Half A Dozen To Go

Role Play

Allie walks through the door after school. I’m typing, but I hear her whisper to someone.

From the hallway she yells, “Daddy, can Dea play in my house?”

I know Dea is there. I know she’s waiting outside my door. That’s who Allie whispered to. That’s her little game, and I smile.

“Sure she can Al,” I yell back. Then, “How was school sweetie?”

“Fine,” she says and comes into my room and hugs me. She kisses my cheek. “You didn’t pack my gym clothes again.”

I type, “I didn’t know I was suppose to Al.”

“Yes,” she says, “every Thursday I have gym. And if you don’t pack my clothes I can’t help it if I have to watch?” She raises her voice like it’s a question.

“So you just watched today?” I ask.

“You didn’t pack my clothes I told you.”

“So why didn’t you pack them yourself?” I ask, “since you knew you had gym today?”

“Daddy!” she says with a sigh, “Every Thursday I have gym I already told you.”

Something isn’t getting across. I type these words then realize that I’m creating the story as it happens. Do all daughters become their own mother when she isn’t there? Mother. Wife. Words on a page.

I type The End, but understand it never will be.

Odd Couples 1

Some couples age like old friends. Others like loose dogs. Ronnie and Helen are somewhere in the middle. There’s foam and snarling, but there’s also humour and acts of unexpected kindness. And in acts is how I choose to present these pieces.

I brought Ronnie back from the hospital. Day-surgery, some blood behind his eye that was fixed in an hour. A patch over his left eye that he’ll have to wear for a few days.

He sits in his favorite brown chair. The afternoon sun comes in through the balcony door and beams down on the carpet. Helen sits in the floral chair across from him.

Ronnie stares down at the carpet. “What’s that?” he says, pointing.

I pick up a wood screw. “It’s just a screw dad,” I say.

“Must have fallen out of his head when he bent over to sit down,” Helen says. She gets out of her chair. “Here, let me have it,” she says and holds out her hand.

She walks around behind Ronnie. “See, it goes here in this hole,” she says, pretending to put the screw back in his head. I laugh. Ronnie chuckles a fake laugh.

Helen walks toward the buffet. “I’ll put it here for you so you don’t loose it again,” she says.

“I don’t need it anymore,” says Ronnie, “Bend over, and I’ll put it away for safe keeping.”

Line by Line

I don't like to embarrass my kids. So I talked this over with Dunc before posting. He remembered and he laughed. That was a good feeling. Now I just have to talk to him about his room.

Young kids like to talk. Ask the smallest question and they will tell you their day. How are you? This gets you twenty minutes of explanation. How was school? Thirty. Do you have any homework? Twenty-eight seconds. Some things never change. Pick your questions carefully or you could be listening for hours. Or not listening, which was the struggle we had with Duncan, third youngest of six children.

Duncan loves to talk. Duncan loves to explain things. He carries on these two lines of conversation at the same time because Duncan needs to talk. It’s like a biological function with him. He shuffles from foot to foot, paces, and makes moaning noises. He’ll explode if you don’t acknowledge him.

Laura once thought of nicknaming him “The River”. I said no, “The River with Stones”. I learned then that some nicknames are better kept to yourself. In merged families humour is in the eye of the humourless.

So early one Sunday morning I drove to pick up The River from a sleep over at Tommys. He hops in the back and I ask him what they did.

“We saw the new Harry Potter movie,” he says. And he just lets that news hang in the air. He fidgets, he drools. I know what’s happening—he’s literally dying to explain the movie to me. It is a twenty-minute ride home. The board is set.

I know I can’t make eye contact. He knows he needs to wait for me to ask him about it. This is an unspoken rule – you can’t tell someone about something they haven’t asked to know about. It’s an illegal move and we all know it. I can’t ask him a thing about the movie, or I’ll hear a scene-by-scene retelling of the whole picture, including the credits. He plays with the door lock. He’s waiting. Pawn takes knight.

I yawn. Then I mumble about needing gas for the car. About how I wish the gas prices weren’t so high, and how what we need is a new manager for the Blue Jays. Pawn takes pawn.

Not a bite. No response. He says, “Yep, that Harry Potter movie was really something. Just like I imagined. Really good, you know?”

The “You know” line is meant to get me to cave in and answer him back, but I’m not falling for it. Bishop takes pawn.

“Yep,” I say, “maybe if the Blue Jays were doing better we could go see a couple games? Would you like that?”

Queen takes knight. Check. There is no way he can refuse a question like that. And based on the rules, once he answers my question then that’s the line of talk we take. He’ll have given up his position to talk about Harry Potter. I don’t make the rules. I just follow them.

For a good minute, nothing is said. I switch on the radio. I know he’s thinking about what to say next. I still don’t make eye contact. That’s too friendly a gesture, and I still have 18 minutes to drive.

“So, did you watch any of the game last night with Tommy?” I ask. Queen takes pawn. Check.

I know it’s cruel, and I’m not proud of it, but if I respond to him I’ll have to pull over and shoot myself. Then how will he get home? Caring fathers always put their children first.

