by Trish Doller
“What dinner?”
“We’re having Don and Becky Michalski over.”
My friend Derek’s dad, Don, is the guy who coaches loudly from the stands and gets mad when the players, coaches, and referees don’t do what he says. He gets in fights with other parents. He’s been banned for life from Ida Baker High School after punching their soccer coach. My mom hates him, and his wife is embarrassed to be seen with him in public, so I don’t know why Mom would agree to cook for him. Unless… it’s not about Don. It’s about Becky.
“I think I’ll hang out here,” I say. “Give Mom a hand.”
“You sure?” Confusion flickers across his face. “I’d like to see you in action.”
I’ve never voluntarily hung out with my mother, but right now it beats this lame attempt to show me he’s a cool dad. Also, I scored top marks in boot camp for marksmanship. It’s probably for the best if he doesn’t see me in action.
“I’m positive.”
He stands there as I swim away, and I can see his shadow on the water for a while, as if he’s waiting for me to change my mind. It takes everything in me not to pull myself out of the pool and beat the shit out of him. Instead, I swim.
I’m a hypocrite after what happened last night with Paige, but me hooking up with my ex-girlfriend behind my brother’s back is not the same as my dad cheating on his wife. Paige and I have used each other this way for years, stretching away from each other and snapping back like a rubber band. The only person who stands to get hurt is Ryan, but it’s not as if he’s going to marry Paige Manning, either.
Down in the kitchen, Mom is her pulled-together self again, except for the tiredness lurking at the corners of her eyes. Her purse is looped over her arm, the crumpled list in one hand and the keys to a brand-new Suburban—one of the perks of being married to the owner of a car dealership—in the other. “Want to ride along?”
“Sure.”
She looks surprised. “Really?”
“Really.” I jam my foot into one of my tan combat boots. On the outside it’s scuffed and worn from continuous wear, a spatter of rusty bloodstains across the toe. Inside it smells like shit, but I don’t have any other shoes except my running shoes, and I hate those. I bought a pair of Sambas when I graduated boot camp but didn’t lock them up at infantry school and someone stole them. “So what was Dad’s excuse?”
“He says Steve Fischer invited him over for a drink. He didn’t want to drink and drive, so he spent the night,” she says. “He called to tell me he was okay before he went to play golf.”
I follow her to the garage. “You know I’m going to kill him, right?”
A ghost of a smile plays across her lips as she starts the Suburban, as if she can imagine it and she likes the idea. Then her face rearranges into something more Mom-appropriate and slightly disapproving. “Travis, he’s your father.”
He doesn’t get a free pass because we share DNA. If anything, that’s even more reason to kick his ass. “You can’t let him get away with it, Mom,” I say. “Just because—”
“Let’s talk about something else.” Her hands grip the steering wheel with such ferocity that she could probably rip it right out of the dashboard. Subject closed. I guess that’s only fair. She’s been artful at avoiding the subject of Afghanistan, and I suspect it’s because she read an article somewhere on the Internet that said I’ll talk about it when I’m ready. I’m not sure I’ll ever be ready, but I guess I owe her the same respect.
“None of my clothes fit and I need new shoes,” I say.
Her smile shifts to wide. “Now, that I can do.”
On San Carlos, we pass a veterans’ club. It’s a sketchy little place not affiliated with any other club in the country, but there are always cars in the lot. Pops, who was a Marine with the 3/7 in Korea, brought me there once for lunch when he was down from Green Bay for a visit. “Hey, um—do you want to get some lunch?”
I’m not really the type to join a veterans’ organization—especially since I’m still active duty—but I could use a beer and… I don’t know. Maybe I won’t feel so out of place there.
“Here?” Mom eyes the place skeptically. “Um—sure.”
Inside, the veterans’ club is more of a dump than I remember. The walls are painted with emblems from all the armed forces branches, only they’re amateurish and out of proportion. The tables wobble and the chairs don’t match, but the bartender gives me a membership application he calls a formality.
“Iraq?” he asks.
