The Serious Kiss

by Mary Hogan

  Yip. Yip.

  “When a man comes home,” Dad said, slowly enunciating each word, “he doesn’t want chemicals for dinner. Understood?”

  “Yes.”

  “A man does not want to be made into a woman.”

  Yip. Yippety. Yip.

  “No, of course not.”

  Yip. Yip.

  “A man—”

  Yippy. Yip.

  “SHUT UP, MUTT!”

  We jumped. Juan Dog swallowed his final yip and slithered under my chair.

  “Damn dog!” Dad shouted. Nobody moved while we braced for the hurricane. But Dad just sat there staring at his empty plate.

  After a while Mom said, “Roll?” waving a red-and-white KFC box under my nose. The smell of steaming buttermilk rolls was almost unbearably delicious.

  “No, thanks,” I said.

  “Pass the rolls to Daddy,” she whispered to me. Daddy? What?

  Rif reached for the chicken bucket. “Want a breast?” he asked Dirk mischievously.

  “Huh?” Dirk didn’t get it. Mom glared at Rif as she shovelled mashed potato on to her plate. Then she handed the container to me.

  “No thanks, Mom. Pass the coleslaw, please.”

  “Beans?” She stuck a plastic tub of barbecued baked beans in front of my face. My mouth drowning in saliva, I weakened. But the sight of my mother’s chin glistening in chicken grease firmed my resolve.

  “Thank you, no.”

  “Corn on the cob?”

  I just glared. “Did you even buy coleslaw?”

  Slack jawed, Mom looked around the table. “I thought I did.”

  Recrossing my arms defiantly, I announced, “There is no way I’m eating one thousand one hundred and ninety calories in one meal!”

  “Eat something, Libby,” Mom responded through gritted teeth.

  Indignantly, I reached for the corn, though it might as well have been a roll with all the carbs. Is it too much to ask that my own mother follow our government’s nutritional pyramid? Has she ever even seen a leafy green? Maintaining my own hybrid diet – low cal, low fat, low carb – was impossible in a house where the refrigerator’s vegetable keeper had been removed to make room for beer.

  Dirk reached across the table to grab the chicken bucket just as the doorbell rang. Mom’s head jerked up. We all stopped and blinked. A visitor at our house at dinnertime meant only one thing.

  Bill collector.

  “Shhhh.” Dad sent spit spray all over the table. “Nobody move.”

  Dirk’s arm hovered mid-air. Rif stopped chewing. The doorbell rang again.

  “He’s not going to leave,” Mom whispered.

  We’d witnessed this scene before. The first time, about a month ago, Mom innocently got up and answered the door. From the dinner table, we heard her voice morph from a chirpy “Hello!” to a whispered “Leave the bill and I’ll pay it tomorrow.”

  The second and third times, Dad answered the door and gruffly said, “We’re in the middle of dinner. Come back tomorrow afternoon.”

  Of course, no one is at home in our house in the afternoon, so this time, the fourth time, Dad tried a new approach.

  “Pretend we’re not here,” he mouthed.

  Dad scraped his chair back, wincing at the sound it made, and shakily stood up. He held his finger to his lips as he teetered on tiptoe to the window beside the front door. At the kitchen table, Rif mumbled, “Our cars are in the driveway. He knows we’re here.”

  Mom glared at him. Dirk’s arm, still extended across the table, started to shake. Rif whispered to him, “You move, you die.”

  “Eat,” Mom commanded. “Quietly.”

  In slow motion, Dirk reached into the chicken bucket and pulled out a thigh, then he gently put it back and fished around for another piece.

  “Touch every one of them, why don’t you?” Rif snarled.

  “Shhh!”

  Dad tiptoed back into the kitchen and whispered, “He left.”

  “Then why are we whispering?” Rif whispered.

  “Close call,” Mom said, glancing at my father. He sat down hard and reached into the bucket for a piece of chicken.

  Yip. Yip. Juan Dog started up again. Dad was just about to drop-kick him into the living room when he suddenly jumped.

  “Holy sh—”

  “Mr Madrigal?” A man’s face peered under the grubby roller-blinds on the window over the kitchen sink.

  “Get out of my backyard,” Dad screeched.

