Not Today

by MC Lee

  My lunch usually consisted of leftovers, but even I wasn’t insane enough to bring day-old SpaghettiOs, so today I had what could pass as a sandwich, if two stale crackers stuck together with peanut butter could be defined as a sandwich.

  I glanced around the table and noticed that some of the other kids weren’t doing much better than me on the food front. It might not need saying, but there wasn’t a single rich kid at the table, as though money insulated them from being isolated or weird as well as sparing them from hunger.

  SPORT IS the great American equalizer. It was the only place in this school, anyway, where talent was all that mattered. Nobody cared if you were wearing gold-studded football boots or the ass was hanging out of your threadbare jeans. As long as you had what it took on the field or the ice or the track, nobody gave a damn if you were rich or poor.

  It was one of the reasons I’d loved playing football so much. That, and the fact that it was the only time my old man actually treated me as well as Jamie. My brother had played too, of course. Quarterback, MVP, the whole nine yards. It was impossible to grow up male in the Callaghan household and not want to make it onto the football team. When Jamie shipped out, I was the only game in town, so Dad swallowed his indifference toward me and turned up for every match.

  I used to watch him out of the corner of my eye as I ran onto the field with the rest of the team, feeling that strange mixture of pride that he was here for me and creeping anxiety in case he did something to show who he really was. Not that our people didn’t already know. Brendan Callaghan was like most of the neighborhood men watching from the sidelines—tough, independent operators who stuck together and supported each other through thick and thin. They were as proud of their Irish and Italian heritage as any of the recently arrived blue bloods who traced their families back to the Mayflower, and in their own way, just as powerful.

  It was at times like that, seeing them standing together in a loose knot, kings in their own world, that I felt we had as much claim to rule Whitmore as any of the richer families. Maybe more, since we’d been here long before they put down their shallow roots.

  I’d dropped out of the team months ago, five weeks after my brother was killed in Iraq, right after Mom walked out and Dad started the slow slide into dementia. I couldn’t spare the time away from home, and something about a bunch of jocks running from one end of a field to the other as though their life depended on it began to strike me as absurd. Although I knew it was totally twisted, I pinned my decision to leave the team on Jamie’s death, and nobody could give me shit about it. Otherwise I’d have had to spill about the whole other mess my life had become and admit I was looking after my dad alone. And I’d risk social services coming to the house and taking him away. That wasn’t going to happen.

  I didn’t play anymore, but football still held sway over me because I couldn’t stay away from the pregame practice sessions, even though watching the team made me literally ache with disappointment and regret.

  Friday night was the only time I lingered after school, and even then I only risked fifteen minutes of extra time before tearing home. One of the good things about Coach Rogers was that he went batshit crazy if the team wasn’t dressed and ready at exactly three thirty, so I could rely on having the whole fifteen minutes to watch some real action and not have to worry that I’d only get to see the players straggling onto the field one by one.

  Whitmore High had always put out a strong team. I’d felt like a real winner when I played for them. I watched with quiet envy as they ran through some drills before quickly forming up two teams for a practice game. As always, my eyes were drawn to Callum Moreland and his graceful, loping style.

  Cal and I had grown up together, running wild on the desolate Whitmore streets long before the newcomers invaded our town and took over everything in it. We’d had “a thing” once, before he hooked up with one of the cheerleaders. He’d told me he didn’t think he was gay, and I more or less believed him, even though we’d done some hot stuff together and he’d been totally into it at the time. Weirdly, he didn’t try to avoid me after it was all over or pretend it hadn’t happened, though he didn’t talk about it in front of anybody. I was fine with that. At least he wasn’t a total douchebag like some of the other players.

