Bad Husband Page 4

  You see that kid sitting inside the goalie net? The one who bears a striking resemblance to the man with the stiff shoulders? The one still reading the National Geographic?

  That’s my kid. Bright side, at least he’s not the kid eating dirt and picking his nose.

  “I don’t know why Coach Bennett lets that kid play,” a man two feet from me grumbles, shaking his head voicing his disgust that a boy would be reading during practice. “He just sits there.”

  I remain quiet but shift my position so that I’m facing them. Immediately they have my attention because they’re talking about my kid. I’m holding my tongue because it’s probably for the best I don’t say anything. You may find this hard to believe but, I think most people are fucking idiots, and I have to keep my mouth shut, or 90 percent of what I’m thinking could land my ass in jail. Or punched in the face. Both have happened. Not pretty.

  The guy next to him laughs, like this guy’s observation is funny to him. Probably is. It’s not his kid they’re talking about. “You know damn well why he lets him, Jeff. It’s because Madison’s his mom, and Bennett just wants to stare at her tits and ass every Tuesday and Saturday.”

  I eye them assessing their build and whether they can kick my ass. Over the years, I’ve become pretty good at judging whether I can win a fight. These guys are strong maybe. It’s hard to tell for sure. They’re big but they look like the only weight they’ve been lifting is their own fat asses in and out of a fast food restaurant booth. They kind of remind me of those football jocks in college. You know the ones I’m talking about…? They have muscles but you know most of it comes from playing offensive lineman, and they couldn’t throw a punch if they had to.

  Me, on the other hand, I can throw and land a punch. I work out at least four days a week, despite my long hours and run twice a week. I’m in shape. Always have been. Fitness is important to both Madison and me, and I don’t think these two have seen the inside of a gym in years.

  “Who are you talking about?” I ask, stepping forward to include myself in their conversation whether they want me to or not.

  The taller of the two speaks first but doesn’t look at me when he says, “Callan’s mom. She’s got great fucking tits and ass.” And then he examines me when I’m in his eyesight, his hand coming up to shield the sun. He eyes me up and down. “Who are you? We haven’t seen you around before.”

  I’m always up for a little game of fuck you. My lips pull into a grin, my arms crossing over my chest in what can only be displayed as intimidation. “Callan’s dad.”

  You know those looks you get from people when they’re so shocked they can’t form words for a few seconds, but their mouth continues to move? The whole fish out of water effect? I’m getting that right now. And then he asks, “Really?” And he laughs like he’s amused. I’m not. “Well, shit. We assumed Callan’s dad was some kind of deadbeat.”

  Well you know what they say about those who assume, it makes an ass out of them and makes me want to break his jaw. I wonder how this guy feels about a broken jaw?

  I snort, and in case you couldn’t tell from my reaction just now, I’ll just come out and say it for you: I have no respect for this douche digger or his booger eating kid who just kicked my son’s magazine out of his hand and then turns to wave like we should applaud or something. Didn’t think I noticed that, did you? Yeah, well, I notice everything. Not if you ask Madison, but I do. I want to grab that little fucker by his neck and make him pick the magazine up. It’ll have to wait though because first I have to deal with this asshole in front of me.

  I stare blankly at the man.

  When I don’t say anything—because forgive me, I’m trying to decide what to say—his buddy asks, “How long have you and Madison been divorced?”

  Divorced? They’re really trying to piss me off, aren’t they?

  A whistle’s blown in the background but neither of us look, we’re locked in a stare. And as I look at these guys, I realize they really want to know. It’s like they’re trying to gather enough information so that they can offer her a strong shoulder to cry on while staring at her tits.

  “We’re not divorced.” Not yet anyway. And as far as I’m concerned, we never will be. I don’t care what those papers now stuffed under the seat of my truck say. And I’m certainly not telling shit for brains she filed for divorce.

  “Do you work out of town or something?”

  Raising my hand to my jaw, I scratch the side of my face. Not that it itches. I just do it. “What did you say your name was?”

