“Your mother never gave you any money for the mall?” Evan calls out toward him.
Dean stops and cocks his head at Evan, a slightly puzzled look on his face. Evan has no idea what Dean is thinking. Just a strange, bemused gaze.
“She gave me money, ” Dean says simply. He continues his puzzled stare at Evan for another beat, then shakes his head to himself and disappears.
IT’S NINE-THIRTY and Dean still isn’t home. Evan is slightly worried. Did Dean say he’d be home by nine-thirty? Or was that on hockey nights? Does curfew change for the mall? What if Rick’s father didn’t show up to take them home and Dean decided to walk? Would he think to call Evan?
Evan knows that Dean has a key, so he’s not worried about not being home for him; he gets in his car and goes looking.
The streets are quiet. Deserted. Nothing but big, thick-trunked trees whose roots buckle the sidewalks, their heavy branches draping over the streets. Nothing but green lawns with sprinklers. Nothing but silent cars parked underneath ominous Neighborhood Watch signs. The streetlights are on, but there’s still a touch of light in the sky, enough to see by. And he cruises through the neighborhood, not really looking for Dean but looking at the same time. Simply driving up and down the streets. Finding nothing while not looking for anything at all. Hoping, perhaps, to happen upon Dean and his friends walking home as a group, or shooting a few hoops on a streetside rim. But he finds nothing.
He stops at a 7-Eleven he passes on one of the bigger avenues; he’d like to get himself a soda. He parks and sees a group of teenage delinquents hanging out by the Dumpster at the side of the parking lot. Kids still hang out in the parking lot of the 7-Eleven? That’s a throwback. Evan thought they all played video games these days. He gets out and starts inside.
“Hey, mister.”A carbuncular young man in baggy jeans and large sneakers and an oversized Cypress Hill T-shirt approaches him.
Evan turns, surprised by the interruption.
“Hey, mister, buy me some cigarettes?”
The kid holds out his upturned fist. Inside, presumably, is money to be used to procure the contraband.
Evan, slightly astonished by all of this, shakes his head.
“No, ” he says.
Evan turns to go into the store.
“I’ll suck your dick for some beer.”
Evan looks back at the kid.
“Faggot, ” the kid sneers and walks away.
Jesus. What kind of kids are they raising these days? Is that a devalued sense of humor, or what?
Evan grabs a seltzer and goes back outside. The kids have moved closer; they’re leaning against the store window, right in front of Evan’s car.
“Did you get the beer?” one of the kids yells at Evan as he gets in his car. All the other kids laugh. Evan remembers his own high school life and the disgust he’d felt for kids like this, the tough ones who hung out at the 7-Eleven, smoking and talking about drugs and girls. Evan was never friends with them. He was too busy practicing his guitar. And he was already having sex, anyway, while kids like this just talked about it.
“Come on, mister, buy us a Philly so we can roll a blunt.”
Evan looks up as he opens his door.
Holy crap. Is that Dean?
He looks closer. In the back. Hunkering down. Trying not to be seen. Dean.
“Hey, ” Evan says, pointing toward Dean.“Get in the car.”
A murmur buzzes through the group.
“I said, get in the car, ” Evan repeats sternly.
A big kid steps forward.
“Fuck you, faggot, ” he bellows.
Evan boldly moves toward them, ignoring the big kid. He points at Dean.
“Dean, ” he says. “Get in the car. Now.”
Dean? At the mention of a proper name, the murmuring stops. Eyes turn. The kids part like a sea and reveal Dean, who is angry at being thusly exposed.
“Now!” Evan shouts.
Defiantly, Dean starts toward the car.
“Dean, who’s that, man?” a kid whispers.
“My dad, ” Dean explains with a roll of his eyes.
Dean tries to look tough as he circles behind the car and opens the passenger door.
“Dean’s daddy came to get him. What a puss.”
“You told him you’d suck his dick.”
“Shut up, fuck face.”
“Hey, ” Evan barks, “what, are you tough guys hoping to work your way up the ladder and get a job behind the counter here?”
Blank faces.