“Afghanistan.”
“Marine?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Semper Fi, son.” He shakes my hand and I see his Death Before Dishonor tattoo. Kevlar got one exactly like it on his back after he graduated boot camp, and the saltier Marines in our platoon ragged on him mercilessly about it. “You’re welcome to stay for lunch,” the bartender says. “The special today is fish sandwiches with fries and coleslaw.”
I order two sandwiches and a pitcher of beer, which he draws for me without so much as blinking.
“Travis.” Mom frowns as I pour the beer into plastic cups. She leans forward, keeping her voice low. As if we’re doing something naughty. “You’re not twenty-one.”
“I am a veteran of a foreign war.” I hand her a cup. “More importantly, I’m thirsty.”
At first we don’t talk about Dad. We don’t talk about anything, really. We drink beer, agree the fish sandwiches taste good, and speculate on what kind of fish it is.
“I’ve been thinking about seeing a lawyer.” Mom refills our glasses. I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand and she hands me a paper napkin. Dining room manners tend to lapse when there’s no dining room—or even a table. Most of the time we ate sitting on the ground, where there was no lack of places to sit, and “Hey, save me a seat” was a running joke between me and Charlie.
“Yeah?” I ask.
She nods. “I’m—I’m kind of scared.”
“Why?”
“We’ve been together a long time,” she says. “I don’t know how to be alone. Or what I would do with myself.”
“You could go back to school.”
She gives me a wobbly smile. “Maybe you and I both could.”
I have three years of active duty left, but she thinks I’ll use my GI Bill to get an education. I don’t tell her I still have no interest in college. I can’t envision myself as a teacher or an accountant or a lawyer. Or even married with kids.
Charlie always knew what he wanted. Some nights in-country, we’d lie on our backs on the ground with our boots propped up against the schoolhouse wall, pass a cigarette back and forth, and he’d talk about how he wanted to go to culinary school when he got out of the Marines.
“I want to be a chef, Solo,” he said. “But not like those pretentious guys who make teeny-tiny dishes no one can pronounce, you know? I want to have a restaurant where regular people can try gourmet food without feeling stupid or wondering which fork to use.”
I never pointed out that most regular people aren’t all that interested in trying food like that, because it was his dream and who was I to stomp all over it?
“What about you, Trav?” he asked.
“I don’t know, dude,” I said. “Maybe I’ll go recon.”
He laughed because we learned real fast that you always make fun of the hard chargers who talk about reenlisting or going recon. Reconnaissance Marines are specially trained scouts. Elite. A lot of guys join the Marines wanting to go recon because they think it’s cool, but they go through some seriously rigorous training. I was only a year out of high school and no closer to knowing what I wanted to do with my future. I was only joking with Charlie but now—I don’t know. I think I could do it.
Now Charlie is dead, and I’m having trouble even picturing a future with me in it. Still, I humor my mom. “Maybe. Anyway, you should see a lawyer. I’ll go with you if you want.”
Her smile slides off her face and I can tell the beer buzz has dredged up some d
oubt. She glances at her watch. “Travis.” She hiccups. “We need to go. We haven’t bought groceries yet.”
“Give me the keys.” I settle the tab, turn in my membership application, and follow my mom out to the Suburban. She keeps missing the slot on her seat belt, so I have to do it for her. “We should go home,” I say. “We can shop later.”
“Your dad will be mad.” She yawns. “I want a nap.”
I laugh. I’ve never seen her this way. “Okay, then, a nap it is.”
Dad is watching golf on TV, a bottle of beer in his hand, when we get home.
“Oh, good, you’re here,” he says. “Linda, did you remember to buy beer?”
She nods and holds up three fingers, then uses her other hand to bend one finger down so she’s only holding up two. “Two pitchers.”
My mom is wasted. It’s kind of… cool.
His eyes narrow. “Have you been drinking?” He turns his glare on me. Cool Dad is gone. Real Dad is back. “Travis, you got your mother drunk?”
I shrug. “You can blame me if you want.”
