Author's note: Second in a series of conversations. The lack of continuity
between chapters is intentional: each chapter is a new conversation, with
several days passing between each one.
*********
"Um, Dad?"
Carl Rove looked up from a pile of his late wife's clothing to see his son standing, hesitantly, at the edge of the doorway. He blushed and arranged his face into what he hoped might pass for a reassuring smile.
"Yes, Adam?"
"We're out of casseroles."
"Shit." Carl realized, as he heard himself cursing in the presence of his child, that his filter today was dangerously low . Now that the shock had somewhat subsided, he found himself less able to pretend. Adam smiled, and his father relaxed a bit--maybe he wasn't messing up completely. Maybe he wouldn't need to pretend all the time.
"Well, we can go always go out to eat."
His son refused this with disproportionate force. "NO! I'm not going out!" Adam had already spent exactly 9 days attending school since his motherr's suicide, nine days of entering a room and feeling the eyes move. Nine days of learning, exactly, how quiet a room gets when everyone in there is thinking about him. His plan was to exist outside his house as little as possible until the whole thing somehow blew off. It wasn't a good plan, but he didn't have another one.
Carl's voice snapped Adam back into the moment. "We have to eat."
Adam shrugged. "Let's cook something." He moved back towards the kitchen, and Carl followed, taking his son's lead as the boy opened the refrigerator and began shifting things around. The milk was almost empty, the lettuce soft and brown around the edges. Adam opened a container and both of them gagged. Carl reached out his hand and Adam slammed the container into it; the older man turned and walked toward the garbage, briefly picturing himself scraping the contents into the trash. He was throwing the whole damn thing away, Tupperware and all, when a noise across the room made him turn around.
The larger magnets rattled as Adam slammed the door and pushed his fist against it, sending coupons and family photos sliding down against its surface. A vase perched on the drop of the refrigerator jiggled and fell, shattering against the linoleum floor. "Shit!" he spat out, surveying the damage. Carl saw the angry flash in Adam's eyes and moved through the tension as though he were walking through water in a pool.
Arriving at Adam's side, he dropped to his knees and placed a tentative hand on the shoulder of his child. "Leave it, son. It's okay."
Adam shook his head, tears slipping down his reddened cheeks. "No. No it isn't."
"No. It isn't. But I'll pick these things up."
Adam stood and walked away, leaving his father in the wrecked and dirty kitchen. Sifting the pictures away from the glass, Carl shuddered with despair at the idea that this, exactly this, could become his whole life now--alone in a kitchen, picking up the pieces, watching his son move further away. His head was down when Adam came in again.
"Dad?"
Carl looked up at the broom in his son's hand as Adam stood before him, his eyes deep with concern. Seconds passed in silence, as he looked from his son to the broom and then back again. Adam tilted the broom towards him, and Carl nodded, taking the handle with a tired but genuine smile.
"I can't find the dustpan."
"We can use newspaper instead."
"I'll get some."
They finished the cleaning without talking any more. Adam replaced the broom and shuffled back towards his father: they stared at each other awkwardly before Carl reached out his arms. Wordlessly, Adam fell into them, clutching his father and pressing his face against the man's thick shoulder. It was different from his mother, the smell of salt and lavender he remembered from the last time they embraced. His father wasn't soft like she had been--his father couldn't hold him the way she had done. His father felt stronger, but not quite as certain, like a new arrival on land that his mother had known well. Still, Adam almost shivered with relief to feel another person's arms around him again, and he knew, on some level, that his father felt it, too. This is how it was now. It had to be okay.
"We'll have pizza." Carl muttered, as the two released their grips. He knew there was something else, but he didn't have the words.
"All right."
"All right."
*********
"Um, Dad?"
Carl Rove looked up from a pile of his late wife's clothing to see his son standing, hesitantly, at the edge of the doorway. He blushed and arranged his face into what he hoped might pass for a reassuring smile.
"Yes, Adam?"
"We're out of casseroles."
"Shit." Carl realized, as he heard himself cursing in the presence of his child, that his filter today was dangerously low . Now that the shock had somewhat subsided, he found himself less able to pretend. Adam smiled, and his father relaxed a bit--maybe he wasn't messing up completely. Maybe he wouldn't need to pretend all the time.
"Well, we can go always go out to eat."
His son refused this with disproportionate force. "NO! I'm not going out!" Adam had already spent exactly 9 days attending school since his motherr's suicide, nine days of entering a room and feeling the eyes move. Nine days of learning, exactly, how quiet a room gets when everyone in there is thinking about him. His plan was to exist outside his house as little as possible until the whole thing somehow blew off. It wasn't a good plan, but he didn't have another one.
Carl's voice snapped Adam back into the moment. "We have to eat."
Adam shrugged. "Let's cook something." He moved back towards the kitchen, and Carl followed, taking his son's lead as the boy opened the refrigerator and began shifting things around. The milk was almost empty, the lettuce soft and brown around the edges. Adam opened a container and both of them gagged. Carl reached out his hand and Adam slammed the container into it; the older man turned and walked toward the garbage, briefly picturing himself scraping the contents into the trash. He was throwing the whole damn thing away, Tupperware and all, when a noise across the room made him turn around.
The larger magnets rattled as Adam slammed the door and pushed his fist against it, sending coupons and family photos sliding down against its surface. A vase perched on the drop of the refrigerator jiggled and fell, shattering against the linoleum floor. "Shit!" he spat out, surveying the damage. Carl saw the angry flash in Adam's eyes and moved through the tension as though he were walking through water in a pool.
Arriving at Adam's side, he dropped to his knees and placed a tentative hand on the shoulder of his child. "Leave it, son. It's okay."
Adam shook his head, tears slipping down his reddened cheeks. "No. No it isn't."
"No. It isn't. But I'll pick these things up."
Adam stood and walked away, leaving his father in the wrecked and dirty kitchen. Sifting the pictures away from the glass, Carl shuddered with despair at the idea that this, exactly this, could become his whole life now--alone in a kitchen, picking up the pieces, watching his son move further away. His head was down when Adam came in again.
"Dad?"
Carl looked up at the broom in his son's hand as Adam stood before him, his eyes deep with concern. Seconds passed in silence, as he looked from his son to the broom and then back again. Adam tilted the broom towards him, and Carl nodded, taking the handle with a tired but genuine smile.
"I can't find the dustpan."
"We can use newspaper instead."
"I'll get some."
They finished the cleaning without talking any more. Adam replaced the broom and shuffled back towards his father: they stared at each other awkwardly before Carl reached out his arms. Wordlessly, Adam fell into them, clutching his father and pressing his face against the man's thick shoulder. It was different from his mother, the smell of salt and lavender he remembered from the last time they embraced. His father wasn't soft like she had been--his father couldn't hold him the way she had done. His father felt stronger, but not quite as certain, like a new arrival on land that his mother had known well. Still, Adam almost shivered with relief to feel another person's arms around him again, and he knew, on some level, that his father felt it, too. This is how it was now. It had to be okay.
"We'll have pizza." Carl muttered, as the two released their grips. He knew there was something else, but he didn't have the words.
"All right."
"All right."