“You have no excuses, ” Evan says. “This is America. If you piss away your life, it’s your own damn fault. Go home and read a book, get an education, and maybe you can aspire to do something a little more relevant than stocking the 7-Eleven with candy bars.”
Silence.
Dean is sitting in the car. Evan gets in and starts it up. As he pulls away, he looks in the rearview mirror. The kids are making all kinds of obscene gestures at him, giving him the finger, grabbing their crotches, pumping their fists. Sick, sick, sick. That his son would be one of them. Sick.
EVAN PULLS UP to the curb and stops. He and Dean are both silent.
The wind is blowing. Evan can see it through the windshield, though he cannot hear it. It’s blowing the trees back and forth, the long dangling willow vines, the dark, somber oak leaves.
“You told me you were going to the mall, ” Evan says.
“I lied. So sue me.”
“How about I ground you instead?” Evan snaps.
“So ground me. I don’t care.”
“You’re grounded.”
“Ooh, I’m really scared, ” Dean taunts.“You’re so fucking Leave It To Beaver. You’re pathetic.”
“Don’t swear.”
“Fuck, fuck, fuck.”
“You’re seriously grounded this time, ” Evan says.
“Oh. Seriously grounded. As opposed to the last time when I was only play grounded? Now I’m seriously grounded. What exactly does seriously grounded entail, Dad? No flying around the house?”
“You know, ” Evan says, “this is probably the first time in your life you’re trying on how to be a real prick. And you’re good at it. But, trust me, it gets tired real quick. And some day, someone’s gonna pop you in the nose.”
“Bullshit.”
“Don’t swear so much. It makes you sound stupid.”
“Bullshit, bullshit, bullshit!”
“I see you got your father’s mouth.”
Dean twists in his seat to glare at Evan.
“I got my father’s eyes, too, ” he snaps. “And I got my father’s ears. And his face and his hair and his body. I got my father’s lack of responsibility. I got my father’s Attention Deficit Disorder. And I got my father’s basic loser nature. So what else are you going to give me? Pearls of wisdom? ‘Don’t swear so much?’ Fuck you.”
Evan tries to center himself.
“You’re a nasty kid, ” he says.
“You’re a lousy father.”
“Well, I’m a lousy father who’s taking you back to Seattle next week.”
“I’m not going.”
“I have to go for work. It’s important.”
“So, go. I’m staying. Hire me an au pair.”
“You’re going, ” Evan says.
“I’m not your fucking suitcase, ” Dean says.“Go fuck yourself.” He gets out of the car, stomps up the walk and into the house, and leaves Evan wondering what the hell a real father would do right now.
A REAL FATHER probably wouldn’t take this moment to try to get laid, but Evan calls Mica in Jamaica. She has checked out. He tries her in Seattle. She’s there.
“I’m tired, ” she says.
“Sorry to bother you.”
“No, no.”
He unravels the Dean dilemma for her, but she doesn’t have anything to offer. He can hear her steady yawns; it’s torture to keep her awake.
“You should go to sleep.”
“I’ll c
ome out tomorrow morning, okay? I got Dean this really cool diver’s watch. It was a little expensive, but I figured it was worth it. It’s really cool. He’ll like it, won’t he?”
“I’m sure.”
“Do you miss me?”
“I miss you a lot.”
“Really?” she asks.
“Really. What should I do about Dean?”
“He’ll be okay. He’s a kid. He needs to do that kind of stuff. I wouldn’t worry about it. You guys are tighter than that. People fight. It’s part of growing up.”
“Yeah?”
“Sure. Don’t sweat it. I’ll see you in the morning.”
“Okay.”
EVAN SITS IN the kitchen reading the Saturday morning paper and drinking coffee. He’s rather hungover from the verbal abuse he received from Dean the previous evening. He was supposed to be the one doing the yelling; instead, he let Dean curse him out. Wimpy father material. He hears Dean in the foyer strapping on his skates. Click, click, click. Then the other boot. Click, click, click.
“Where are you going?” Evan asks from the threshold.
“Out, ” Dean responds without looking up.
