Payback

I stole up to the back door like a drug dealer, searching for his stash. The porch was rotten, its railing swaying in the breeze. I steady it, thinking there is so much worth saving here. The wooden support beams are shot, I reckon. Nothing I built so long ago was ever done right.

On this mousy night, the backlight plays to vehicular wreckage—dim nineties carcasses of everyone's pride and joy heaped together.

“I’ll fix that one soon!” Johnny said six years ago. I'm still waiting on that! Could he rustle up more stolen garage queens to pay for it? Not that Johnny ever had a problem making promises. Just delivering payback, now that’s my job. I wish it weren’t.

There’s a 1970s aluminum door to bang on and a broken door cam to look at. Now, who puts a cam on a backdoor? Hardly screwed in at all! I look at popped screws beneath its cheap plastic and wonder what worked better, Johnny’s beer chugged to slippery heaven or this piece of crap skewering the peeling door frame?

I bang again. The light in the kitchen flickers on. He’s coming with a gun.

My inner honorably discharged marine reacts. The back door opens, and then Johnny's smashed! The door is my battering ram, his gun careening and finding its weight.

Johnny splays through the air, thrown back onto broken tiles and debris. Then it would be my fist if he reached for the gun, which he didn’t.

“Smart!” I say. I pick up the gun.

#

It’s a coffee klatch—a down-home pow-wow around a Goodwill-donated kitchen table, orange burn stains on green plastic wood complement soiled late-evening dishes.

Is everyone accounted for? If room service picks up, could you remind them to clean up?

“You don’t return my calls?” I say as I sit down. Johnny is joined by my wife, Sherri, whose frumpy, nothing-to-it hairstyle complements a pink child-sized dressing gown.

There’s a gaping hole where the doors once stood. On this warm, breezy summer night, the moon has come out, shining soft, romantic light. I casually place the gun on the kitchen table—within everyone’s reach.

“Do it!” I say.

Johnny’s face would lose so many poker games. Reading him was car salesman easy. Will that be a clear coat or a weekly "free" car wash? It hardly boosts the price that morons pay!

“Put it away,” he says.

“Smart!” I say.

He should get a barber—a real old-style one. He could sit in a red and chrome chair with a smooth razor edge at hand. There would be lots of conversation, community news, and politics. He would have a sharp new look so he could criticize others.

But she’s talking about who will pay for the damage and fix the doors. Her face is already puffy, and her hands bang on the table. She’s like a minnow swimming with a shark.

What does that matter?

All is according to plan so far. Then Timmy pokes in.

#

My son.

I could get lost in his eyes. Three tours in Iraq and so much parental dereliction can’t erase the resemblance. I questioned long ago how life could be so unfair and unattainable. His doe eyes seek to know the unknowable. First, he looks at me, then his mother, and then he never looks at me again. It fuels my rage. It's biblical.

“Start talking!” I scream, staring at Johnny.

He doesn’t want to spill even though it’s not complicated, like talk show fodder, yet he fumbles words and only nearly speaks sentences.

He’s a veritable fountain to anyone else who would listen! That’s why I’m here. Everything was from his mouth already! From him to me via his friends that try to be my friends. I feel like taking the gun out again.

“All right!” he says finally when I don't relent. He fixes my wife with a stare. He never wanted to be a parent; it was all too quick. Plus, he suspects that Timmy is not his in a biological sense.

My wife, Sherri, is horrified. “How so?” she asks. “Why would you doubt that? As if it matters now anyway!”

Seeing his mother so upset makes Timmy start to cry.

The police arrive. Some neighbor called it in. All busy quickness and flashing badges, emergency crews, and commands. Handcuffs and searches. Timmy is taken care of.

We are all arrested.

#

I’m conditionally discharged. They must consult with experts. It’s my house. My wife and Johnny are squatters. Poor Timmy, one mystery remains outstanding. Sherri asks to meet with me.

It’s a coffee shop at midday, with more busy quickness and buzzing conversation. I lean close to her. “Johnny has so many flaws,” I say. “I hope you were happy.”

Sherri is blinking, so clueless. “What did you say?”

I try again. “Johnny is not our son’s father. It was a matter of weeks, and a DNA test should confirm it.”

“You, Timmy’s father? I nearly had an abortion! Johnny kept pressuring me to do it!”

“Exactly why he’s our son!" I burst out.

Now she's crying. “What about Timmy?”

“He must never know. It’s hard enough for him that Johnny is not his real father.”

She gulps coffee, some spilling from the side of her mouth. “This is too much. I need more time!”

“What about us?” I say.

“Us! There is no us! You left me years ago!” She bolts upright, and people start to stare. An old lady had been listening in. She’s in a sudden rush to leave. Then Sherri nearly knocks her over, backing away from me.

“Don’t leave!” I plead.

#

So weeks later, the police charged me with break and enter and assault. In my own house, no less! Do squatters have rights? It seems so. I’m so far behind the times. I have a smart lawyer, although I wonder if it will do me much good!

Johnny never wanted anything to do with me, so that continues. And Sherri? She must tolerate family court proceedings while I establish my parental rights. She refuses to even look at me.

Timmy is in kindergarten. It's an older school building. The brick is broken. Should it be cleaned and repointed?

I have so much time to look at everything. The broken sidewalks, weeds growing in the cracks, and the hardscrabble asphalt are so lacking that the city council refuses to schedule any repairs. It will all have to be torn up and redone—as if that will ever happen!

And then there’s me. Hanging around the school daily at dismissal, never saying a word, just so I could see him, even for a few moments.