by Xavier Neal
That’s easy enough.
“Peanut butter and grape jelly,” Kyle states as though he can hear me.
“Ham and swiss. No bologna.”
Shouldn’t be hard. That’s not too much to remember.
“My lunch box is Spiderman,” Kenny announces.
“I’m Iron Man.”
“Water.”
“CapriSun.”
Kenny tilts his head at me. “Cookies.”
“Fruit roll up.”
Are these requests or terrorist demands?
Internally noting the numerous instructions, I insecurely state, “Got it.”
The two of them give me skeptical looks.
I sternly point my finger in return. “Go.”
Slowly, they exit the kitchen, whispering something to one another and snickering.
Is there a conspiracy to make me feel like a shitty father? Because I’ll hand it to them. They’re doing a great fucking job.
Carefully maneuvering across the damp hardwood over to the stainless-steel fridge, I yank open the double doors and mentally hype myself up.
I can do this.
I can make my sons’ lunches.
I can get this one task right.
Before I even reach for the first ingredient, my confidence takes another hit.
Directly in front of me are their lunch boxes with a sticky note on Kenny’s.
I snatch the note, poorly hiding my discontent.
Superman,
Thought I would make your first day a little easier by handling this.
Remember, no matter what happens today, you are their Superman and mine.
Love you,
Cherry Pie
A smile tugs at the corner of my lip.
Fuck, I needed to hear that.
It hasn’t even been an hour into this new arrangement, and I had already begun to wonder if I’m the wrong man for the job. Should I have had training? Should I really need to fucking train in order to parent my own children? And why don’t they feel like mine? Why don’t they feel like the same kids I spend time with every weekend? Any chance this is a real-life Invasion of the Body Snatchers?
I grab the lunch boxes, drop them off by the boys’ respective rooms, and quickly toss on some sweats.
The collective consensus we’re going to be late causes me to trade brushing my teeth in for popping an old peppermint found on the table beside the entry way. Kyle and Kenny bump into each other repeatedly, both anxious to be the first out the door; however, the moment it’s open, they dart away from the burst of frigid air.
Even I can’t keep my grievances hidden, “Fuck, that’s cold.”
“Swear jar,” Kenny scolds.
Ignoring the tally that keeps rising, I command, “Go get your coats and hats.”
They rush away to do as they’re told while I use the AutoStart feature to get my Chevy truck warmed up.
Definitely an upgrade that comes in handy on days like this.
Glad I didn’t just make sure Sienna had it for her SUV.
Kyle is first back to the front door, bundled in the biggest coat in his closet, Where’s Waldo-like scarf wrapped around his neck, and the antler beanie my mother made for him last Christmas.
Rather than question the ensemble, I offer him a nod of approval. “One down. One to go.”
About a minute later, Kenny trots down the stairs in a sight I can’t condone. “Ready!”
“No,” my head immediately shakes, “you can’t wear that shit to school.”
“Swear Jar,” Kyle mutters beside me.
“What’s wrong with my scarf?”
The neon green monstrosity I can live with. “You need to change your cap.”
“Why?”
“Because you can’t wear that hat to school.”
“But I like this hat!”
I narrow my vision at the black beanie that has cat whiskers and ears.
It’s not a boy’s beanie.
And it damn sure isn’t the one Mama made him for Christmas last year.
“Where’s the one Mimi made you?”
“I don’t know.”
“Go find it.”
“No,” Kenny definitely states, “I like this one. This one is my favorite.”
“It can’t be your favorite.”
“But it is.”
“But you can’t like that one.”
“But I do like it.”
“But not…” my argument rolls around relentlessly in my mouth, “not for school.”
Not where you can get picked on and bullied.
Not where they’ll give you a cruel nickname like Catboy behind your back instead of to your face because you’re twice their size and could easily break all the bones in their tiny feet with one hard stomp.
“Mom lets me wear it there.”
Definitely gotta talk about that shit when she gets home.
His obvious power play doesn’t work like he believed it would. “Change.”
“No.”
I shove my hands into my pockets. “We’re not leaving for school until you do.”
Kenny glares at me and takes the same solid stance.
For the next forty-five minutes, we go back and forth about the hat. Eventually, I storm away to search for the lost article I want him to wear. The pursuit is done purely in principle.
Mostly in principle.
When your parent gives you instructions or an order, it is your job as the child to follow them, no matter what they are!
I did.
Fuck, fine.
I usually did.
Seven out of ten times.
After finding his hat lost in a sea of junk under his bed, I command he makes the swap. Kenny doesn’t argue, but it’s obvious he hates me for it. And if I were to be a little more honest with myself, I’d confess I hate me a little bit for it too.