“Why didn’t you stop her?” He’s on his feet now, eyes blazing, voice sliding up an octave. “We’ve got company coming tonight and nothing is ready.” He turns back to her. “I don’t know why I’m surprised. You have all the time in the world to buy socks for Travis and to google all night with strangers about your son in Afghanistan, but I ask you for one little thing—”
“This isn’t about Travis,” she says.
“Of course it’s about Travis,” he spits. “It’s always about Travis.”
“Mom.” I keep my eyes on him. “Why don’t you go up and take that nap? I’ll take care of everything.”
“But—”
“It’s okay,” I say. “I’ve got it under control.”
She plants a sloppy kiss on my cheek. “You’re such a good boy.”
I am nowhere near good right now.
“I thought the military would have matured you,” Dad says when she’s out of earshot. “But you’re the same disrespectful little punk you were before you left.”
I grab the front of his shirt in my fist. It takes this little punk no effort at all to pull him toward me. He looks scared, and he should, because there’s not much in this world more frightening than a pissed-off grunt. “You know what I was doing at six o’clock this morning? Sitting in the kitchen with Mom, who waited all night for you to come home. So don’t fucking talk to me about respect.”
He doesn’t say anything and his eyes are wide. I shouldn’t feel good about that, but I do.
“You want to be pathetic and screw around behind Mom’s back because she pays attention to someone other than you, that’s your business,” I say. “But I won’t be your excuse.”
I shove him a little as I let go and he staggers backward. If I wanted to drop him, he’d be on the floor right now, but this was my warning shot.
“I’m going to the grocery store.” I grab the keys to the Suburban. “Gotta make sure Becky feels welcome.”
Dad’s tanned face goes pale. He pulls out his wallet. “Do you—do you need some cash?”
“Not from you.”
It isn’t until I get to the Winn-Dixie that I realize I have a problem—I didn’t bring Mom’s list. I have no clue what people cook for dinner parties, even for people they hate.
I head for the meat department.
“Can I help you?” the butcher asks.
“What would you cook if you were having a, um—dinner party?”
Jesus, I feel like an idiot.
“Well, a roast is always tasty,” he offers. “Or pork chops. Or even lamb chops.”
Lamb chops? I walk away from the counter and stand in front of the cooler full of meat. I have no idea what to buy. I don’t even know what most of it is. This is a nightmare.
“Do you need help?” a female voice from behind asks.
I’m about to throw an offended no over my shoulder when Harper comes up alongside me, all green eyes and tousled hair. I could probably look at her forever and not get tired of that face. “If I say yes will you think less of me?”
She shrugs, but I can see a smile at the corner of her mouth. “I already do think less of you.”
“You’re not planning to hit me again, are you?”
“Well, I wasn’t planning on it, but I try to keep my options open.” She puts her plastic shopping basket in my cart. “So you’re having a dinner party?”
“Yes, I mean, no. My mom is, but she’s—not feeling well, so I figured I’d come buy the stuff, take it home, and cook it.”
She cocks her head, skeptical. “Do you know how to cook, Travis?”
“How hard can it be?” Her eyebrows lift and she doesn’t say anything at all, which makes me laugh. “Okay, no. But I want to do something nice for her.”
Harper’s smile is like standing in a patch of sunshine and feels like a reward. “So maybe you should try something a little less complicated, but still good,” she says. “Like… okay, I have an idea.”
As I follow her to the produce section, I notice her jeans are faded to white in spots with a circle worn into the fabric of the right back pocket where someone once kept a can of dip. Thrift store jeans. I used to buy most of my clothes from thrift stores, too. I liked that they were already broken-in and soft from wear.
On the way, she gives me a tutorial on choosing the freshest tomatoes, but I’m not really listening. I’m thinking about Becky Michalski. Why would my dad have an affair with her? She’s unremarkable, especially compared to Mom. Seems to me, she’s the ultimate loser in this scenario. Going from Don to my dad is kind of a lateral move.
“Travis, are you in there?” Harper is waving her hand in front of my face.