  This time Dad didn’t have to tell us not to move. We turned into wide-eyed mannequins all on our own.

  Yip. Yip.

  “If we could just talk for a few minutes—”

  “This is private property,” Dad yelled. “I’ll call the police.”

  Yipe. Yip. Yip.

  “I have a right to be here, Mr Madrigal. If I could just talk to you for a few minutes.”

  “I have nothing to say to you.”

  Yi—

  “Shut up, Juan!” Dad’s face looked like it was about to pop. Juan shut up, but I could tell he was insulted. I mean, if a dog isn’t supposed to bark when a stranger trespasses in his very own yard, when is he supposed to bark?

  “We can work out a payment plan,” said the head in the kitchen window.

  Dad sighed. “We’re in the middle of dinner.” His tone softened.

  Mom asked quietly, “Want me to go talk to him this time, Lot?”

  Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, Dad stood. “I’ll take care of it,” he said, suddenly sounding sober. Then, to the head, “Go back to the front door. I’ll give you five minutes.”

  Dad tucked in his shirt, rubbed the blood and expression back into his face. “Don’t stop eating,” he commanded. Heads bowed, we ate. I heard my father walk through the family room and open the front door.

  “Mr Madrigal . ” The male voice sounded tentative, scared.

  Mom asked us loudly, “So, what did you kids do at school today?”

  “. overdue . final notice . foreclosure . ” Scary words floated into the kitchen as we tried to swallow.

  Mom sat superstraight. “Dirk?” she asked. “Anything interesting happen at school?”

  Dirk nodded. “Mrs McAllister asked me to read my essay on great white sharks aloud to the whole class,” he said, grinning.

  “The whole class?” Mom echoed. “My goodness.” I could tell she was listening with only one ear.

  “. we want to work with you,” the man was saying to my father. “We’re not the enemy.”

  “Did you know that more people are killed by elephants than sharks?” Dirk asked.

  “Is that so?” Mom crammed forkfuls of baked beans into her mouth.

  “More people are even killed by dogs.”

  “. can’t leave without a cheque . ”

  “And a shark’s teeth keep on growing back each time he loses one.”

  “. I don’t want to keep coming out here, either.”

  “Again and again, no matter how many times he bites something like a seal or a whale.”

  “Sharks don’t bite whales,” Rif said. “Any more corn on the cob, or is Libby going to eat all of it?”

  I sneered at him. Man, the corn was good.

  “They could, maybe,” Dirk said, “if they could catch one.”

  “Whales are the largest mammals on earth, you idiot.” Rif reached for a cob. No way was I going to hand one to him.

  “. that would be fine, Mr Madrigal.”

  “Dot?”

  Mom set her fork down, swallowed hard, and turned her head toward the front door. “Yes, dear?”

  Dad asked, “Where’s the cheque-book?”

  A shadow briefly covered Mom’s face, but it vanished quickly. She said brightly, “It’s in my handbag. I’ll get it.”

  Mom got up and left the kitchen table. Dirk said sullenly, “Sharks are pretty big, too, you know.”

  When my father returned to the dinner table, his mood had improved considerably. He rubbed his
hands together, said, “Pass my favourite chicken.” Mom handed him the bucket of KFC, but I noticed she didn’t look at him. I’d seen that “not look” before. I knew exactly what it meant.

  “Cheques aren’t money, Lot,” she’d screamed at him one night. “There has to be money in the bank.”

  He hadn’t listened then, and he wasn’t paying any attention to her “not look” now. I felt sorry for my mom. It must be awful to live in such loud silence – so much to say with no one to listen.

  “Is there any slaw?” Dad asked, flipping the pop-top on a fresh can of beer.

  The first time I noticed my dad had a problem with alcohol, I was about ten or so. Before that, he was just my dad. I was his little girl. He made me laugh and feel special.

  “Who’s the be thed girl in the whole wide world?” he’d ask.

  “Bethy!” I’d squeal.

  For my eighth birthday, my father organised a swimming party at his office, on a Sunday, when they were closed. One of the perks of being a swimming pool salesman – your own backyard can be a dirt lot because there is a gorgeous outdoor pool at the office.