  The man gives me a “what the fuck” look. “I didn’t, but it’s Kent. And you are?”

  I smile. I can’t help it. “I’m Ridley. And no, I’m not usually out of town.”

  “So you’re not divorced, and you don’t work out of town. How come we’ve never seen you at any practices or games?” He’s smiling like he’s trying to make me out to be a bad father for never being around. Little does he know he’s too late because today I already feel like a piece of shit. But there’s still no chance in hell I’m going to let them see any chinks in my armor.

  While all this is going on in my head, he’s still talking. What the fuck is he saying?

  Right. He’s pointing out to me what a bad father I am.

  “I run my own construction business. I can’t usually make it to things like this because I work for a living.” Do you see that look on my face? The one that screams sarcasm?

  I’m glad you see it because by the blank look on their faces they don’t.

  Look at them. It’s obvious they don’t know what hard work is. Without one callus to show for a hard day’s labor, they’re probably pencil pushing accountants. Both of them. I bet they’ve never had dirt under their fingernails.

  “Well, that explains a lot. Callan’s a bit of a mama’s boy.”

  What the shit? A mama’s boy? My kid?

  Well yeah, okay, I guess he is a little bit closer to Madison than me. But that’s beside the point. What the fuck does that have to do with these guys questioning me like a round of speed dating?

  The guy Kent, the one asking all the questions, gives a dismissive nod toward who I assume is the coach of this team. “It also explains why Bennett is always giving the kid extra attention.” And then these two bag of dicks look at one another and exchange a knowing glance. There’s an inside joke between the two of them and they start laughing.

  Ask me if I care?

  Nope. Not even a little bit.

  Okay, that’s not completely true. I mean nobody likes to be laughed at or about but when I really think about it, if this is what these two find entertaining, I feel bad for them. Sadly, this is probably the highlight of their day.

  Look at them. Their lives are a shit show. Just look at their kids. One’s picking his nose and eating it, and the other has his hand down the back of his pants digging for God knows what.

  Just as I’m contemplating dragging Callan off the field to try and explain to him the finer points of any other sport, another whistle blows and the coach yells, “We’re done, boys!”

  I walk forward and bump Kent’s shoulder with mine. “And you’re right, my wife does have great tits and ass.”

  I don’t look back at him. There’s really no point to. I walk toward my son with the purpose of getting the hell out of here. When I spot him, I stop.

  See that kid walking toward me with his ripped magazine in hand and a troubled look on his face?

  That’s a kid who’s beginning to realize he’s not like the other kids. It makes me want to punch these two guys in the face on pure principal for saying he shouldn’t be on the team. Just because my kid doesn’t think his boogers are an afternoon snack shouldn’t mean he can’t play. It’s fucking soccer. It’s not like it’s an actual sport. Might as well be playing kickball.

  I kneel to his level as he drops his bag at my feet. “You okay, bud?”

  “I’m fine.” His answer’s short, his cheeks flushed. “Can we go now, Ridley?
”

  “It’s Dad,” I tell him, grabbing his bag and following after him. I do give Dumb and Dumber one last look to see them high-fiving their Olympic nose-picking athletes. “Hey, listen, bud, do you even like soccer?”

  Don’t get me wrong. I wish the answer was that my son loves playing all sports, but the reality is it’s more likely he hates it, and as a parent, why in the world would we make him play something he doesn’t enjoy? I mean, if it’s reading he wants to do, let him. I get he needs physical activity, but this kid, the one staring at his magazine like someone just ripped his heart out, he doesn’t seem like he’s enjoying this. I could be wrong here, but I doubt it.

  Callan stops and looks at me curiously, the setting sun shining on his face. “I guess so. I mean, it seems like the thing to do.” And then he shrugs. “I’m hungry. Can we have pizza?”

  The thing to do? I’m not liking that answer, but I let it go for now.

  “Yeah, sure.”

  It’s when we’re in the car, I can’t let it go. He’s sitting in the backseat staring at his ripped magazine. He’s nervous. He might even be scared. Of what I’m not sure.

