Читать книгу After Hours at the Almost Home - Tara Yellen - Страница 13

The way Denny saw it, there were two kinds of Broncos fans: the real kind and the idiots. There were the loyal ones—who stuck through the rough times, the lean seasons, the early ’80s—and the bandwagon phonies who made a big fucking fuss when things were going good, popping up out of nowhere for the playoffs, filling the bars, buying all the gear and shit, the blue-and-orange license-plate frames. Broncos baby strollers. Acted like just because they’d moved here last July and had a Denver zip code now, that gave them some right, some entitlement to the glory pie—and yet when you pressed them, they didn’t understand jack about the team. If Denny only had a dollar for every genius who sat at his bar and tried to tell him why it was Atwater and not Elway who should retire, or the real reason Elway was or was not going to hang up his cleats—Denny’d heard everything from coke addiction to turf toe. Fuck. Fuck Elway. Let him retire. Fuck him. Sure, he was great, a big talent and big star—media candy—but the Broncos were a team, not one lousy guy. They had Terrell and Sharpe, Atwater and Romo. McCaffery. Takes a lickin’ and keeps on tickin’. As long as they had him at the reins, as long as they had Shanahan—the Mastermind, the Rat, the Svengali of all things offense—the Broncos would be right back in the mix next year. And the year after that and the year after that. In fact, Denny was hoping Elway would retire. He was counting on it.

But most of all, he was pissed. Having to watch the game while he worked, it sucked bad.

Especially after last year.

He’d been looking forward to last year’s game for months—no, for his whole life—and planned to make a real day of it with Steph, who was also a true fan. It was one of the things Denny loved about her, the way she’d really watch and care about the plays, not act like being a girl was a reason to bow out, to play dumb. Neither of them worked Sundays back then, and they’d considered for a long time what would be the best way to celebrate. They thought about having a party—but then people would be loud, blocking the TV, and someone, Steph pointed out, always got sick. They thought about going to a party, but that would be worse. You didn’t have control over the volume that way, or the channel—once Denny’d been to a Bowl party where they kept switching during the commercials and forgetting to switch back in time. Christ. But staying home seemed a little lame. So, finally, they decided to go to the Marriott Damon’s, where Steph used to work. Everyone liked Steph over there and Denny was still pretty good friends with Barry, one of the managers, who promised them a good table and said he’d maybe sit down with them and buy a few pitchers. What could be better? Denny had figured. Broncos. Big screens. Beer.

(Steph, he thought now.)

Not even two weeks before game day, Denny had come home from work—dead-ass tired, feeling like he did now, not in the mood for anything but maybe a bong hit and bed—to find a note from Steph. Two notes. One that she was out with her girlfriends so he was on his own for dinner blah blah blah. And the other. On a napkin: Your dad, January 25–26. That’s all she’d written. Denny read it twice, three times. He tried to think of things it could mean—anything other than what it said.

Four hours later, he was up waiting in the La-Z-Boy. He’d tried to go to bed, but it was useless, like he’d downed a couple pots of coffee. Did you think I could sleep after getting that note? he asked when she finally opened the door—when, surprised to see him, she gave a high-pitched oop and said, Hey cowboy, lookin’ to get some?

Note? She dropped her purse by the door and shook off her coat, let it fall on the couch. She kicked off her shoes, then tripped over them. Then tripped over the dog. Giggled. Said, Oh god, you should have seen Cheryl tonight. Do we have anything to eat?

Denny took a deep breath. Very slowly, he said, Why is my father coming to visit the weekend of the Super Bowl?

Oh that note. Whatdya mean why? To visit.

Yeah, I got that part.

Well, now I finally get to meet him, right? We can still watch the game. She sat down beside him, on the arm of the La-Z-Boy, and touched his shoulder. Like this was a moment. She’d spilled something on her blouse. It formed a pink island over her left boob.

Denny stood up and snapped off the TV. Sure, he told Steph, maybe we’ll get scripture at halftime. Sounds like loads of fun.

Is it that big a deal?

Yes, Steph, yes it is.

Okay, she said. But it’s your father. What was I supposed to say?

How about no. Or, No. Or, Not a good weekend. Or, Super Bowl Sunday, for crying out loud. Or, Broncos. The only day in the whole year that fucking matters. Or, Christ, Steph, don’t pick up the phone, let the machine get it, like a normal person.