Evan knows where Dean’s going. He’s going to play hockey between the cones that Matthew’s father puts out.
“Out where?”
Dean glances at Evan as he stands in his skates. He picks up his hockey stick.
“Out.”
“Mica’s coming over this morning. Don’t you want to be here when she arrives?”
“No.”
“Why not? She said she brought you a present from Jamaica.”
“I don’t want it.”
“Why not?”
“Where’s she staying?” Dean asks sharply. “Not in my mom’s room.”
“I—”
“She’s not staying in my mom’s room. So where’s she staying?”
“I’ll find a place for her, ” Evan says.
“I bet you will.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Dean doesn’t answer. He gathers his bag of equipment and reaches for the door.
“When are you coming home?” Evan asks.
“None of your fucking business, Dad.”
Evan feels a flash of rage. His face flushes. He understands that Dean is deliberately challenging him, but this is out of control. Things have moved out of the rational realm and into the emotional. Before he can stop himself—indeed, before he even knows what he’s doing—he rushes Dean and grabs him by the collar. He pushes Dean backward, pinning him against the wall.
“It is my business, ” Evan yells at Dean, whose eyes are wide. “You may not like it, but I’m your father and you’re stuck with me. So learn to show me a little respect.”
Dean is taken momentarily by surprise. He’s afraid of Evan and this sudden anger. But then, when Evan doesn’t follow through, when there’s nothing after the initial burst, Dean regains his composure. He’s not intimidated. He correctly assesses Evan’s attack as bluster. Then, taking Evan quite by surprise, Dean spits in Evan’s face.
Spit? Can Evan believe what’s going on? Did Dean just spit in his face? Suddenly, Evan isn’t in control of his own body, his arm is a club attached to his shoulder, a spring-powered catapult that’s been cocked, and someone looses the firing pin, someone cuts the string, and his arm leaps forward in an instant and the heel of his hand careens into Dean’s jaw, his palm into Dean’s cheek, his fingers the side of Dean’s head, and the sound it makes is so loud, like someone clacking two-by-fours together as hard as he can, a crack. Dean loses his footing, his skates go out from underneath him. With a mad scramble he goes down.
He sits, stunned for a moment, looking up at Evan. The left side of his face blushes a deep scarlet. Tears well on the edges of his eyelids, but they are not tears of pain; they are tears of shame, of frustration, of anger, of humiliation.
“Take off your skates and go to your room, ” Evan says. “Don’t come out until I tell you to.”
Evan doesn’t know who’s doing the talking. It certainly isn’t him. He would never say something like that. He would never act like that. What has happened to him? What has he become?
“Now!” he shouts at Dean.
Dean angrily complies. He skates down the hall and kicks open his door; he slams it. Once safe behind the closed door, he shouts: “I hate you! I wish you were dead!”
WHAT HAS HE done?
He couldn’t help himself. Dean was pushing him too hard. Dean spit in his face. He made Evan hit him. That’s what he did.
And he hit him hard, too. That wasn’t a love tap. That was as close to a full-out hit as it gets. Thank god he didn’t close his fist. That would have been a disaster.
He’s no better than Frank. He and Frank are cut from the same cloth. They are brothers in crime. Abusers. Bullies. He thinks he’s sensitive, he thinks he’d make a good father, but he’s no better than the next thug; when your back is to the wall, come out swinging.
Is this how he deals with discipline problems? Bone-crushing blows for no reason, with no warning? Evan is a bad man. He can’t control himself. At some point he might go crazy and beat Dean to death in the night. Bam, bam. Open hand. Bam, bam, bam. No fist. Bam. Until Dean’s face is so swollen he can’t see, can’t talk, his teeth loose, blood trickling from his ear. Bam, bam. Like a pile driver. Evan, the pile driver. Relentless. Bam. Until Dean is dead. I didn’t mean to hurt him, Evan would say to the judge. And the judge would shake her head sadly, bang her gavel once, and, tears in her eyes from all her pent-up compassion, pull a Nanny-Murder-Trial upset and reverse the jury’s verdict, sentencing Evan to time served—two days—for the bludgeoning death of his own son.