“Hey dad,” Duncan asks, “there’s a special for parents on Tuesdays when they take their kids to the movies. Maybe Matt and Edward would like to see Harry Potter too? I think they’d like it too, dad!” Knight blocks queen.

He shouldn’t be calling me dad, I think. That’s an unfair emotional tactic. And he brought in his brothers too. Just as I’m wondering what to say next he keeps on his forward assault.

“And Jackie loves Harry Potter too,” he says. “Remember the first movie? Remember how you laughed when they were flying on the broomsticks? Well you should see what they do in this one!.” Queen takes queen.

I’m being tricked. I can’t believe how crafty he is. Sixteen minutes to home. “But you know, Dunc,” I say, “The Blue Jays-"

“You should see how much older they look too, dad,” Duncan says. “You know how you keep saying how old I’m getting, well Harry almost has a beard!”

“He doesn’t have a beard Duncan, you crazy guy!” I respond automatically, “He’s only like a year older than y...”

Queen takes King. Checkmate. I feel his smile go through me. The muscles in my arms go limp. I take a very deep breath and check my watch. Fifteen minutes from home. Odd numbers are never good news.

I smile over at Duncan. And nod my head mechanically while he recounts everything he saw in the movie. Including the credits.

Baseball Rules

After dinner Matt wanted to hit some baseballs and I said all right, so we washed up the dishes and headed down to the field. Matt, Duncan, Allie and I.

I pitched, and we took turns smacking the hardball into the outfield, while one of the boys chased it for a spectacular catch.

Allie was quiet, but she was watching. And she laughed if one of her brother’s missed the ball or fanned on a swing.

When it was her turn to bat I changed from a hardball to a plastic softball with air holes. It made a bit of a whirr sound as I tossed it across the plate. She swung and swung, maybe hit 1 in 10 pitches.

I tried to get her to move her body around, and change how she had her feet. Her brothers tried to get her to change how she held the bat. She wanted nothing to do with us. I winked at Matt and gently tossed the ball straight into her back.

Wide-eyed, she dropped the bat and asked me why I did that. I just laughed with her brothers and said that I was just playing around with her.

“You didn’t do that to the boys,” she said.

“No, you’re right, but I was just kidding with you Al,” I said, “It was just a joke. I didn’t try to hurt you.”

She swung at the next pitch and let the bat go sailing end over end into my shins. I looked at her stunned.

“You didn’t do that to the boys so you shouldn’t do it to me,” Allie said. Then she walked off the diamond and down the path back home.

I had to think about this for a while. Some people need to feel the same to belong. That sense of sameness makes them feel part of the group. One of the team. Highlight a difference, and you make them stand out. She was there with us to play baseball, not be treated as the youngest girl playing baseball.

I apologized to her later, and told her I think I understood why she was mad. I was then going to tell her she can’t just throw something at someone who does her wrong, but I stopped.

In my mind my nine year-old was eighteen, and someone was approaching her in a way she didn’t want. I’d want her to use everything she had to defend herself.

I held out my hand, we grabbed the dog leash and took Hazel for a walk around the block. And we talked about movies, and Bratz, and school and all the things that make a nine year-old girl.

Glimpses of the future are fine. I just don’t want to get there too quick.

Separation

A marriage separation is about more than living apart. Things start to fall off, and no one is really sure just how it goes.

I apologize when my hand breaks off after shaking hello with my father-in-law.

“It’s been a while,” he says, looking me over like I was a used car. “Have you lost weight?”

“About 156 pounds,” I say, and as I walk away part of my back falls, exposing the tissue underneath that had once been more muscular.

Then on to Doris, in her Sunday blues.

“Wow,” she says, “you look good.” And because it sounds more like a question I reply back, “you too?” My knee gives way and drops to the floor, taking with it my leg underneath.

Then my brother-in-law, a good guy, a fireman, and I only loose a toe on my other foot talking to him. The big toe no-less, but no-more.

“And how are the kids? Are they doing well?” Karen, my niece asks.

“Just fine,” I lie. “Enjoying the summer,” I say, “You know, playing around with their friends. Fun stuff.” Both arms and a kidney slide off and down to the floor.

Then, Carolyn, who always wants to talk says, “Anytime you want to talk just give me a call.” I nod my head as a rib slides down my pant leg and gets caught in the cuff. I move my foot and it falls onto the floor. She stares at it and says, “Anytime. I mean it.”

I smile and shrug my shoulders like a yawning tomcat.

Aunt Ruth won’t look at me. I broke a vow, disavowing my wife through six degrees of separation.

“Aunt Ruth,” I nod, loosing the contents of my stomach and intestines as I do.

But she pretends not to see me and looks straight through the matchstick frame that had once been me. White porcelain tea cup in her hand and a half-moon of pink lipstick around the rim. Christian pink.

When my heart falls I know I’m done for.

My brother-in-law says, “have you seen Ken?” to no one in particular, and least of all me. I am a word, a memory, a movie where no one notices the ending because we’ve seen it all before.