control, Gerald was facing the TV. Draped over his recliner like a hero’s cape, a throw blanket declared the supremacy of the New York Jets. From this spot, Gerald had harangued his son about those mythical football greats:
Look at Joe Namath. He’d stand in the pocket till the last second, then launch that pigskin. There’s a guy who could teach you something, Son. Man’s man, lady’s man … the guy had it all. Just don’t make ’em like they used to, do they?
Amazing how a father’s words stuck in a kid’s head. Like flaming darts.
“Got something to say?” Gerald demanded. “Or you gonna just sit there?”
A defensive tone clogged Clay’s throat. “I just started the job, Dad.”
“First impressions, Clay. First impressions.”
“Don’t worry. A couple more days and I’ll have Mr. Blomberg converted.”
“Converted? If you mean religion, you’ll be preaching to the choir.”
“Do I look like a preacher?”
“Blomberg’s already got religion up the wazoo. You just remember, Son, your beliefs are a personal matter. You leave it at that. Your mother told me how you and Jenni got real involved in that church in Cheyenne. Well, look at how things turned out. Not quite the miracle cure you thought it’d be, was it?”
Anger tightened like a cinch around his ribs at the memories. The obscenities and denials that rushed to his lips remained unspoken as sitcom laughter filled the room. He went to the kitchen and yanked open the cupboard over the hooded stove. Into his Coke, he splashed some rum from a bottle his mom stored for cooking.
A long swallow. Fortification.
“Jenni,” Clay said, returning to the living room. “Is she what this is about?”
“You still yakking? I’m trying to look at some TV.”
“You never did like her. You wanted me and Jenni to fail so that you’d come out looking like the successful family man.”
Gerald changed the channel, changed it back.
“Admit it,” Clay insisted. “You never liked her. Am I right?”
“Never liked any of your girlfriends,” Gerald corrected. His finger flicked the lid of his mug. “Never could figure you out. Blond bimbos, punk rockers, that black girl …”
“Mylisha.”
“My-leee-sha. Sounds like a cough medicine. I mean, who names these kids?”
The cinch grew tighter. Clay’s head was pounding, his blood pumping.
“Truth is,” said Gerald, “Jenni’s your wife and none of my business. I can’t take the blame for your mistakes. You gotta own up to them on your own. Be a man.”
“Least I didn’t let her run our household,” Clay reacted. Jenni had avoided control actually, even begging Clay to be more assertive in his role. Still, this was perfect ammo for fighting back against his father.
“Son, I’m going to pretend you never said that.”
“Well, let’s face it. You let Mom call all the shots. What she says, goes.”
“I keep the peace! That’s a secret you should’ve learned.”
“Oh, you think? Maybe Jenni wanted more than just peace.”
“This oughta be good.”
“Yeah, maybe she wanted an actual friend, someone to talk with. Maybe that’s all Mom’s ever wanted!”
Gerald clenched the remote. Inadvertently he pressed the mute button, and the TV fell silent as though Clay’s statement had shocked it into submission. Clay had to ask himself, though: What kind of friend had he been to Jenni? A meager provider, a distracted lover, certainly not much of one for communication. Jokes and shoptalk, sure. Deeper connection? Nope, too vulnerable.
He could still see the tears in her eyes that he wished he had wiped away.
The TV blared back to life, yet in that moment of shared stillness Clay sensed comprehension pass between father and son. They were two of a kind, more than either dared admit.
As quickly as the moment came, it passed.
Gerald lost himself in the sordid details of a prime-time exposé, and Clay retreated to his bedroom.
Clay anchored the TV stand in the upper corner.
Look at Joe Namath. He’d stand in the pocket till the last second, then launch that pigskin. There’s a guy who could teach you something, Son. Man’s man, lady’s man … the guy had it all. Just don’t make ’em like they used to, do they?
Amazing how a father’s words stuck in a kid’s head. Like flaming darts.
“Got something to say?” Gerald demanded. “Or you gonna just sit there?”
A defensive tone clogged Clay’s throat. “I just started the job, Dad.”
“First impressions, Clay. First impressions.”
“Don’t worry. A couple more days and I’ll have Mr. Blomberg converted.”
“Converted? If you mean religion, you’ll be preaching to the choir.”
“Do I look like a preacher?”
“Blomberg’s already got religion up the wazoo. You just remember, Son, your beliefs are a personal matter. You leave it at that. Your mother told me how you and Jenni got real involved in that church in Cheyenne. Well, look at how things turned out. Not quite the miracle cure you thought it’d be, was it?”
Anger tightened like a cinch around his ribs at the memories. The obscenities and denials that rushed to his lips remained unspoken as sitcom laughter filled the room. He went to the kitchen and yanked open the cupboard over the hooded stove. Into his Coke, he splashed some rum from a bottle his mom stored for cooking.
A long swallow. Fortification.
“Jenni,” Clay said, returning to the living room. “Is she what this is about?”
“You still yakking? I’m trying to look at some TV.”
“You never did like her. You wanted me and Jenni to fail so that you’d come out looking like the successful family man.”
Gerald changed the channel, changed it back.
“Admit it,” Clay insisted. “You never liked her. Am I right?”
“Never liked any of your girlfriends,” Gerald corrected. His finger flicked the lid of his mug. “Never could figure you out. Blond bimbos, punk rockers, that black girl …”
“Mylisha.”
“My-leee-sha. Sounds like a cough medicine. I mean, who names these kids?”
The cinch grew tighter. Clay’s head was pounding, his blood pumping.
“Truth is,” said Gerald, “Jenni’s your wife and none of my business. I can’t take the blame for your mistakes. You gotta own up to them on your own. Be a man.”
“Least I didn’t let her run our household,” Clay reacted. Jenni had avoided control actually, even begging Clay to be more assertive in his role. Still, this was perfect ammo for fighting back against his father.
“Son, I’m going to pretend you never said that.”
“Well, let’s face it. You let Mom call all the shots. What she says, goes.”
“I keep the peace! That’s a secret you should’ve learned.”
“Oh, you think? Maybe Jenni wanted more than just peace.”
“This oughta be good.”
“Yeah, maybe she wanted an actual friend, someone to talk with. Maybe that’s all Mom’s ever wanted!”
Gerald clenched the remote. Inadvertently he pressed the mute button, and the TV fell silent as though Clay’s statement had shocked it into submission. Clay had to ask himself, though: What kind of friend had he been to Jenni? A meager provider, a distracted lover, certainly not much of one for communication. Jokes and shoptalk, sure. Deeper connection? Nope, too vulnerable.
He could still see the tears in her eyes that he wished he had wiped away.
The TV blared back to life, yet in that moment of shared stillness Clay sensed comprehension pass between father and son. They were two of a kind, more than either dared admit.
As quickly as the moment came, it passed.
Gerald lost himself in the sordid details of a prime-time exposé, and Clay retreated to his bedroom.
Clay anchored the TV stand in the upper corner.
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