So call him back. She got up and drifted into the kitchen, like that was the end of that—like too bad for you—and got a jar of peanut butter out of the cupboard, started eating it, pulling out big chunks with her thumb and index finger. A glob of it fell and stuck on the island—you are here, he thought—but she didn’t pick it off. She just kept eating, shoveling it in. Typical. She’d go on these ridiculous diets, vegetable juice and boiled liver and shit, and complain about her thighs, oh I’m so fat, and then she’d get a few drinks in her and what would she do but chow down on everything in sight.

That’s some great advice, he said. Thank you, Miss Oh-so-sensitive-expert. Thank you, Dr. Dear Abby. And he grabbed the jar from her hand, pulled it away mid-dig, so that she almost stumbled backwards.

Denny didn’t call his father back the next morning. Or the morning after that. Or that. Last time Denny’d seen his father was at least five years ago, when his father was still living off his mother’s poultry farm, letting her take care of everything, the farm, the bills. The house could go up in flames and his father would be rationing out the words. Please. Help. House. Fire.

His mother visiting—now, that would be okay. Denny talked to her on the phone pretty regularly. She liked to call and check in, and a few times a year he made the seven-hour drive back to the farm. She hadn’t remarried yet or even done much dating—which surprised Denny. When he first heard that she’d finally kicked out the old man, Denny’d pictured her having some fun, getting into that line-dancing or square-dancing shit, wearing a checkerboard shirt, maybe a hat.

His mother would have been one thing. But his father. As if they’d have anything to say to one another. Plus, Super Bowl or no Super Bowl, now that Denny had moved in with Steph, it wasn’t just a matter of his father visiting him. He would be visiting them. How could that conversation have gone? What had his father said when Steph answered the phone? Denny tried to push her on it, but she was still sore about the peanut butter. About the way he’d acted.

Sorry, he said. Then again, like he meant it: Sorry.

Sometimes, she said, I don’t think I know you, Denny. She had that look going, deliberate and cow-eyed, like something she’d practiced in the mirror.

You know me, he said. How do you not know me?

Well for one, I don’t know anything about your father.

My father. My father gives a shit about himself, and Jesus Christ, and—wait, who else? Oh yeah, no one. So, there, now you know.

Two days before his father’s arrival, she started cleaning. She dusted the molding, took everything out of the cabinets, reorganized the closets, emptied out the junk drawers. There were piles of papers and garbage everywhere. Don’t touch any of it, Steph warned. I have a system. Her head was wrapped in a pair of pantyhose, her hair jutting out in places, sticking to her cheeks in little curls. She was sweating.

Denny said, I don’t think he’s going to check the refrigerator drip pan.

I just want the place to be clean.

It is clean.

But really clean. Parent-clean.

Listen, Steph, I have some news for you. It’s not the apartment’s cleanliness he’s going to be concerned with.

But she kept going around with the Lysol, the dusting cloths. She set up their bedroom for him, put out towels and a matching wash-cloth she’d bought special. Apparently, Denny and her’d be sleeping on the fold-out bed in the front room. She even made a sausage lasagna, from a recipe, frying the meat, chopping onions, getting it set to cook, baking it halfway.

This looks good, Denny admitted, poking at the crust along the edge.

She pointed a red-tipped spoon at him. Don’t you dare.

Hey. He wrapped his arms around her and kissed her neck, which smelled like soap and garlic. Could you take a chill, baby? Eat a Valium?

It was like the pope was coming or something.

John fucking Elway or something.

The dog skittered around their feet, snuffling, poking its nose up pant legs as Denny did the introductions.

Oh wonderful, Steph kept saying. She touched his father’s arm. Look, she said, pointing to the dog. She loves you.

His father made a halfhearted, stiff move to pet the dog and missed, stroked air. Said, We have a Stephanie at our church. Stephanie Saunders. Same color hair as you.

How funny, Steph chirped. Isn’t that funny, she said to Denny.

For crying out loud, Denny thought. At dinner he wanted to pass her a note. Quit the production. She kept chattering. About everything. The cold. The hot. How the Denver airport is supposed to look like a mountain range, but really it looks like a banana-cream pie.

His father ate quietly, nodding steadily in agreement.

Denny, Steph said, tell your dad about that funny thing that just happened. The truck breaking down.

What funny thing.

You know, when you were stranded and ended up sleeping in some old lookout tower.

Fire tower. That was months ago.

Got lost? his father asked. That’s from me, no sense of direction. You got that from me. Can’t find my way out of a paper bag.

Steph laughed. You should’ve seen him, in the morning. With splinters all in his jeans, all the way through. Do you remember all those splinters, Denny? Awful.

I wasn’t lost. And it was months ago. And it wasn’t that awful. He muttered, You seem to be enjoying it.