  He was the only one who still called me by my old player nickname. Most of the team either ignored me, or, when they thought nobody else was listening, called me “homo” under their breath. Whitmore High had a no-tolerance policy toward racism, sexism, and homophobia, and there wasn’t much in the way of overt bullying. But it didn’t stop a lot of the hate getting pushed underground only to resurface in a hundred petty, annoying ways. Still, being queer was better in half the school’s eyes than being a poor, white-trash townie. Wasn’t it the luck of my Irish ancestors that I was both?

  My fifteen minutes was just about up when Cal wandered over to the sidelines and smiled up at me.

  “Hey, Easy.”

  It had started out as EC, for Emmett Callaghan. It hadn’t taken more than a week for some smartass to turn it into something else. Of course the stupid nickname stuck, though I didn’t mind it so much when Cal said it.

  “Hey,” I said.

  “You gonna make it to the game on Saturday?”

  I shrugged. “Maybe.” It mostly depended on how Dad was feeling, and I couldn’t predict that until same day, and sometimes not even then.

  “You coming out to Melissa’s tonight?”

  Melissa was his girlfriend, and she was pretty cool. Whenever her parents went out of town, which was a lot, she threw a party. Even though she lived on the wrong side of the tracks, almost all of the seniors turned up, and it was one of the few places all the kids mixed in together and forgot for a few hours that it was “us” and “them.” Part of that had to do with the fact that she was a cheerleader, so some of the rich boys on the football team were already friends. But mostly it was because she was sociable and outgoing and just great to be around. And maybe a little because she threw really good parties.

  I shrugged again. “Not sure. Maybe later.”

  Cal’s smile got a little strained. Like everybody else, he thought my sudden withdrawal from the world had to do with Jamie getting killed in Iraq. That was months ago, and I could tell he thought what everybody else did—it was sad, but it was time to move on. He didn’t know, nobody knew, that I had a lot more on my plate than missing my brother. Sometimes I wished I could share the shitshow that was my life with just one other person besides Mrs. Sweeney. But that wasn’t really in the cards for me. I didn’t trust anybody enough to keep my secrets.

  “Come out if you can,” Cal said. “I miss you.”

  He turned and trotted back onto the field, and I whipped around and started for home. It was nice to think there was somebody who thought about me long enough to feel anything at all, even if it was just a guy who’d once been a hookup, who’d decided I wasn’t for him, who’d found himself a cheerleader, who was still a good friend.

  MRS. SWEENEY met me on the porch, which meant it hadn’t been a good day.

  “Your dinner’s on the floor,” she said tartly. “Luckily it’s wrapped in tinfoil, so it should still be edible.”

  I winced and leaped up the steps.

  “Are you okay?” I asked.

  She sniffed. “He’s not so far gone yet that he’s forgotten who I am.” Her face fell and she shook her head. “You need to be careful. He’s got the black mood on him.”

  “I’ll be fine,” I said, trying to sound reassuring. “Thanks for the food. I’ll return the dishes later.”

  “They’re not all in one piece,” she huffed.

  There was no point telling her I’d replace them. We both knew that wasn’t going to happen anytime soon.

  I shoved the door, and it creaked open. I immediately smelled the sharp, acidic odor of urine and knew what had set him off this time. He was sitting at the kitchen table, his face a tight-lipped mask, a heavy glass dish broken into t
wo equal pieces at his feet. Two foil wrapped potatoes had rolled across the floor, and a square package was squashed underneath one half of the dish. The peas Mrs. Sweeney had made for us hadn’t survived my father’s outburst. They were scattered across the kitchen floor and stuck to the side of Dad’s bare feet.

  “Everything all right, Dad?” I asked, taking a few tentative steps toward him.

  He turned his brilliant blue eyes on me, unclouded this time, and his lip curled nastily.

  “That interfering old bitch was here again. I’ve told you a hundred times, I don’t want her in my house.”

