Christopher’s skate shoes and Mason’s Spider Man costume. And four hours later, as h e retrieved the last container, he let out a frustrated sigh heaving the door shut and sliding the latch in the locked position. His sneakered feet crunched against the rock bedded landscaping and the nonstop toil ached in his arms as he lumbered back inside their new home.
The cross-country move had been tedious and exhausting. They'd packed boxes upon boxes of clothes, toys, and household items into the twenty-foot moving truck. Many items Philip said they could have discarded. Four days of driving, and randomly stopping along the way to sleep in various hotels with three young children in tow, made it more draining. Philip clamored on the side of hope that this move would be good for the family. Good for their marriage. The kids would grow up and make life-long friends.
Las Vegas would be home.
At least, for now.
There’d been years of laughter and tears (good and bad) in the old house, and although they’d painted and changed the carpet before putting the house on the market themselves, the permanent artistry Christopher and Mason had left on the wainscoting remained. The blemishes enhanced the house’s quality, like stretch marks on Dawn’s belly.
Philip and Dawn had agreed to sell the home and start anew in Sin City. They’d even joked about the irony. How does a family start over in a city named for its sinful behaviors? Dawn’s transfer promotion had come as a surprise. There had been a quick sale on the house. The buyer even wanted the furniture.
Philip was still upset by the conversation he’d shared with his mother earlier that day. Her words were harsh and the worst he’d ever heard from her lips: I know about Dawn’s arrest…the drugs…you married a whore! How could you even think to bring a woman like that into this family?
But how much better was he? And did his parents once consider how much he truly loved Dawn? They’d never bothered to help with the kids, even when they were newborn. Did they despise Dawn that much? She’d argued the point several times, but he had simply taken his parents’ side.
They have nothing against you, he’d lied.
Soaking wet with perspiration, his fading red tee-shirt clung to his body. Philip huffed and sauntered back outside to retrieve the keys from the truck’s ignition. He opened the door and stuck his hand around the steering wheel, droplets of sweat dripped onto the black vinyl seat. The interior of the vehicle seared like an oven. Realizing he’d left his wallet on the seat, he grabbed the leathery billfold, shoved it in his back pocket, pressed the lock, and shut the door closed.
Then, a young girl pedaled out of nowhere opposite the door on her bicycle and stopped at the end of the driveway behind him, “Where you move from, mister?” The girl, who wasn’t more than ten-years old, cupped a hand above her brow and squinted against the bright sunshine as he sauntered pass her. Her freckled face, bright red hair and crooked front teeth reminded him of a cartoon character he’d watched once with the kids. “Got any children?”
“We’re from Louisiana,” he started up the driveway toward the house. “And yes, we have kids, but they are younger than you are,” he gave her a good look. “Didn’t your parents teach you not to talk to strangers?” he kept moving as if attempting to distance himself from the child.
“You’re not a stranger, mister. We’re neighbors. I live in that house right over there on the corner.” She shot a finger, pointing aimlessly.
“What happened to
The cross-country move had been tedious and exhausting. They'd packed boxes upon boxes of clothes, toys, and household items into the twenty-foot moving truck. Many items Philip said they could have discarded. Four days of driving, and randomly stopping along the way to sleep in various hotels with three young children in tow, made it more draining. Philip clamored on the side of hope that this move would be good for the family. Good for their marriage. The kids would grow up and make life-long friends.
Las Vegas would be home.
At least, for now.
There’d been years of laughter and tears (good and bad) in the old house, and although they’d painted and changed the carpet before putting the house on the market themselves, the permanent artistry Christopher and Mason had left on the wainscoting remained. The blemishes enhanced the house’s quality, like stretch marks on Dawn’s belly.
Philip and Dawn had agreed to sell the home and start anew in Sin City. They’d even joked about the irony. How does a family start over in a city named for its sinful behaviors? Dawn’s transfer promotion had come as a surprise. There had been a quick sale on the house. The buyer even wanted the furniture.
Philip was still upset by the conversation he’d shared with his mother earlier that day. Her words were harsh and the worst he’d ever heard from her lips: I know about Dawn’s arrest…the drugs…you married a whore! How could you even think to bring a woman like that into this family?
But how much better was he? And did his parents once consider how much he truly loved Dawn? They’d never bothered to help with the kids, even when they were newborn. Did they despise Dawn that much? She’d argued the point several times, but he had simply taken his parents’ side.
They have nothing against you, he’d lied.
Soaking wet with perspiration, his fading red tee-shirt clung to his body. Philip huffed and sauntered back outside to retrieve the keys from the truck’s ignition. He opened the door and stuck his hand around the steering wheel, droplets of sweat dripped onto the black vinyl seat. The interior of the vehicle seared like an oven. Realizing he’d left his wallet on the seat, he grabbed the leathery billfold, shoved it in his back pocket, pressed the lock, and shut the door closed.
Then, a young girl pedaled out of nowhere opposite the door on her bicycle and stopped at the end of the driveway behind him, “Where you move from, mister?” The girl, who wasn’t more than ten-years old, cupped a hand above her brow and squinted against the bright sunshine as he sauntered pass her. Her freckled face, bright red hair and crooked front teeth reminded him of a cartoon character he’d watched once with the kids. “Got any children?”
“We’re from Louisiana,” he started up the driveway toward the house. “And yes, we have kids, but they are younger than you are,” he gave her a good look. “Didn’t your parents teach you not to talk to strangers?” he kept moving as if attempting to distance himself from the child.
“You’re not a stranger, mister. We’re neighbors. I live in that house right over there on the corner.” She shot a finger, pointing aimlessly.
“What happened to
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