During the drive to school, Kyle sings along to the radio while his brother angrily leers out the window. I attempt to extend an Olive Branch by playing Bon Jovi’s “Have A Nice Day”, a shared favorite of ours, but the irony in my choice is made so blatantly obvious within the first few lines, I have to quickly change the song. Despite Mangum Academy being a short ten-minute drive from where we live, due to the uncomfortable amount of tension in the truck and hitting every red light along on route, it feels like it takes over an hour. And while getting the boys into the building should be another easy task, it requires multiple verifications of not only who I am, but who they are, like children are trying to break into the school on a regular basis to get a free education.
Newsflash: They’re not.
Once my children have been properly signed in, I give them both small goodbye hugs. Kyle squeezes me, squeezes his brother, and rushes away to follow the faculty member who will be escorting him to his classroom. Kenny on the other hand barely acknowledges either of us. He, too, exits the office at the side of a staff member and extends them the same silent treatment courtesy he gave to the rest of us.
With most of the morning gone, I have to hustle home to shower and change in order to make it to Pete’s on time.
Pete’s, a popular local bar and grill, is located in downtown Middlebrook, the small town we were raised in. My parents and oldest brother, William Jr., or Big Foot as we all call him, still live here. Both have booming businesses and lots of property to live on. I love bringing the boys out to visit them both but am thankful we don’t live in this town. It’s not that I don’t think it’s a great place to grow up. It’s just not where I want them to grow up. I want them to have neighbors who aren’t necessarily the pastor or local sheriff’s daughter. I want them to go to schools where it’s a big scandal if you catch a teacher sleeping with her seniors as opposed to something you just look the other way about because Miss Davis has always had a reputation for liking them younger. I want them to have a little less small-town shit and a few more opportunities that we missed by not being in the city or suburbs closer to it. Trying to give the bo
ys the best of both worlds isn’t always easy, but Sienna and I are dedicated to making it work.
Just like we are dedicated to this new course we’re taking.
Even though I ditched the time I would’ve taken to smoke, my arrival at the hole in the wall establishment doesn’t proceed Big Foot’s. Like Oliver, our middle brother, he’s rather punctual; however, on the contrary, he doesn’t let the tardiness of others affect his mood.
Actually, very little ever affects his mood.
He’s always been the even-tempered Shaw, which is good considering the rest of us are anything but.
I slide into the seat across from him. “Fuck, I’m starving.”
Big Foot grins and leans back in his seat. “Makes two of us.”
“You haven’t eaten either?”
“Of course, I ate,” he chuckles, “but that was…what? Six hours ago?”
“You were up at six in the fucking morning?”
“5:30.” Big Foot innocently shrugs. “Boys up, Papa’s up.”
A groan slips free at the realization that has to become my new mantra.
Not nearly as fun as sun’s down, shots down…
Our waitress’s unexpected arrival interrupts the conversation. “Hey there, guys. My name’s Josie-”
“Little Josie Green?” Big Foot interjects.
“Like Scrappy’s grandkid?” I add on.
She tucks her hair nervously behind her ear. “That’s um…that’s me.”
“What are you doin’ workin’ here?” Big Foot beats me to the punch.
“Cosmetology classes can’t pay for themselves.”
We each offer her a smirk of understanding.
Unlike my brothers who all went to four-year universities and successfully got their degrees, I went to a local college to sharpen the skills I already possessed. Construction has always been my calling. Pop, to this day, still tells the story about me being “knee high to a grasshopper” and insisting I could help fix the hole in the barn. Apparently, from the moment I learned to walk, I strutted around determined to build or fix shit. I helped around the family ranch and farms while I struggled to get my associates degree, but once I had it, I took a crap job in Highland, made crummy pay that barely let me afford the little shit apartment I had on the outskirts, and worked around the clock to learn everything I could in the industry. My determination to be so hands-on and dedication to tackle anything thrown at me is, essentially, what helped me climb the ranks. As Carl’s Construction grew, branching off from just home renovations to bigger developments, I stayed with them, moving up more and more until I was so far from doing anything hands-on that they were almost as soft as my wife’s.
That shit’s unacceptable.
Not because all men need to work with their hands…but because I do.
Because I want to.
Because I fucking miss it.
But not Carl.
He was a raging dick, and his wife was fucking everyone at the company she could.
“We’ll leave you a good tip,” Big Foot promises warmly. “Extra large if you cut me a big slice of your grandma’s pie without charging me for two pieces. Your grandpa always tries to squeeze more money out of me.”