Steph studied him for a moment, then turned to his father. You should’ve seen him, she said again.

His father nodded. So where you working these days, Denny?

Denny paused. Thought, Where are you working. His mother was sending checks. She said she wasn’t but Denny was pretty sure she was. He said, Same place.

Oh yeah? That’s good.

Right. It’s a job.

His father paused. Then asked Steph, Mind if I have another helping?

Too much basil, Steph said, beaming, as she passed his father’s plate back. I always forget how much is the right amount and then it ends up being too much or so little you can’t even tell.

Denny got up, went to the kitchen, came back with a beer. He sat down and popped the top. Anyone else want one? Or some shots? Anyone ready for shots?

Steph frowned. Well, she said, glaring at Denny. Anyway.

So about this game, Denny’s father said.

It’s tomorrow, Denny said, taking a drink. Sunday.

Morning or night?

Steph said, Afternoon.

His father said, Well, that works.

Denny watched him mop his plate with a chunk of bread, watched his face, his dark pores, his short nose, his thin mouth, which, when relaxed, fell loose into a sneer. Now it was in a sort of half smile Denny didn’t recognize—like his father was trying them on, new expressions.

In the morning, Steph got up early to cook a fancy breakfast and while she and his father stood in the kitchen polishing off the last of it, discussing Jack Russell terriers, some BS about dog shows, Denny went into the bedroom and closed the door.

His father’s flannel pajamas were folded on the pillow, his cracked leather duffel on the floor beside the bed. Denny stood there for a minute. Now the whole room smelled like his father. He slid open the bottom dresser drawer and felt underneath the t-shirts for the wooden box, sat down with it on the bed. He took out his pipe and ziplock of weed and packed a bowl, a good one, then lit it, pushed aside the pajamas and lay back, blew smoke at the ceiling. The pipe was Jamaican, a gift from James, a regular who went to Jamaica every year. He stayed in Negril, the cool part, not the touristy shit in Montego Bay. One of these years Denny was going to go with him. He was invited, James had said, anytime. The pipe was black wood, carved into a man. His mouth was the bowl. It made him look surprised. Every hit, a surprise.

Denny got up and turned on the TV that was beside the bed. It was a shitty set, a little black-and-white number. Denny wanted to move the living room one in here and get a big screen. But Steph refused. She wouldn’t throw this one away because it was the first thing she’d bought as an adult. That was so like her, to get sentimental over something like a TV. Piece of crap. The picture was all grainy and it had an on-and-off vertical hold problem—every time something important was showing, it seemed. Like now, the early news was talking about the game. The local sports guy was saying how two weeks’ rest prior to the Bowl seemed to favor the Packers because they were more banged up, but his voice kept popping and his face kept traveling up. Denny smacked the side a few times, which only made it worse, so he turned it off. Seven more hours to kickoff.

Steph swung open the door and snapped it shut behind her. I can smell it, she hissed. She was still in her bathrobe, but she’d already put on makeup, Denny noticed.

He shrugged, took another hit.

Denny.

He doesn’t know the smell. And so what if he does?

You could at least wait until he goes to church.

I’ll smoke now. I’ll smoke when he’s in church. I’ll smoke all day if I feel like it.

She said, The door was unlocked, he could’ve walked right in.

This is my place, not his.

It’s our place. She gave him the cow look. She said, I’m alone out there.

So stay in here. He blew a line of smoke, made it as long and thin as he could, watched it go fuzzy and dissolve into air.

Denny. I can’t just leave him out there.

You’re getting along famously.

She fiddled with a dresser pull. You know what? You thought he wouldn’t accept or respect me, but I think he does, Denny. And the two of us, you know, as a couple. I think he thinks we’re good together, I really do. The dresser pull came off in her hand, and she slipped it into her robe pocket, like a guilty kid.

Denny stared at the ceiling. The paint swirls were like waves. Jamaica, he thought. He’d work some extra shifts and go to Jamaica, maybe walk around the edge of the island, backpack around the whole thing, meet people, smoke some good bud—not the dried shit he was getting from Spencer lately, all seedy. And James wasn’t all that bad, he could hang with James—hell, he could hang with anyone in Jamaica, on the beach, with the sun and crazy-blue sky and that bright white sand. An ice bucket of tallboys. Marna was always saying she might come too. Denny watched the paint waves and decided he’d tell James first thing on Monday.

Steph, he said then, we’re going to Damon’s.

But we can’t.

It’s the Super Bowl. We made plans and I’m not staying home.

He’s your father. He’s visiting.

So, he said, coughing out a hit. So fine. He’s welcome to come.