He'd been staying in the back corner of the living room, working eagerly on a jigsaw puzzle of some beautiful mountains in the French Alps, waiting out the proverbial storm, as his father was trying to unwind from a difficult work day in the sanctity of the kitchen- right near the fridge full of cold beer.
Three bottles, Steve remembered, was the magic number for the Marty Keller's temper to dissipate, before his father once again morphed back into a normal, approachable, reasonable human being.
But he was still on number two.
Halfway through, his mother had come home, running late from a special project a few blocks down the road; new neighbors that had moved in a year ago and heard of Claire's remarkable decorating talents. Before school, she'd reminded Steve about it, and that the Cordain's across the street would have lunch ready for him as he got off the bus.
Many afternoons of his early childhood had been spent at their house, playing with their black lab Jenga, as he studied the structure of a normal household. Amazed at the courtesy both Charles and Susan were showing each other, the terms of endearment they used, the love they bestowed upon him even though he was just the awkward neighbor's kid…it was those impressions he'd hold dear in his heart forever.
Steve searched through the pile of pieces ahead, looking for the azure one needed to finished the outer frame of the puzzle, as he was laying on his stomach, chin held up with one palm, trying to ignore the conversation going on one room over.
"The Taylor kid beat the hell out of Jerry Swanson's son, so they called us in. In reality, he just needed a few stitches. Wasn't even a brawl. But you know how people are."
His father's voice sounded tired, distant, and deep in thought. It wasn't unusual. Lately it seemed that many of the cases were getting the better of him, paired with the stress of being promoted to the Staff Sergeant over the relatively busy department wore on him a lot more than he'd expected.
"That's the second time you got called out to that football field, Marty.", his mom noted worriedly, and he could hear her rummage through the cabinets looking for cookware, "You know, I am getting more and more anxious about sending Stephen to that Middle School. I know he's still a few months away, but what if some brute like that Taylor kid picks on him during football practice? He's so small, he won't stand a chance. I don't like that idea at all."
Small. Yep. It was an adjective that had been imprinted upon him since birth.
Steve knew he was skinny. Even though he was matching most of his class mates in height, he had taken on his mother's delicate features; his wrists and knees so much smaller than those of his friends. It made him look like the runt of the litter when they were out playing. It also made him the prime target for bullying.
"You won't have to worry about that.", Marty grunted in return, and he could hear him take several gulps from the beer bottle again.
"But I do. And so should you. I don't want him to be one of those kids who gets harassed throughout his entire time in school. It's not fair."
"Claire, I said don't worry about it!", Marty retorted and raised his voice, "He's never going to make it through football practice. Or softball or basketball or any of that stuff. You've been paying any attention to him over the past few years? He's not into sports. He's not into any of the normal stuff kids his age do. He's one of those weird anti-social geeks who like to read books and have strange hobbies."
Steve bit his lip, freezing in his spot as he held the piece he was missing in his shaking hand.
"Don't you think that's a little harsh?", Claire countered and started up the stove, "He still has time. I've seen him watch people play tennis, that might be something he'd enjoy. He's a good runner, so I was thinking of getting him into track. Just because he likes to read doesn't mean he's bad at sports."
"I talked to his PE teacher.", Marty countered, immediately shutting down her argument, "He doesn't play. I don't think he understands the concept of playing, or being competitive for that matter. He's good at running because he runs away from the two Smith brothers when school gets out, they tackled him a few times. Heck, my great grandmother could tackle him, he's so dainty. Just what I wanted in a son, somebody who runs from problems..."
"Marty!", Claire urged, but Steve could hear his father mumble something to quiet her down, before drinking more beer.
"It is what it is, what do you want me to say, hm?", he rambled on and Steve heard the kitchen chair squeak as he leaned back, "We tried to have children for so long, and finally you get pregnant, I am over the moon, I finally have somebody I can throw passes at, watch him win a state championship, maybe present him with his own badge one day. But no, somehow we end up with this…this skinny little boy who won't even stand up for himself. All the hard work I have put into building a rapport in this town, gain respect and recognition, and now everybody sits and laughs at my damn kid."
Steve had long given up the fight against the tears that were now rapidly rolling off his cheeks, before dripping onto the half-finished puzzle. Completely still except for the faint whimpering he couldn't stifle, he tried to drown out the hurtful half-truths his father spewed, pretending that they weren't talking about him, acting as if he was in somebody else's house.
"Marty, that's not fair and you know it."
"Life isn't fair.", he countered and slammed the beer bottle onto the kitchen table, "I wish I had a son like Taylor does. At least he gets to pick him up from the principal's office for being a tough guy. I have to drop my son off for some goddamn stamp meeting. It's ridiculous. The sole time we managed to get pregnant, the one chance we had, and we end up with a kid like Stephen. With the problems you were having, maybe it was nature telling us all along that we have bad genes and shouldn't have kids. Sometimes…sometimes I wonder if we should have listened better and stopped trying. Look what it brought us."