many had tried to help him, offered him a home or food, but he refused to take any of it. Mr. Reynolds said he was worthless and that everyone’s mundane lives shouldn’t be bothered because he had been moronic and lazy through the course of his life.

        “I heard about your father,” Mr. Reynolds said morosely, his dark eyes wandering the street.

        I made a face. “That was months ago, Mr. Reynolds,” I said sullenly.

        He nodded thoughtfully. “News travels fast.”

        I raised one brow in confusion.

        “You’re better off, I think,” he stated.

        I nodded fiercely. “That’s what I think. Mom doesn’t, though. She’s been really upset lately.”

        He nodded again, patting his old bulldog clumsily on the back. “Old Benny has, too. Something’s going on, I can feel it. Say,” he said suddenly, “what happened to little April?”

        I stared at him in disbelief, trying not to wince when he said her name. “Um... Mr. Reynolds, she moved away nearly two years ago.”

        He looked up curiously, as if I’d just told him an interesting fact. “Really?”

        “Yeah,” I said. “You should stop drinking,” I nodded towards the bottle he was holding.

        “Why stop now? I have enough of it in my stomach to kill me. When God decides he doesn’t want me around anymore that won’t have anything to do with if I drank or not.”

        “Well, it’s kind of messing up your memory, don’t you think?”

        “That’s the point, boy.”

        My eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “You don’t want to remember anything?” I guessed.

        Mr. Reynolds smiled toothily. “Right. I’m not so heroic that I can relive the past.”

        I pursed my lips and looked down at Benny. I pulled a bag full of beef jerky—my lunch—out of my pocket and looked at the old bulldog, and bent down to feed him some since he looked so famished. I offered some to Mr. Reynolds but he shook his head, so I nodded goodbye and headed into the store.

        As I walked through the aisles I thought about what Mr. Reynolds said about reliving memories. If I had a way to forget the past... but did I want to? Did I really want to forget about April, or did I just not want to remember? Sometimes when people randomly said her name it caught me off guard and a feeling of desolation would start in my chest. But if I had some way to get rid of that feeling, get rid of my reaction to that name at all...

        I paid the clerk for what I took and quickly left the store. I felt guilty. At first I thought it was because when Mr. Reynolds called goodbye, I didn’t respond. But then I remembered: under my jacket was the can of beer I’d stolen.