Tumblers and Fat Knuckles
There are times of the year dad gets quiet. Like on Uncle Ben's death-day, on his sister's birthday too, once in a while on Carla and Turk's wedding anniversary. Walking out of his bedroom intent on finding something to eat before he finished his midterm paper for Sports Sociology, Jack has to pause at the sight of his father on the couch.
The room is draped in shadows, the tumbler in his dad's hands glinting back the bit of streetlight that peaks through the closed curtains. Staring further at his dad's hand, he sees there are bruises on his knuckles. They even look a bit swollen - like he got in a fight (which dad hasn't in years). Even though he knows there's no way his dad could know he's come out of his bedroom, Jack's dad calls "What're ya doin' up Jackie?"
The teen shivered. His dad had stopped calling him Jackie when he was eight. The only time he called him that anymore was when-
"Are you alright dad? Do I need to wake up mom?"
The man sighed and swirled his tumbler. "Let yer mother sleep," he muttered.
It didn't sit right with Jack, but he consented with his silence.
His dad shifted and patted the couch beside him. "C'mere why don't ya?"
"Fine," Jack agreed. And there he went, taking the spot beside his dad. He smelled like hard booze. Not just the usual beer. "What's up dad?"
Not looking away from his tumbler, his dad's fingers tightened on the glass. "D'ya know where I was all day?"
"At work...?" The teen answered in an uncertain tone. Sometimes dad was gone almost all day and night at the hospital, so he hadn't really thought about it.
The man snorted. "I wish," he then gave another tired sigh and ran a hand over his head. "T'day, I went to my mother's funeral."
"Your...mom?" Jack echoed.
"She liked to dance - like you -"
"Dad..." The teen interrupted, annoyed that this was going to be another jab at his life ambitions to be a ballet dancer.
The man slung an arm around him. "Calm down Jackie. She liked to dance. Was good at it too, from what I saw, but after she married my father..."
His dad grew quiet. In a pensive way that bothered Jack so much that he urged him on with a question. "How was her funeral."
"Small. Depressing."
He knocked his dad's hand with his wrist. "How'd you split up your knuckles?"
"Knocked my father's lights out, of course," Jack's dad answered without remorse.
The teenager blinked. "Isn't he like, old? Eighty maybe?"
"Wouldn't matter if he were in a wheelchair, that bastard had it comin' for years and years!"
Jack stilled. Those words were laced with latent fury and more than enough bitterness to make him pause in asking his last question. "Your dad...he wasn't any good, was he?"
The man chuckled darkly. "He was a drunk. Knocked me and yer aunt Paige around. Killed yer grandma's spirit so badly that she didn't want to dance anymore." Turning his head then, his dad's eyes didn't look so old. They were wide and reminded him of a kid's. One that'd just seen his first slasher-thriller. "Don't ever fall in love with a guy who hits you, alright? Ya won't want to dance after that."
Jack swallowed back tears and nodded. "I won't, dad."
"Okay," and his father let his head roll back and passed out into drunken sleep.
Getting up, the teenager kissed his dad's forehead. "See ya in the morning, dad."
Food forgotten, Jack walked straight back to his bedroom and turned his music on low and began to dance.
I don't know. I was always curious what kind of dad Cox would become if his kids had grown up more.
Thank you all for reading and pretty please review!
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