  Mom tied helium balloons to the wrought iron fence around the pool; Dad made a sign for the parking lot that read PRIVATE PARTY. He also turned the office CD player up as high as it would go and pointed the speakers toward the pool. Images from that day are still clear in my mind – the thrill of having a party in a grown-up’s space, so close to a busy boulevard, the hysteria of splashing girls in bright bathing suits, Mom’s joy, Dad’s pride. It was so normal.

  “Your dad works here?” my friend Marjorie had asked, astounded. “Is he a lifeguard?”

  “No, silly.” I giggled in a superior way, feeling certain that my dad had the coolest job ever. “He sells swimming pools! If you want one, you have to buy it from him!”

  I remember Marjorie’s wide eyes. I remember Nadine’s laughter, too, and playing Marco Polo in the pool, and seeing Dad playfully pat my mother’s rear end and kiss Dirk on the top of his little head. That day, Rif was off with his own friends, and I was the oldest child, instead of the middle child. I ate cake in my bathing suit without even thinking about it. I invited friends over without worrying what they might see.

  But that was a long time ago.

  By the time I turned nine, fewer people wanted swimming pools. Dad stopped patting my mother’s bottom and began measuring it.

  “Is that your second piece of cake?” he asked her at my ninth birthday party in Chatsworth Park.

  I remember the way she looked at him, her eyes wet. She didn’t talk to him for the rest of the party, and I felt like crying even though it was my birthday.

  Little by little, my funny, loving father faded away. His body was there, but he wasn’t. Some other guy was living inside him. This stranger was sarcastic, unreasonable, shorttempered, and occasionally violent. He never hit us or my mother. Instead, he took his anger out on the walls. Behind several oddly-placed framed prints around the house, fist-sized holes gape. And the knuckles on my dad’s right hand are bigger than they are on his left because they never get the chance to heal right.

  “Happy fat day to you!” Dad sang to Mom that day in Chatsworth Park. Marjorie heard him. Her eyes went wide again. This time, I saw fear and embarrassment in them. She knew something was wrong with my dad. And, worse, she acted like it was contagious. She went home early, and eventually she stopped wanting to play at my house. After a while, I stopped inviting anyone over. I didn’t want them to see my dad passed out on the couch or smell his brutal breath when his mouth hung open. Nadine was the only friend who kept coming anyway. She saw what was going on, but we never talked about it. I didn’t bring it up, and she didn’t, either.

  It took me a while to totally understand what was happening to my family. It wasn’t until one night, four years ago, that I was absolutely sure.

  Like I said, I was about ten years old. My parents were having a dinner party, the only one I ever remember them having. Mom had been cooking for hours. The house smelled all garlicky and yeasty like hot bread. Mom’s cheeks were flushed and her voice was an octave higher than usual. She let us eat Wendy’s hamburgers on trays in front of the TV. “Clean up your own mess,” she trilled. “Then go to your rooms and stay there.”

  Dad was dressed in one of his ironed white work shirts and pressed khaki pants. He wore loafers with little tassels. I remember watching those tassels bounce back and forth as he scuffed across the family room floor. I offered him one of my onion rings, he said, “No thanks,” then plopped down in an easy chair and popped the top of a beer.

  “Ah, Lot.” Mom sighed when she saw him. Then she disappeared into the kitchen and we scampered off to our rooms.

  Rif was sleeping over at his friend’s house that night, but Dirk and I decided to eavesdrop on my parents’ party through the heat vent in my room. It was easy enough to listen just by sitting in the hall, but lying on our bellies pressed up to the heat vent seemed more fun at the time.

  “. and he drove off and was gone for an hour and a half !” bellowed my dad’s work friend who was one of the guests. (Dad was moonlighting as a car salesman then.) Everybody laughed. I heard Mom echo, “An hour and a half ?”

  “I thought I’d have to pay for that car out of my commissions for the rest of my life!”

  They all laughed again. Then Dad said, “Yeah, like you’d ever make enough to buy that car.” There were a few twitters, but the laughter noticeably dimmed.

  Mom, her voice still unnaturally high, said, “More bruschetta, Sam?”

  “Sure.”

  “More wine?” Dad asked.

  “If you’re pouring.”