“I nearly punched my dad today.” I’m not sure what possesses me to blurt this to Harper Gray in the middle of the produce section of the Winn-Dixie, but there’s something I trust about her.
“Why?”
“He’s cheating on my mom.”
“I… wow, I’m sorry.” She looks up at me and what I see in her eyes isn’t pity or even satisfaction that karma is coming back to bite me for the way I treated her in middle school. She just looks sad. “Want to talk about it?”
“Not really.”
Those are the words that come out of my mouth, but then I find myself leaning against the vegetable bin, telling her everything. Including the part about getting my mom drunk.
Harper smiles at that. “That’s sweet… in a weird sort of way.”
She moves so we’re both blocking the avocados, her arm brushing against mine. It makes the hair on the back of my neck prickle. “My mom left when I was ten,” she says. “She went back to Denmark to take care of my grandma, who was dying of cancer, and never came back.”
“Oh, shit. I had no idea.”
“It was a long time ago.” Her shoulders lift in a careless little bounce that seems to have more care in it than she lets on. “For a long time I thought it was my fault. Like, if I had been better, she wouldn’t have left. Then I realized it had nothing to do with me and I wanted to punch her. Only she wasn’t here.”
An old guy comes up and we have to move out of his way. Harper leads me to a bin filled with rubber-banded clumps of herbs. They all look the same—green and bushy—but she explains we’re looking for basil.
“Have you had any contact with your mom since she left?” I ask, handing her a bundle of basil.
“She sends me birthday cards every year,” she says as I follow her to the pasta aisle. “Only she puts Danish kroner in the card instead of American dollars. It’s not even worth getting converted.” Harper drops a couple of boxes of penne pasta in the cart. “For graduation, she sent me a ticket to Copenhagen.”
“Did you go?”
“Yeah… she, um, lives in this communal house in Christiania with a bunch of other people, so the entire time I was there she was either painting in her studio or getting stoned with her twenty-two-year-old boyfrien
d. I slept on a couch that smelled like cat pee.”
“That sucks.”
She nods as she grabs a can of black olives from the shelf. “Copenhagen was cool, though. I went to LEGOLAND by myself and got this cute keychain.”
Harper dangles her keys from the end of her finger. The keychain is a little yellow LEGO duck.
“Did you punch her?”
“No.” Her nose crinkles when she smiles. “But I don’t miss her anymore.” We stop at the seafood counter. “You order a couple of pounds of shrimp. I’ll get the bread and cheese and then we’ll be done.”
Right now, if Harper asked me to swim out into the Gulf of Mexico and catch the shrimp with my bare hands, I’d do it. By the time the guy behind the seafood counter is finished wrapping the shrimp, she’s back with a long loaf of bread and a block of hard white cheese that’s definitely not the processed orange goo I’ve been eating. I still have no idea what I’ll be cooking, but it looks impressive. Too good for the Michalskis. Too good for my dad.
“So it’s just been you and your dad?” I ask, trying to imagine what it would have been like growing up with only Mom. “I’m surprised he never got remarried.”
“He’s never really dated that much,” Harper says. “But now… I don’t know. He spends a lot of time e-mailing back and forth with some woman he knew before he met my mom, which—it makes me feel weird.”
She pushes the cart into the checkout lane, and when the cashier is done ringing it all up—including the stuff in her basket—I pay the bill. “So what do I do with all this stuff?”
“I’ll write it down for you.”
“You could come over and—”
“I think you can manage.” Our eyes meet for a moment and I look for something. Anything. But then her gaze falls to her flip-flops with a shyness that kills me in the best possible way. She reaches out and gives me a playful punch in the arm. “Adapt and overcome, Marine.”
I laugh. I want to say more, but she starts getting that deer-in-the-headlights look, as if she might bolt any second. I unlock the Suburban and take out the notepad my mom has kept in the center console of every car she’s ever had. Our fingers touch as I hand it to Harper, and her cheeks go pink. Interesting. Frustrating, but interesting.