She snickers at the same time she shakes her head. “Sounds like Paw Paw.”
“Paw Paw may be extremely cheap during the day, but he has a tendency to forget how to count at night,” I remind my big brother.
“True.” He starts to grin, reflecting on the numerous times we basically drank for free back in the day.
Back when we could hang around drinking until the bar closed.
Back when it took more than three beers to get a good buzz going.
Back when neither of us had kids.
I don’t always miss those days, but on ones like this where my son made me feel like the Anti-Christ for not letting him wear a stupid fucking hat, I sure the hell do.
We order a few chili cheeseburgers, chili cheese fries, and a pitcher of sweet tea in spite of my desire to chug away a bit of my problems. Big Foot leads the lunch conversation in its usual direction. He updates me on how his veterinary business is going and fills me in on the crazy antics of our parents. During the downing of our meal, we talk about Runt’s upcoming wedding, Blake’s recent proposal, and how upset Oliver still is over the Halloween incident involving his eccentric girlfriend. It isn’t until he’s rambled off the rowdy behavior of his own children that I decide to proclaim the problems I have with mine. Out of all my brothers, he’s definitely the one I’m closest to, which is why he was the first person I called when I got in my truck the day I quit. He was also the first one I texted to inform I had a new Mr. Mom status.
“My first day of being a full-time dad kinda got off to a rough start.”
Big Foot tries not to smirk. “What’d you fuck up?”
“You know…” I mop up the excess chili that was left behind by my three burgers with a couple thick wedge-cut fries. “Fucking everything.”
He continues to stare in between bites.
“Got up late. Mixed up their breakfasts. Didn’t know they had a goddamn juice schedule. Or lunch box schedule. Oh! And then….then Kenny went toe-to-toe with me for almost an hour over a fuckin’ hat! A fuckin’ hat, Big Foot. He was so pissed when I dropped him off for school that he didn’t even bother sayin’ goodbye. Like it was my fault! Like I wasn’t tryin’ to save his tiny little dignity by not letting him wear that stupid cat beanie. Which I was. Kids are fuckin’ mean. Doesn’t matter what it is…if you’re even a bit different, they’ll make fun of you for it. I don’t want my boys to go through that.” I swallow the food alongside the uncertainty building. “Am I a bad dad for tryin’ to save him from that shit?”
Big Foot’s silence remains.
“This is where you’re supposed to say, ‘No Eddie, you’re not’.”
He washes down his mouthful of pie with a swig of sweet tea before echoing, “You’re not.”
“That feels real forced.”
“You literally just told me to say it, asshole.”
“Yeah, but you were supposed to fuckin’ mean it.”
My oldest brother chortles under his breath, picks up his fork, and returns to chipping away at his pie. “I actually do mean it, you ego maniac.” He stabs a piece at the same time he makes eye contact with me. “Look, you’re doin’ the best you can do, all things considered.”
Indignation invades my tone. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”
“You’re going from part-time dad to full-time dad-”
“How fuckin’ dare you-”
“Listen,” he forcefully demands, pointing his fork at me, “instead of lettin’ your anger do the talkin’.”
I clamp my mouth shut.
He’s got a point. Not doing the latter doesn’t usually end well for me. And by not well, I mean a wide range of consequences — from sleeping in the barn, to bar fights, to Sienna locking me out of the house in the middle of a hot as fuck summer day. It’s not that I have a temper problem per say…I just…I have a tendency to feel like the only way anyone ever listens to me is when I lose a bit of my cool. I blame it on the fact I’m one of five. Five kids all trying to speak at once? Tripping over each other’s words and vocally elbowing one another to get out of the way? You gotta do something to be heard in the crowd, especially when the subject at hand really matters to you.
“The nature of everything is simple.” Big Foot abandons his decision to keep eating. “Regardless of how much you love your sons, the time you’ve spent with them in the past is different. It is, by definition, part-time. It’s not necessarily horrible or your fault. You were the breadwinner for your house. You were the paycheck. You were the one who had early mornings and late nights that kept you away from them, just like Pop.”
The mention of our father sinks my tense shoulders.
“You know just like the rest of us, the reason he wasn’t always around wasn’t because he didn’t want to be, it wa
s that he couldn’t be. We didn’t resent him for it. We just learned to make the most of the time we had with him. But it kept him in the part-time parent position. Think about it, Eddie. Whenever shit got real, where did we go first?”
“Mama.”
“Right. Because Mama was in the trenches with us day in and day out. She knew the little shit Pop couldn’t even fathom. Like how far a jug of OJ was actually going to stretch-”