  I edged closer and glanced down at his pajama pants. Sure enough, they were wet. It didn’t take much imagination to recreate this afternoon’s drama. Mrs. Sweeney would have come in to deliver our dinner. She would likely have tried to persuade my father to clean himself up, not realizing that he was in one of his halfway lucid periods. Some vaguely remembered embarrassment would have turned his mood thunderous as he swept her offering off the kitchen table and onto the floor. She, well practiced by now, would have seen he wasn’t in any immediate danger from the broken dish and would have backed off, leaving him to nurse his foul temper alone.

  “Why don’t I get dinner ready? You probably want to change?”

  “Where’s your mother?” he said sullenly. “She should be doing that.”

  There were a few ways to answer his question: She skipped town as fast as her legs would carry her because you’re a raving, selfish asshole; you lashed out one too many times, and she couldn’t wait to see the back of you; her heart was shattered, and you couldn’t take away the pain. Instead I went with the usual and just lied. After all, he’d have forgotten all this in an hour.

  “She had to run down to the store.”

  It’s actually the line she used before she deserted us. So it was only half a lie at most.

  “Well, when she gets back, tell her to clean this shit up,” Dad growled. He stood up, and I stepped back quickly out of range. “I’m going to have a shower. The dinner had better be on the table when I get back. Or else….” He didn’t bother to finish the sentence. This time it wasn’t forgetfulness from the dementia. It was the fact that everybody who had ever lived in this miserable house knew the threat without it being articulated: You’ll feel the back of my hand; you’ll get my belt across your backside; you’ll wish you’d never been born. And a hundred different variations on that theme.

  When he was halfway back like this, I let him take care of his own cleanup. I was honest enough to admit that some small, not so deeply hidden part of me hoped he’d cut his goddamned throat with a blunt razorblade while he shaved. The thought usually only lasted for a few minutes, just enough to have me twisting with guilt when he inevitably slid back down into the helpless fog.

  I picked up the food that could still be salvaged and swept up the peas to scrape into the garbage. We’d have to go without vegetables tonight. I doubted either of us would miss them.

  I set the table and tipped what was left of the food onto our plates, and then I put a glass of water in front of each of us. No beer for Dad anymore. He’d always been a maudlin drunk, and we couldn’t afford it anyway.

  Ten minutes later Dad hadn’t reappeared, so I climbed the stairs to the bathroom and knocked cautiously.

  “Dad. You okay in there?”

  The door flew open, and I retreated quickly, but as soon as I looked at him, I knew he’d disappeared into it again. His eyes were soft and unfocused, and he was standing there soaking wet and confused. At least he’d been with it long enough to finish his shower. I stepped into the bathroom and handed him a towel, showing him what to do with it until some muscle memory kicked in and he finished the job.

  His soiled pajamas were clogging up the bath so I hopped quickly into his bedroom and found a clean pair. He hadn’t moved while I was gone, he was just staring into the bathroom mirror as though he didn’t recognize the person staring back.

  “Come on, Dad. Soup’s on.”

  I helped him dress and then led him back down to the kitchen. He was as docile as a kitten now, and he sat down and began to eat. His hand hovered for a moment over his water glass, and he looked up at me.

  “When Jamie comes home, we’ll have to get some beers in.”

  He was there, and a moment later he dropped his gaze to his plate and he was gone.

  I STOOD at the top of the stairs, feeling the balls of my feet tingle, trying to decide whether I was going to Melissa’s party or not. I hadn’t dressed up; it wasn’t that kind of party. Melissa would be fine if I rolled up in jeans and a hoodie. But I’d showered and pulled on a clean T-shirt, and I’d brushed the tangles out of my shoulder-length hair until it looked halfway tame. It framed my face like a lion’s mane, a continual source of irritation to my dad, and one of the few ways I could silently challenge him.

  I took a step down and cocked my head, listening for any signs of life. Dad had been in bed for over an hour, and I knew he was asleep because I could hear his guttural snores through the thin walls.

  I took another step down. I tried to convince myself he’d be fine for a couple of hours. I had locked the door with the deadbolt and planned to climb out of the kitchen window. He didn’t remember how to unlock the door when it was bolted, so I knew he wouldn’t be able to stray tonight.