  “You don’t have to play if you don’t want to.”

  “I know, but all the other kids play sports. I feel like I should play. Dylan plays football.”

  Ah, yes, I remember now. His best friend’s name is Dylan Conner. By the way, Dylan’s dad is a tool. Are you surprised I think this?

  Probably not.

  I focus on the important part of what he said. He feels like he should play?

  I’m not sure what to say to him because I can tell he’s doing this to please others and you know, it pisses me off. He’s doing it to fit in. He’s a child. He should never feel like he has to fit in.

  I take Callan out for pizza, and the kid eats three pieces. I’m impressed. For someone his size, barely fifty pounds, three pieces of pizza is like me eating an entire pie myself. Not that I’m complaining about him eating. He’s a growing boy. It just surprises the hell out of me.

  We don’t talk much through dinner. I suppose both of us have a lot on our minds. While I appreciate the time to think, I can’t help but notice the crease in Callan’s brow and the tense expression on his face. I know the look. It’s the same one I get when I’m stressed out. It’s certainly not a look I want my six-year-old having though.

  I knock my knuckles on the table as he chews on a piece of crust. “Hey, bud, is there something you want to talk about?”

  He shakes his head. No words, just a dismissal.

  I know I should keep asking, push him to open up to me because it’s obvious something is bothering him, but to be completely honest, I’m scared his answer might be more troubling than I need to know.

  And before you say it, I know what you’re thinking. What kind of parent would let this go?

  Well, if you knew Callan at all, you’d know it’s best to let him come to you. If you push him to talk when he’s not ready, it’ll be weeks before he tells you what’s going on. And most of the time it has to do with insane questions like, “Is there any evidence that a thermonuclear device exploded over Hiroshima?”

  He asked me that two weeks ago when I got home at midnight and he was pacing the hallway. That’s the kind of shit that keeps this kid up at night.

  WHEN WE GET home, Madison is in the kitchen with a glass of water, her nightgown on already. “Hey, buddy.” She’s not talking to me. She won’t even look at me and fixes her stare on our son. “How was soccer?”

  Callan shrugs, wrapping his arms around her. “It was good, Mommy.”

  Sometimes, judging by the way he acts 90 percent of the time, I forget Callan’s age. He’s still a child regardless of the way he thinks. I watch the two of them for a moment, locked in an embrace, my smile tugging at the corners of my mouth. For a split second, the papers she sent me today don’t matter. For the one at her feet, we have to make this work. I see myself in Callan, and I promised, no, I swore my kids would never have a life like I did. One with an absent father.

  So how’d I let it get bad enough Madison wanted out?

  Looking around the kitchen, I expect to see Noah on the floor drinking water or running around like Wolverine, but I don’t see him. “Where’s Noah?”

  “In bed.” Madison hugs Callan to her side. “How about Daddy gets you ready for bed? I’m gonna go take a hot bath.”

  Callan shrugs again, as though this might just be the only action he’s good at. And after tonight, I’m kinda convinced it might be.

  But let’s backtrack here a second. She wants me to get him ready for bed. I don’t care either way. I’ll do it since I’m, you know, his father and I should be doing this kind of thing, but I can’t help but wonder if this is a trick to ignore me. I know it is for sure when she refuses to make eye contact with me as she slips into the other room and upstairs, leaving me alone in the kitchen with Callan.

  He stares at me but this time doesn’t shrug. I think we’re making progress. “Is she mad at you?”

  He’s perceptive, isn’t he?

  I roll my eyes following him up the stairs. “How’d you guess?”

  “She made you take me to soccer and now you’re here alone with me.”

  He acts like we’ve never spent any time together. And I know that’s not entirely true. At least I don’t think it is.

  “Let’s go get you ready for bed. You have school in the morning.”

  I have absolutely no clue what my son does before he gets ready for bed. I did when he was younger, but the last two years, I guess you could say I haven’t been around much. Needless to say, we stare at one another in the hallway.

