I talked to Julia in my head. I said, "Jesus, this kid is killing me," I meant Craig, of course. Angela was a little love. Craig, on the other hand. What I've had to deal with in the last year and a half with this kid.
I felt bad for him, I mean, his father was beating him. When I was around his age I'd gone over to this kid's house, Rick. Rick was one of those scruffy kids, kind of quiet, kind of trouble. I'd wanted this jacket that was his brother's and he was going to sell it to me. That's funny, how kids are like little business men, making deals, selling stuff. So I go to his apartment and his dad comes home and just goes off on him. He starts hitting him right in front of me, but the thing I always remembered about Rick's dad was that look on his face, that contorted anger, the energy of that anger that was barreling right toward Rick. I took off, Rick telling me, "you'd better go," and I did. I didn't want to be there with that shit going on. My parents, I mean, they were great. Always understanding and supportive and they got mad but it wasn't like that. So that was my reference for Craig. I'd seen that kind of thing he had to put up with. And I'd met Albert on quite a few occasions and I could see it. He was like Rick's dad.
With Rick, you know, I told some people in the round about way kids have, I said to the secretary at the school, "what if you knew some kid who's dad was always beating him up?" and of course I had a black eye at the time but I fell off my stupid skateboard. But I didn't even stop to think how that would look. Cryptic little question and there I am with a black eye. So they think it's me, and that was weird. I knew it wasn't me, but I could feel them thinking it, and it made me feel kind of bad. It was the shadow of what Craig must have felt for real, since it was him. But I thought once Rick left his dad he'd be all set. Now I realize it's not quite that simple. It was still going on for Craig, in a way. It was better now, of course, I don't mean that. He was here with me and Angie and he was much better, but there was still that hint of it in his eyes sometimes, in his reactions to things, this ghost of fear that wouldn't go away.
So last year he comes to live with me and he was a mess. I didn't know what to do with him half the time. I felt so bad, he was jumpy as hell. But I just figured it would be best if we were just as normal as possible and he'd relax sooner or later. He'd fall apart every time his dad called, but it was this secret falling apart. I'd never seen a kid try so hard to keep it all together. Nightmares. Crying in his sleep. I'd go in there sometimes late at night after he'd yelled or whatever and woke me up, and I'd wake him up and he'd just have this blank look in his eyes, no recognition whatsoever. Sometimes he thought I was his dad, and I'd never seen anyone jump back so fast, the quick and useless apologies. He'd be at the edge of the bed, knees drawn up to his chest, and he'd say, "please, dad, no, I'm sorry, okay? I'm sorry…" Then he'd blink awake and realize where he was and who I was. I'd get so angry at Albert in those moments. But there was nothing for it. It was his past and he'd have to deal with it. Nothing could change it now.
Then he starts sneaking out and seeing him, seeing Albert. But I couldn't really blame the kid. It was his dad, and I know he loved him. I know he needed him, and the deal was Albert was going to sort his shit out and Craig would go back with him. But by that time I couldn't forgive Albert for what he'd done to Craig, and I loved Craig like my own son. He'd been my step-son for years, of course, ever since I'd married his mother. But he wasn't truly mine. Nope. That happened that night in the cemetery, when I grabbed him up in that hug and I felt his tense muscles and I felt the tears soaking my shirt, the shaking hitching crying that he was doing. He was just such a mess that night. But I felt him becoming mine, my son. And then Albert would take him back?
Uh, sigh. But it was tiring. Craig was an emotional roller coaster and sometimes I wished it was just me and Ang, God help me. But that life would be a little more peaceful. With Craig it's like one thing after another. Last year his dad died, and I had to deal with the fallout of that. Both his parents were dead. God, he was only 14. My parents were still alive and I was in my thirties. I still had them to go to, to fall back on, I could go to their house and feel like somebody's child, feel that the world was safe again. That kind of safety was gone for Craig. He was on his own in a way I wasn't. Sure, he had me and Ang. But it was, it was different.
Laughing at the funeral, all dressed up in that suit that just looks wrong on a kid that age. He was laughing and I could see the worried looks on his friends' faces, on Radich's face, on Caitlin's face. Caitlin tugs my sleeve, Craig's next to me trying to control his laughter behind his hand. "Maybe you should take Craig outside for some air," Caitlin said. I wasn't surprised by his laughing. I lived with the kid. But she was right, he needed to leave. So I brought him outside and he burst through the double doors to the church out onto the stone steps, and then he laughed loud but with no joy. It was a scream of a laugh, a cry of a laugh. Poor kid, I thought. Poor kid.
"Did you hear that guy?" he said to me, then he mimicked him, " 'Albert Manning was a…dedicated father,' " And I felt bad for that guy, Albert's friend who was in his own pain over Albert's death. I was sure Albert hid any and all negative aspects of his parenting. I didn't know Albert well, really, not at all, but I did know him second hand. I was close to people who had been, were, close to him, so I knew him in this funny way, through Julia and Craig's eyes. I knew he presented this polished, together mirage of a man. But then again, didn't we all try to do that?
"Craig, you had a complicated relationship with your father…" I floundered, fumbled. What do you say?
"Yeah, he beat me. He's not going to do that again, now is he?" Always taken aback by that. The beginning of the year he was hiding it, wouldn't admit it until you dragged it out of him. Now he used it like a weapon, lashing out with it.
That was last year. Now this year. He'd grown a lot. Not so much taller, but a little taller. He'd filled out, his shoulders were wider. He looked, just, older. His hair was longer, wild curly messy hair that he wouldn't cut. "Get it cut," I'd say, feeling absurdly like those old guys with the crew cuts in the sixties who were always badgering the hippies to cut their hair. And Craig would say no and I didn't really care. It was his hair. At least he had some.
He sat on the couch with his bad news, and the look on his face. I was fearful, apprehensive. What? What bombshell would he drop in the middle of the living room, blowing its shrapnel into all my nice furniture, embedding itself into the fireplace?
"Uh, Joey," he said, and here was the ghost of his father that would never go away. He was on the edge of wincing, thinking I'd hit him, although I never had.
"Joey, Manny's pregnant," he said fast, sicking it up like bad meat, "and I'm the father,"
Shit. He was the father? This mess of a 15 year old boy who couldn't even clean his room? How could he be a father?