  I crept down the rest of the steps until I reached the bottom, feeling a rush of adrenaline pound through me. The music at Melissa’s would be loud, something hip-hop or retro. There would be plenty of booze because the rich kids always brought enough for everybody. There would be a small amount of weed because the local kids knew where to get the best deals. Everybody would be dancing and drinking and trying to get laid. For one fantastic moment, I saw myself right there in the middle of them, just like I used to be.

  And then I heard Dad cough.

  He could choke. He could wake up and have no clue where he was. He could panic alone in the house. There could be a fire, a flood, a fucking plague of locusts.

  My feet tingled all the harder, knowing they were on the verge of carrying me down the street and back into my normal teenage life, even if just for a few hours.

  But it wasn’t any good.

  The only place my feet were going to take me was back into the living room. I’d find a game or an old movie on TV, I’d tip the last of the bag of pretzels into a bowl, and I’d top up my glass of water.

  Someday I’d take that leap and reclaim the life that should be mine.

  But not today.

  Chapter Three

  IN MOVIES and books, the poor kids always had something a little extra going for them, as if to compensate for their lack of money. They were more sensitive than their rich neighbors or smarter or more creative. I remember the movie where the girl from the wrong side of the tracks was so artistic she could take her ragged, hand-me-down, Goodwill castoffs and turn them into works of clothing art with little more than a snip, a few stitches, and some well-placed beads.

  My ragged, hand-me-down Goodwill castoffs were exactly that, and no amount of cutting and sewing was going to change them into something unique and original. The only saving grace for me was that ripped jeans were currently a fashion statement. I got to be on trend through necessity. The rich kids paid through the nose for holes and tears that would normally make me shrivel up with shame.

  I used to be pretty vain about my appearance, still was, I suppose, since I was hyperaware of how I looked these days. It wasn’t as if I’d ever been a fashion plate, but Jamie used to slip me a handful of bills whenever he was on leave, which I always spent on clothes, and Mom made sure I had all the basics, even if they weren’t brand names.

  On Monday morning I rolled up to school in my slashed jeans and white T-shirt, unintentionally looking the part. Cal was outside, taking a drag off Melissa’s cigarette. He never bought any himself because he was an athlete and didn’t really smoke, but he didn’t mind scrounging whenever anybody else lit up.

&
nbsp; “You missed the party, shithead,” Cal said.

  Melissa jabbed him in the ribs, and he coughed out a lungful of smoke.

  “I wish you’d been able to make it,” she said, sounding totally genuine.

  She was one of those girls who felt other people’s tragedies almost as deeply as they did. And it wasn’t fake. She’d been kind and thoughtful after Jamie had been killed. She’d even brought food around for those first horrible, depressing weeks, adding to the untouched casseroles and pot roasts stacking up in the fridge. Luckily she’d stopped just before Mom did a bunk, the timing so coincidental that I sometimes wondered if my mom only stayed as long as she did because there was one bright spot of caring in the otherwise bleak and empty expanse. One person who actually understood how totally devastated she was.

  Dad certainly hadn’t had any time for her, locked as he was in his own tightly bound, mute world of grief. I tried, but I was dealing with too much of my own shit then, and I didn’t have any energy left over for her.

  “Maybe next time,” I said. I turned to Cal. “How’d the game go?”

  He shrugged. “We lost, man. By four points. Williams just doesn’t cut it out there. When are you coming back, Easy?”

  It was an old conversation, getting older by the minute. I briefly considered the truth: when my mom came back or my old man lost it completely and got shoved into some home, but instead I fell back on the tried and tested and lied through my teeth.

  “Soon, Cal. Soon.”

  “When he’s ready, asshole,” Melissa hissed. “When you’re ready, right, Emmett?”

  I nodded and let the whole thing slide.