  I know the usual, the things most kids and adults do like brush your teeth, but does he shower before bed or in the mornings?

  This is Callan we’re talking about. The kid might take two showers a day knowing him. It wouldn’t surprise me one bit. I remember when he was a baby, bath time was his favorite and if I ever needed to calm him down, I’d sit him in the tub for a little while.

  “What do you do before bed?” I finally have to ask, feeling sweat drip down my back. “Do you have a routine?”

  He gives me this look that says, “I can’t believe I have to explain this to my father.” “I wouldn’t exactly call it a routine.” And then he scratches the back of his head and nods to his bathroom. “But I brush my teeth and go to bed.”

  Moving past me, he disappears into the bathroom separating his and Noah’s rooms and brushes his teeth. I take that moment to sneak into Noah’s room and kiss him goodnight. By the way, he sleeps in his mask. It’s a little weird kissing Batman goodnight, but that kid has so much damn personality it’s unbelievable. He’s been that way from day one, always crazy.

  “Night, Wolverine,” I whisper, kissing Noah’s forehead and pushing his hair away from his mask. He doesn’t stir. The world could end in a ground-shaking earthquake, and there’s no way in hell Noah would wake up. Callan, on the other hand, if you even sigh in his room, he’s wide awake.

  I meet Callan back in his room where he pulls a pair of pajamas out of his dresser drawer.

  I bury my hands in my pockets, unsure what to do next as he gets dressed, but go with, “Okay, so should I read you a story?”

  “No. But I do have a question.”

  I sit down on the edge of his bed. “Okay.”

  Do you sense the apprehension in the “okay?” You should because what comes next makes me feel stupid and wonder if I’m just that dumb, or my kid is a child genius and I’m not really his father. It’s not the first time I’ve thought this. I’ve often wondered if Madison slept with a science geek who looked like me and just told me I was the father.

  Sitting with his hands in his lap, he stares at me with what can only be described as pure confusion. Or maybe it’s me. “What went on at Three Mile Island and Chernobyl? Were they different?”

  Do you see that guy sitting on the bed? The one blinking rapidly like his contact lens fel
l out? Well, one, he’s not wearing contact lenses and two, he has no idea what Chernobyl is. I know what happened at Three Mile Island. “Um, uh, so Three Mile Island was a nuclear power plant that had a cooling malfunction and it caused part of the core to melt the reactor and destroy it. There was a little radioactive gas released, but it didn’t kill anyone.”

  He nods like he knows this already and I’m not at all surprised he does. “And Chernobyl is what could have happened then?”

  My eyes widen. “Yes?”

  Callan grins just a little. “You don’t know what I’m talking about, do you?”

  I sigh and pull back his blankets so he can get under the comforter. “No. I don’t.”

  “Chernobyl is in Ukraine. Can we go there? I read that it’s like a tourist town now. Well, part of it anyway.”

  “Really?” There’s no way I wanted to go to Ukraine, but I wasn’t telling Callan. He seems, I don’t know, almost excited to be talking to me about this, so I don’t want to let him down. I was never one to promise what I couldn’t deliver. My dad pulled that shit when I was a kid so when I became old enough to know better, I swore I’d never promise my boys anything I couldn’t give them. Now I see exactly why parents did it.

  “Yeah, in 2011 they opened up a sealed zone around the reactor. I want to go there.”

  You’re laughing, aren’t you? I see the humor in the way Callan is. It’s funny. But that’s because he’s not your son and you’re not living with him and wondering, what the fuck? This isn’t normal, is it? Should we be concerned? Madison laughs his behavior off, but I see that he’s not like the other kids. He’s different. He reads at something like a fifth-grade level and his math skills… don’t even get me started on that.

  “What if you turn into The Hulk?” I tease, raising my eyebrows as I tickle his ribs.

  He squirms away from me, his hands over mine to push them away. “I’m being serious, Dad. I want to go to Ukraine for my birthday next month.”