“HEY, LOVER.”
Evan starts. He’s sitting on the patio; she’s standing before him.
She’s radiant. She’s smiling a brilliant smile. Her skin is glowing and her hair is tinged with a salty lightness. She’s alive.
“Welcome back, ” he says.
“Miss me?”
“Oh yeah.”
“Prove it.”
She leans down and lets him kiss her. He tries hard to be passionate with his kiss, but he’s not sure he pulls it off. She lifts her face from his and beams at him; it worked.
“Where’s Dean?” she asks.“I want to give him the watch. Check it out. It’s pretty cool.”
She hands a box to Evan and he opens it. Inside is a sophisticated diver’s watch with a yellow dial and every kind of chronometer one could imagine.
“That’s cool, ” Evan says.“I want one.”
“Oh. You’ll get your present. You be patient. Where is he?”
“In his room. Straight through the kitchen, take a left. Look for a closed door.”
“Be right back.”
She snatches the box and bounds into the house. She comes back too soon.
“He’s not there, ” she says, disappointed.
He’s not there? He was told to stay there until he was released, and he’s not there? Evan fumes.
“He must have gone out, ” he says.
“He’ll be back, ” she replies with a smile.
Evan’s not so sure.
LATER IN THE day, Mica is resting and Dean is mysteriously back in his room, acting like he’d never left.
“You were supposed to stay in your room, ” Evan says.
“I was here, ” Dean replies defensively.
“No, you weren’t.”
“Yes, I was!”
“Mica came in to see you and you were gone.”
“Well, I must have been on the toilet, Dad. Solitary confinement doesn’t allow for bathroom breaks?”
He’s got Evan there. Maybe he was in the bathroom. Honestly, Evan never checked.
“We’re going out to dinner, ” Evan says. He wants to believe Dean. He really does. “So get ready.”
“I’m not going.”
“Yes, you are. Mica came to see you. She has a very nice present she bo
ught for you. And you’re going to go to dinner and be nice. You can hate me all you want, but leave her out of it.”
“I’m sick, ” Dean says.
“No, you’re not. Get dressed.”
“I am. The reason she didn’t see me in my room is that I have diarrhea. I’ve been in the bathroom all day. I must still have food poisoning.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“What, now I need stool samples?”
Damn. Crafty kid. Where did he pick that up? Probably from his mother.
“Let me feel your head.”
Evan presses his sweaty palm to Dean’s forehead and prays for an epiphanic lightning bolt, one that will tell him what a fever feels like. But Dean’s forehead is cool.
“You don’t have a fever.”
“It’s a gastrointestinal disorder.”
Evan takes a step back and stares down at Dean. He considers the situation.
“I’m sorry, okay?” he says.“I lost control. I never should have hit you. I’m really sorry.”
Dean doesn’t reply.
“So will you come to dinner?”
“I’m sick.”
Evan throws his hands up.
“Look! I’m a horrible father. I did the worst thing a father could do. I hit you. It was stupid. It was bad. I’ll beg your forgiveness forever. Just come to dinner.”
Dean takes a moment to size Evan up.
“I’m sick, ” he says.
Evan groans, realizes he can’t win, walks toward the door. Then stops.
“Listen, Dean. Your grandmother stopped by the other day. She’s divorcing Frank.”
Dean is surprised by this information; he sits up.
“So Frank’s out of the picture, ” Evan says.“You have to decide. Who are you going to live with? Maybe you’d really rather be with your grandmother.”
Dean seems to change before Evan’s eyes. Evan has seen both his faces: wise young man and lost child. Evan’s gotten to know Dean’s faces and recognize them for what they are. But now Dean is like a strange Star Trek creature; his face changes by the second: wise, lost, wise, lost . . .
“Is that what you want?” Dean asks. He can’t answer the question by himself. He’s just a kid.
“It’s not my decision, Dean. It’s yours. But you obviously don’t like me. And I have to go back to Seattle, and you don’t want to go. And I have to live in Seattle, and you don’t want that. So, you know . . .”