A New Triad

The father looked like he’d suddenly started taking AA seriously. He had freshly combed hair with a face that screamed sadness. The son, sitting opposite him in the booth, had the fresh-faced weary look you’d expect from someone who’d never see his mommy again. 

“You can get anything you want."

“I’m not hungry.”

“Ice cream and french fries. Or Eggs and steak. You gotta eat up, to be strong.”

“I don’t want to eat.”

I came around carrying decaf left, regular right. “Can I get y’all anything to drink to get started?”

He motioned to the boy with open palms. “He’ll have a milk. Coffee’s fine.”

I didn’t know Trudy well. I knew her as well as you’d expect ten years outta high school. She’d married Flynn shortly thereafter. I know she worked at the lodge down the street. And our paths would only cross on the off chance we were in the grocery store together. When you ate all your meals between lousy tippers sixty hours a week, the grocery store was mostly off-limits and relegated to basics. Milk, bread, peanut butter, jelly, and ritz.

I came back with milk with a straw and a cup and poured him fresh.

I couldn’t begin to imagine what Frankie was going through. Before Trudy left us, he’d spend this time on the weekends at the lodge. Trudy’d tell me about the latest crazies from outta town requesting specialty soaps, strange towel arrangements, or rose petal walkways. That was before the sauce took me over.

Of course, I’m more to blame than anything. You can say it’s my childhood watching my brother hanging after his first stint in the army, or an inability to adapt to the changing modern world. I stuck to trucking. Not many questions were asked so long as the job was done. The last haul was my downfall.

“You haven’t touched your chicken fingers.”

“I don’t know. “

I knew why. I could barely look at the food without feeling nauseous. I knew I needed to eat. But couldn’t care less what it tasted like.

“We’ll get through this.”

Frankie looked at me for the first time since we got here. “I don’t want to. I just want to go home.”

He’d spend most of his waking hours in his room. When I’d peer in he was always looking at photo books in bed, or asleep with them sprawled all over him. 

He didn’t understand. He never would. My daddy was a selfish asshole. If he wanted to drink himself to death, he shoulda left us. Instead of sitting around waiting to hit her, berate her, and yell. 

“I’ll have ‘em wrap it up,” he said.

How could he even think about food? With mom buried only a week ago, there was nothing else on my mind. Past memories usurped any thought about the future. No longer do I dream about being a soccer star, or being in the movies. I couldn’t. I never would. Not with him. Especially not without her.

I stare at the food blindly. Mom was a heckuva better cook. And her smile made me hungrier knowing the love she put into it. Mashed potatoes would be fluffy as clouds. Even the sandwiches for school were special because she made them. She’d stop putting notes in my bag when kids made fun of me in 3rd grade. I told her to stop. And wish I’d saved them all.

When the waitress comes back with styrofoam, he grabs it and works my food in. My hands are only my lap. I close my eyes to keep the tears from flowing. But it wasn’t a garden hose, you can’t kink it closed. I tried everything in my power to slow the eruption.

I feel the napkins on my chest and open my eyes. He’s crumpled all his fist could fit.

“Take it.”

He grabbed the napkins and ran off. He slams the door open. 

“I,” I said. “I gotta go. I’ll be right back.” I pull out my wallet, hold it up, and place it on the table.

I chase him down the block.

“Don’t touch me,” he said, shrugging off my hand from his shoulder. “It shoulda been you!”

No argument there. 

Trudy was everything. Coming home late one night, she was T-boned at a stoplight by a drunk driver. That day was my last drink. He’d gotten out on bail and I’d tried to confront him on the days after. I’d stalk his house, watching to see his movements. If the law couldn’t punish him, I would. The door of his home moved and I grabbed my door handle. 

Two kids leaped out - a blond girl in a sun-kissed pink dress who couldn’t’ve been older than Frankie, and a boy. He had brown hair, a blue shirt, and pullups. In his hand was father guiding him slowly down the stairs of their beige bungalow. I stared on as they played in the yard and the girl pranced between dandelion blows.

I crouched down at Frankie. I kneel In front of him as tears flood out of him with whimpers.

“I know,” I told him. “It should have been me... It should have been me.” I hugged his knees. This was God’s punishment.

I slowly approached Mal. He was hugging Frankie’s legs. I was holding up the wallet in hopes he can see through his son’s body. I couldn’t imagine what Mal was going through. Of course, I could guess. Guilt for being absent. When he wasn’t on the road, I’d see him at the dive. 

Mal pulled his face from Frankies jeans. His eyes open.

“It’s on me,” I said. I extend my arm to help him off his knees. He takes it in kind and uses his other hand to clutch at his bad knee.

We held on for a second too long. His red eyes are redder than his days of drink. 

“How about we got to the zoo?” I suggest. “Frankie, would you like that? We can see the zebras, and the peacocks, the lions, and the penguins?”

He shrugs. Mal puts his hand on the small of Frankie’s back and lets go of my hand. “Mom would’ve liked that.” He said. Frankie's breath once wild is slowed and deliberate. 

“I don’t care.” He said.

We took the bus. I paid. And we got inside. We fed the giraffes. A gorilla sat in the corner of the viewing glass and the concrete cage. Two others sit and pick at each other’s hair. When we’d returned to the entrance loop, Frankie looked tired. And Mal looked at me. He nodded. “Thank you.” He said to me.