The desire to hit him was great, had been great from the moment he saw him walking into the car lot with his friends, laughing, shoving into each other, holding concert tickets. Craig, and the missing car, had returned. When the alarm company called him on his cell phone while he lounged in the hot tub at the hotel with his uber sexy girlfriend he had assumed it was reckless teenagers or reckless early twenty-somethings or professional thieves. If it was the former he stood a better than average chance of having his stolen goods returned. If it was the latter he stood little to no chance of having his stolen goods returned and he'd have to take the loss, which he was willing to do. But it was Craig. Craig, who he had trusted.
He saw him in the car lot and felt the rage explode in his head. Nothing would feel better than taking that ungrateful kid and shaking him. So he pointed the phone like a weapon and made the friends leave. With them gone it was even more tempting to raise his fist and bring it down on Craig. He had left Craig alone and let him have friends over and he had trusted him and Craig had broken that trust…spectacularly.
The look of breathless and wide-eyed fear on Craig's face barely got through. Goddamnit, he deserved a beating. But Joey clenched his fists and his teeth and drove him home, not even daring to look at him on the short ride. Even without looking he was aware of the fast and shallow breathing, of the darting eyes, of the fidgetting. Craig was afraid. Joey gripped the steering wheel with white knuckles and found himself, for the first time, relating to Albert instead of Craig.
The driveway and the house loomed and he pulled into the driveway fast, parked the car almost before he was out of drive and just tried to breathe. Albert. Albert Manning. The man who had made his wife miserable. The man who had hit his wife, of that he was certain. Julia had told him once. Never the specifics. Never when and where and how much, merely admitting the fact was nearly too much, the tears threatening to spill over. Albert Manning. The man who had beaten Craig so severely that he had healed fractures in both arms, a number of concussions that could still lead to a seizure disorder, and the psychological damage. Nightmares. Trust issues. A high strung jumpiness that he was always at pains to hide with varying degrees of success. And who knew what was to come? Trauma at that young age could trigger mental illness, could lead to drug use/abuse. That damage was done.
It had always been unthinkable to him, hitting either child in anger. Sweet little Angela, her misdemeanors never warranting more than a strong word or two, she hadn't truly tested his resolve. And Craig, up until this point, had done nothing to warrant even words. He walked around like a scared mouse at first, uncertain what was expected of him and Joey had wanted him to get comfortable. To trust him, to not flinch at every sudden movement. Because it was weird. Here was a child he'd barely seen in three years and he wasn't exactly a child anymore, he was 14. He could remember being 14, maybe better than he should have been able to remember it. And it was weird because this virtual stranger, this teenager he hadn't seen in forever was suddenly living in his house and he certainly didn't feel like a parent to him. And he didn't have to parent him. He went to school, he did his school work, he helped around the house without being told. And he had a parent, albeit one he never saw and barely spoke to and one he was obviously afraid of but that was his father. Joey felt like some shadow man, fuzzy and ill-defined.
Now, Craig pacing the front of the dim living room, he could see Albert's side. He could feel Albert's rage. Craig had willfully disobeyed, had stolen a car from his lot, had driven without a license and he felt the anger from the blood vessels in his scalp to the soles of his feet. He wanted to hit him, he itched to do it.
"Sit," he said, the word just short of a yell. Craig looked at him with a combination of fear and pouty defiance.
"You're not my dad," Craig said, and Joey felt the rage slip another notch. Felt his hands curl into fists.
"Sit!" Now the word was not just a yell but a roar.
"Why don't you really be like my dad? Go ahead, hit me,"
It was this look in Craig's eyes that finally snapped him out of his violence soaked haze of anger. The defiance and the sadness, and a look in his eyes like he deserved to be hit. That he deserved every hit he ever had to take.
"Sit," Now the word was only firm, and he felt the last squeeze of Albert's influence on his impulses let go. Craig had stolen the car with the intent of pushing him just as far as he could be pushed and seeing where their relationship lied. He could see and appreciate this even if Craig couldn't. This had been the test and he'd nearly failed.
"What you did was serious," he began, and felt the relief that it would only be words. He wouldn't hit him and he wouldn't hurt him. Even as he began the lecture he saw the fear that was in Craig's eyes, saw that every muscle was tense. Saw that the wounds his father had inflicted ran deeper than either of them knew. And he saw, as he talked and some of the fear finally left that anxious gaze, inch by inch it left. He saw that now he would have to be a parent to this child.