  “He’s always pouring,” Mom chirped. I could tell it was a joke, but nobody laughed.

  The dinner party got louder as the hour got later, and Dirk fell asleep on my bedroom floor. I left him there and lay down on my bed listening through my open door. Dad’s voice changed entirely. It was louder than everybody else’s, slower. And he said mean things.

  “Never met a dessert you didn’t like, right, Dot?”

  I remember feeling queasy, ashamed for him. I was humiliated for my mom, too, because I heard someone say, “We really should get going,” and my dad, all slurry, shouted, “Going? Was it something my wife said?”

  After the guests left, which was shortly after that, my mom started to cry and my dad started to yell. “Just once, Lot,” Mom sobbed. “You couldn’t stay sober once ?”

  “It was a party ! People drink at parties! I noticed that my drinking didn’t disturb your appetite.”

  “If you could hear yourself,” Mom cried.

  “If you could only see yourself or I should say, your selves.”

  That night, the word “alcoholic” first crept into my head. I knew better than to say it out loud. I didn’t want Dad’s wrath aimed at me. I also didn’t want to listen to my parents fight any more. Even then, I knew there were some conversations a kid shouldn’t overhear. Because once you hear it, how can you ever forget?

  The next day, my parents pretended to be fine around us, but I knew. They wouldn’t look at each other. Mom’s jaw was set tight. Dad watched a lot of TV. After that night, I understood what I’d been witnessing for years. Alcohol stole my father from me. It replaced him with a man who was mean to my mother and made our whole family feel like hiding.

  At first, I felt sad that my funny, loving daddy was gone. Then I got mad. He wasn’t kidnapped ; he took himself away each time he opened a can of beer. Why couldn’t he bring himself back? And why did my mom let him go? Why didn’t she make him go to rehab? How could a mother let her kids grow up with such bad role models? And who has only dirt in their backyard?!

  When I wasn’t angry at my father, I was terrified of becoming my mother. Without proper nurturing, wouldn’t nature run rampant? Was it my destiny to endure whatever life dished out?

  Just thinking about it made my mouth go dry.

  “I’m sorry.” That’s what I
wrote on the subject line of my e-mail to Nadine that night after I finished my KFC corn-on-the-cob dinner. I’d tried to see her at school, but she stiffed me at lunch, and she had marching band practice after last period. I’d waited in front of the music room until some other band student told me they were practising on the football field that day. No way was I walking clear across the campus to have Nadine snub me in front of the whole marching band and the entire football team, too.

  “Please don’t be mad at me, Nadine,” I wrote. Then I stopped. As I sat in front of my computer, hands perched on the keys, I couldn’t figure out what else to say. Yeah, I felt awful that my best friend was carted away because she was trying to help me. But did I tell her to kick the smithereens out of my locker? Didn’t I say that I didn’t need my notebook, and she kept kicking anyway? Doesn’t anybody ever listen to me?

  Suddenly I was furious. How dare she pummel my locker! And who let that jerk Curtis and his size thirteen feet mangle the door? Not me! What, she expected me to lie to Mr Horny and say that I did it? Ostench ia breathed her bad breath on me all during Geometry. Did she care? I spent the whole day without my books, I’m going to get an incomplete on my homework assignments, not to mention the fact that my locker mate was like raving mad when she couldn’t get her lunch out of our locker. Did Nadine care? Did she? Plus, the greatest moment in my whole entire life happened that day and I didn’t have anyone to tell! What, she thinks Zack Nash wants to be tutored by just anyone? What, she thinks it’s no big deal that I’m finally ready to admit he’s the boy of my dreams after a year of silently obsessing over him?

  The phone rang. I ignored it. Let my brothers get it. My hands were flying across the computer keys. Exclamation points and bold face capital letters littered the text. It’s about time my so-called best friend got a piece of my mind.

  “. time to take RESPONSIBILITY –”

  “Libby. It’s for you.” Mom called from the family room.

  I ignored her. Continued my rant.

  “– for YOUR own actions!!!!”

  “Libby! Phone!”

  I signed it, “Elizabeth Madrigal, true friend.” Then, I hit the Send button, yelled “Okay” to my mom and reached across my bed for the extension.