Джонатан Троппер - This Is Where I Leave You

“I miss Dad,” I say.

“Me too.”

“Why didn’t I miss him more when he was alive? He was dying for two years, and I only visited him a handful of times. What could have been more important than spending time with your father?”

“He didn’t want us around. He told me so. He didn’t want us to remember him like that.”

“Well, that was probably our time to step up and say ‘Tough shit, Dad.’”

Phillip nods soberly. “Dad was always much tougher than us.”

“I guess. How did we become such wimps?”

“Hey,” Phillip says. “Did I or did I not just take out Wade Boulanger with one punch?”

“You did.”

“Damn straight.” He winces a little as he rubs his hand. “I think I broke my knuckle. Can you even break a knuckle? I should go back in and get it X-rayed.”

“I heard the baby’s heartbeat.”

Phillip looks at me. “That’s great. Right?”

“Yeah.” I’m quiet for a moment. “I told Wade he was hoping for a miscarriage, but the truth is, I think part of me might have been. And how terrible is that, for a baby to be growing in the womb and for the father to be hoping it won’t make it?”

“It’s pretty terrible,” Phillip says, lying back against the windshield to join me.

“Did you think Dad was a good father?”

Phillip ponders this for a moment. “I think he did his best. He was pretty old-school, I guess. He didn’t always get us, didn’t always appreciate us, but come on, look at us, right?”

“I think I could be a pretty good father, actually.”

“I think you’ll be great.”

Raindrops land in small explosions on the Maserati’s gleaming hood. “But I’ll have to forgive her, won’t I? I’ll have to learn to live with the fact of Jen and Wade. I mean, for the sake of the kid.”

“I don’t know anything about parenting, but my guess is that there will be much larger sacrifices to be made.”

I look over at Phillip, who is catching raindrops on his tongue. “You almost sounded wise right there.”

Phillip grins. “In the land of the blind, the one-eyed man is king.”

I smile and lean back on the windshield, looking up into the rain. “I’m going to be a dad,” I say.

“Congratulations, big brother.”

“Thank you.”

“You ready to go home?”

“Okay.”

He grabs the tire iron from me, and as he slides off the hood, he swings it to the side, noisily shattering the driver’s-side window. The car alarm goes off instantly, a muted, almost apologetic wail. Phillip looks at me and smiles. “Whoops.”

“You’re an idiot.”

“You just said I was wise.”

“I’m seeing things more clearly now.”

“Glad to hear it.” He offers me the tire iron. “One for the road?”

“I’m trying to rise above here. To forgive and move on.”

“And you will. In exactly thirty seconds.” He tosses me the tire iron. The cold metal feels almost alive in my hands. I shouldn’t be having this conversation. What I should be doing is climbing down off of Wade’s car and talking my way past the security guards so that I can make sure Jen is okay. We are going to be parents together, and there’s no place in that arrangement for juvenile acts of vandalism, no matter how satisfying. But Wade is already in there, probably back on his feet by now, taking charge, charming the doctors, asking all the right questions. I’m the extraneous one, the temperamental biological father who had to be forcibly restrained and removed. I realize now that this is how it will be: Wade on the inside, and me out here in the rain, and no magical heartbeat can change that. I will always be the odd man out, the guy everyone secretly hopes won’t show up to the party and put everyone on edge. And right now, that seems like more injustice than any man should rightfully be asked to swallow. If that’s what I have to look forward to, I’m not sure I’m going to be up for it after all. This is a crucial moment, I know that, but that’s never stopped me before.

And thirty seconds is really all you need with a good tire iron in your hand.

Back at home, Mom and Linda are having a fight. They are in the kitchen, arguing in hushed tones. I can’t be sure, but it sounds like Linda’s crying. A fist pounds the counter. A cabinet door slams. There are no visitors right now, this being the dinner hour, but there is no dinner right now, since none of us will dare enter the kitchen. More low voices. Then Linda storms down the hall and out the front door, slamming it behind her hard enough to rattle the lightbulbs in their sconces. A minute later Mom comes out, still composing herself, and sinks down into her shiva chair. We all look at her expectantly. “What?” she says. “We had an argument.”

“What about?” Wendy says.

“About none of your business.” She stands up and heads for the stairs. “I think I feel a migraine coming on. I’m going to go lie down for a bit.”

“Hey,” Wendy shouts, stopping her at the foot of the stairs. “What happened to a family with no secrets?”

Mom nods to herself, holding on to the banister for support. When she turns to us, there are tears in her eyes. “It’s been such a long time since we were really a family,” she says.

IT’S A NIGHT for lovers’ tiffs. Alice is pissed at Paul for injuring his shoulder. She is berating him upstairs but is coming in loud and clear through the baby monitor. Back in the den, Tracy is furious with Phillip for hitting Wade. I sit in the kitchen eating dinner, listening to these two very similar arguments play out on different sides of the house. There are perks to being single.

Underneath it all, Alice is really angry at Paul because she’s still not pregnant, and Tracy is angry at Phillip for having sex with Chelsea, which he probably has, or, if not, probably will. He’s definitely been thinking about it. Tracy is angry at herself for letting Phillip make a fool of her, for blinding herself to certain obvious realities, for being in her forties. But this is not the time or place for such thorny issues, so in their frustration they overreact to sprained shoulders and bruised knuckles, and harmony is not in the cards at Knob’s End tonight.

On the plus side, fresh new platters have been delivered. Teriyaki chicken wraps, pasta salad, deviled eggs, and a tray of black-and-white cookies. I don’t know when I’ll eat this well again. Wendy’s boys sit across from me on stools at the kitchen island, freshly scrubbed and dressed in tight pajamas that cling to them like superhero costumes. Their damp hair, perfectly combed, gleams under the recessed lighting. They are like an advertisement for children’s shampoo, or for children in general. Wendy tries to get them to eat, but their tiny stomachs are still bloated and churning from all the sugared crap they ingested at the amusement park today. I experience a clenching pang as I think of Penny. It’s the feeling of having behaved poorly, of having hurt her. I would call her if I had any idea at all what I could possibly say besides “I’m sorry.”

A hard rain pounds at the windows, looking for a way in. On the monitor, Alice yells at Paul. “You could have done permanent damage. And for what? To strike out Boner Grodner?”

“If she wakes the baby, I’m going to kick her fat ass,” Wendy says as she assembles a plate for Mom.

“Mommy, you said a bad word,” Ryan says.

“No, I didn’t, honey.”

“You said ‘ass.’”

“‘Ass’ is just another word for a donkey.”

“So it’s not a bad word?”

“It is when children say it.”