Steve Tem - Ugly Behavior

He didn’t think he had turned off his bedroom light. But it was off now, and what appeared to be his cleaned pajamas and boxers lay neatly folded on top of the dresser, along with some towels, a basin of water, wash cloths, giant bar of soap, a big bottle of peroxide.

It took awhile to clean himself up, and he didn’t have a mirror, but he wasn’t entering any pageants this year, so that would have to do. It took him even longer to get himself dressed, and he wasn’t able to struggle into his shirt without some hellacious pain. But he managed. His daughter’s message was pretty clear—in this house you took care of your damage before you left your bedroom. Then you put a smile on your face and you walked out the door.Which he did, more or less. What he wore on his face wasn’t exactly a smile, but it would have to do.

His daughter was in the kitchen, bent over the sink, palms flat on the counter to either side. “You okay?” he asked.

“Sure.” She spoke without turning. “Got to sleep a little late. We all did. Brian’s still in bed.”

His eyes found the wall clock. It was a Mexican-looking thing: brightly-painted clay rooster with a clock face in the center. It was after ten. “Brian’s not going to school? And you’re not going in to the restaurant?”

“Brian’s feeling a little under the weather. I think we all could use a day off, don’t you?”

Monte took it wrong at first. Man of leisure. Then he realized that wasn’t the way she meant it. “Brian okay?”

“Sure. Brian’ll be fine. Sit down, Dad. Let me make you some breakfast.”

She jammed two pieces of bread into the toaster, broke two eggs on the edge of the skillet and got it sizzling, went searching through the fridge. “No fresh-squeezed OJ, Dad. An orange okay?” Her voice muffled, throaty.

“Sure. It’s all great. Should I go say hello to Brian?”

“No, Dad. Just stay here and eat your breakfast.”

She had mastered her mother’s tone. She hadn’t meant it as a suggestion. Monte sat with his elbows on the table, then moved them and folded his hands into his lap, while she dropped the eggs and toast onto a plate, filled a glass full of water, carried it all to the table, the orange balanced in the crook of her elbow.

He watched her as she placed everything on the placemat in front of him. The silverware had already been laid out on a perfectly folded napkin. Her neck had dark purple and green bruises on both sides, strangulation marks, a crust of blood just inside her right nostril.

“That looks bad,” he said. “Where is he now?”

“Let’s don’t talk about it. He’s still sleeping it off.” She locked eyes with him. She had the look of a stern child, one too old for her years. She sat down across the table from him.

“I’ll need a knife for the orange,” he said.

“Oh. Sorry.” She started to open a kitchen drawer, stopped. She left the kitchen, coming back minutes later with something wrapped in newspaper. She put it down beside his plate. “Happy birthday,” she said.

He looked at the package, reluctant to touch it. “What makes you think it’s my birthday?” he asked.

“Isn’t it?” She seemed suddenly bored, or depressed.

“No. Not unless I forgot.”

“It doesn’t make any difference, Dad. Do you remember my birthday?”

He thought a few seconds, even though he knew what he was going to have to say. “No. But I remember the day you were born.”

“Oh?” Still bored. “What was that like?”

“Scary. I’d never been that close to a baby. Didn’t want to pick you up because I was afraid your arms might break off.”

“That’s stupid, Dad.”

Maybe he should have taken offense at this, but he didn’t. “Yeah. I was stupid. I just couldn’t see the human being in you. If you were talking, maybe, but with you just making those baby sounds, and crying all the time, and needing God-knows-what to keep you alive, I just didn’t know what to do with you.”

“So you left.”

“So I left.” He stared at his food. “Sorry.”

“Don’t say you’re sorry, Dad. Just unwrap your package so you can eat your orange.”

He examined the newspaper, then tore it away. Inside was a wicked looking thing. “A hunting knife?” It wasn’t really a question.

“Now you can cut your orange.”

Monte kept thinking that wasn’t the right way to use a good hunting knife, and this was a good one, he could tell. It had a polished bone handle, the blade shiny as a new car.

“Something wrong?”

“No, no it’s great.” He put the orange on the plate. The knife went through it like it wasn’t there. Monte felt himself grin involuntarily, then stopped it. What was wrong with him? It was a silly present, he obviously had no use for it, but it excited him just the same.

“Good. Maybe you’ll get some use out of it,” she said, and got up, grabbed the skillet and a scouring pad, started cleaning up.

Like he’d ever go hunting again, or fishing for that matter. She was a stupid girl. He didn’t understand how that could be. His wife had been a smart woman. Maybe she got the stupid from him.

He thought about his daughter’s present while he finished his breakfast, and he sat there for a while afterwards thinking about it while she continued to clean the kitchen. He didn’t even know what she was cleaning anymore. It all appeared spotless to him. He thought about the boyfriend sleeping in the other room and he thought about his grandson and what he had considered doing to the boy. And he thought about his daughter bringing him here to live with her, saying how he had always taken care of her, when she knew full well he hadn’t taken care of her at all. He thought about why in the world she’d want a man like him around when she already had a man too much like him in the other room sleeping it off. He thought about all of these things until he couldn’t think anymore.

“Lacey,” he said. She turned around, surprised. He knew she was surprised because he’d used her name, and he didn’t do that often. “Lacey, I want you to wrap a scarf around your neck and take your son out for some ice cream. He’ll feel better once he gets some ice cream in him.”

His daughter watched him a few seconds, then she said, “Okay, Dad.”

The boy was groggy and red-faced but wasn’t unwilling to go. His jacket was too big for him and Monte thought his daughter really ought to do something about some better fitting clothes. Before they left, his grandson turned to him and waved. “Bye, Grandpa,” he said. Monte raised his hand a bit. His daughter rushed the boy out without a backward glance.

Monte didn’t know what was going to happen. You get past a certain age and it seems like you never know what’s going to happen. He was old, and he was weak, but he could still lie down on top of somebody with a knife in his hand. He slowly made his way down the hall. He might be old but he was a tough old beggar. He was persistent. He’d stay at it and stay at it until the job got done.

Jesse says he figures it’s about time we did another one.

He uses “we” like we’re Siamese twins or something, like we both decide what’s going to happen and then it happens. Like we just do it, two bodies with one mind like in some weird movie. But it’s Jesse that does it, all of it, each and every time. I’m just along for the ride. It’s not my fault what Jesse does. I can’t stop him—nobody could.

“Why?” I ask, and I feel bad that my voice has to shake, but I can’t help it. “Why is it time, Jesse?”

“’Cause I’m afraid you’re forgetting too many things, John. You’re forgetting how we do it, and how they look.”

We again. Like Jesse doesn’t do a thing by himself. But Jesse does everything by himself. “I don’t forget,” I say.