Strong American Men
The rain falls like cuts of beef on the roof of the car, but this is still my best option. If I am soaked when I arrive, it will at least give me a solid alibi. The downpour drowns my words, so she watches my mouth as I tell her to park here, two blocks from my home. Our kiss is quick but tender, somewhat restrained on my part. I have to prepare mentally, and if I hold her now as I had an hour ago, it would make the rest of the night that much more difficult. Lately, my days and nights are composed of these small restraints, a fortress of slight, temporarily erected boundaries.
I turn around in the car and find my briefcase wedged between a car seat and her work things. We have not arranged for the next time, but with the rain falling so hard I feel suddenly rushed, even panicked. I decide I will call her later. One last look and I am up and out. The briefcase held overhead provides laughable cover and I am drenched almost immediately. I throw it under my arm and run up the street. I am able to keep pace with the drivers that have slowed to avoid flooding the undercarriages of their cars. And then, there is my house. My home. Barb waits. My son waits. Pausing under the overhang at the front door, I collect myself. I do not walk inside until I know the lie as if it were the truth.
I am leaning back from the table, cradling the bowl in one hand, scooping great spoonfuls with the other. Cereal for dinner again. Don walks in the door. I tighten my hoodie until only the necessaries are exposed, a view of the spoon and access to my mouth. Don hates when I wear my hoodie like this. Don hates when I tip my chair back. Don hates when I eat alone; he says it is a habit for drunken bachelors and old maids. Well don’t worry Don, the feeling is mutual. I can’t stand the sight of him either. There is no reconciliation, not any more. He has always been far more a Don than a Dad. I understand a Don, more of a child than I: working long hours and, when he is here, busying himself with his model train sets and such, and a slut on the side. Everyone sees it, everyone but Mom, who he is probably driving toward an early onset of dementia. The last, unsaid vow of marriage. I think the scoff is in my head, but he hears it and says something. I ignore him.
Don has caught me with enough headies to send me to ten rehabs. He has walked in on me enough to know why I lock my bedroom door and he has seen enough black eyes to know why I wear the hoodies. But I lie about all of it. No, I am only holding the weed for a friend. No, I fell off of my bed, and so on. I cannot help but lie. The truth is somehow too pure, too good for him. The honesty would spoil when it hit his ears, like the fairness of milk in the summer sun. I quietly watch him peel the suit from his skin, a puddle forming at his loafers. Don softly shivers. I see it between his teeth. I am staring. He notices. He says something to me but I don’t listen. I remember there is a girl somewhere in cyberspace waiting to cyberfuck. I want to take care of that, so I start up to my room. Don’s howling follows me up the stairs. I slam the door and lock it.
Bradley! He knows better than to slam his door. Well, I guess that means Donnie is home. Gosh, he must be soaked head to toe. I walk past Brad’s room and gently put my ear to the crook between the door and its frame: the short choking of quiet sobs. He will be alright. He is a strong young boy. I walk to the edge of the stairs. Just as I figured, a wet rat in place of Donnie, his hair plastered to his head, some tendrils reaching to the soggy collar. I think I just ironed that shirt. Poor man. I hurry to fix him up. I help him with the shirt and the shoes. I suggest sitting down, it will be easier that way. He helps me with his pants. He always did. Donnie stands in his sodden underwear. His legs look ridiculous like this, wet and pasty and malnourished, like still-wet papier mache. I figure this is simply how men look at this age. It is right, really, that he add some weight. He works so hard, my Donnie.
I leave him standing there and take the wet clothes to the hanging rack in the basement. They will become misshapen and moldy if I do not take care immediately. He is still standing there when I come back up. Donnie’s mouth and his voice and his mind look like they are all at odds with one another. He bends forward slightly now, about to speak. I do not have time to listen. There are dishes that I have been neglecting. I have to clear Brad’s table setting. When the clothes have dried some, I will have a load of laundry to watch. There is so much to do. And I have such strong men in the house. Such strong men. If Donnie has to say something, it will have to wait until later tonight. Then again, I have a big day tomorrow and am planning to turn in early. So perhaps it will have to wait until the night after next. Really, he may not have had anything to say at all. Donnie will probably catch a cold if he keeps standing like that. He should dry off and, from over my shoulder, I tell him so. I would help, but there is so much to do down here. There are the dishes and the table setting. And I cannot forget about those wet clothes downstairs. They will become misshapen and moldy if I do not take care.
