Aric Davis - The Fort

“Not yet, Dad. Is it that hard? ’Cause it looks super easy.”

“Oh, fruit of my loins, you are beyond lucky that I recall and respect the sanctity of a boy’s summer vacation. By all rights, you should have a transfer shovel in your massively blistered hands right now, and you should be moving that enormous pile of rocks in the driveway into this hole. We may avoid church, son, but you should thank God just in case. Trust me. You are very lucky.”

“It’s not like I’m the only kid,” said Tim. “Becca’s not helping either.”

“Becca and Mom are currently discussing terms of war.” Becca was fifteen, and things had been moving toward a serious conflict. Tim wasn’t sure exactly why she and his mom hadn’t been getting along, only that he didn’t expect them to start getting along anytime soon, and he figured boys were at least part of the problem. “And because of that, us menfolk are much better off out here. You can either move rocks or compliment my ability to drink a beer. Choose wisely.”

“Looking good, Dad.”

“Damn straight.”

Tim leaned back in the chair, enjoying the warmth, but even more so, the freedom. As much as his dad griped about the patio, Tim had a feeling his old man was enjoying the freedom from work as well, even if he had ended up with a different sort of work.

“So what were you and your buddies up to today?”

“Shooting at a target with our air rifles.”

“Vietnam?”

“No.”

“Yes,” Stan said, then took a drink of beer. “Which is fine with me, by the way. Just don’t let Mom catch wind of it. You know how she feels about that.” Tammy’s older brother, Mike, had been killed in Khe Sanh in 1968, when she was sixteen. There was a photograph of a smiling Uncle Mike that hung on the mantel. In the picture he was drinking a Budweiser and leaning on a Huey helicopter. Looking at the picture, Tim had wondered on more than one occasion if there wasn’t some version of Uncle Mike in some parallel universe who hadn’t gotten killed.

“I know. I won’t.” Tim thought about asking a question about Uncle Mike, steal some cool factoid about his ever-smiling mystery uncle, but decided to change the subject instead. “How much longer do you think the patio is going to take?”

“It’s still June, right?”

“Yep.”

“Longer than June.”

“I’ll get a shovel,” said Tim as he stood to walk around the house. He couldn’t see it, but behind him, his dad was smiling.

The gravel seemed almost magical: no matter how much of it Tim and his dad moved, the pile always seemed to be the same size. Tim mentioned this to his dad, saying that he was pretty sure they were stuck in a time warp. His dad didn’t respond, and Tim took that as an agreement that yes, they had been abducted by some alien entity that loved to watch men move wheelbarrows full of stone. Finally, after about an hour and six loads of pea gravel, Tim’s mother stuck her head out the front door of their ranch-style house with an announcement that dinner was done.

“All right,” said Stan. “We’ll be right in. Go wash up, buckaroo. I’ll dump this last load.”

Tim did not need to be told twice. He put the shovel back in the vertical rack where the yard tools were kept, then ran inside to wash his hands in the kitchen sink. It was hot in the house. Bearable due to a brilliantly devised series of fans set up by his mom every year, but still hot. Tim walked through the kitchen and sat at the dining room table, across from a furious-looking Becca.

“What’s shakin’, Bacon?” Tim asked his sister, who stole a glance at their mom in the kitchen, saw that she was busy doing something, and flipped her younger brother the bird. Bacon was an old nickname for Becca; a very young Tim had called her Beccan for several months, and their parents had found it hilarious. Becca had too, until a few months ago. Now, Tim said it either to annoy her or as a genuine mistake of habit.

A few moments later Stan entered the kitchen, washed his hands, and sat at the table with his children. Tammy was close behind, with an enormous bowl of salad.

“I don’t want to hear it,” she said as she set the bowl down in the center of the table. “It’s too hot to cook anything in here, and until that patio’s done, your father can’t grill. There’s some incentive for you, Stan. As soon as it’s done we can have some steaks.”

“And if I say I like salad and no longer want to grill, thus meaning I no longer require a patio, can we leave it as is?” He said this slowly, stealing looks at his children. Becca was even smiling, despite herself.

“Trust me, Stanley,” Tammy said just as slowly, but with a wicked smile, “you want to have a patio. Especially now that you’ve started. Besides, I saw you and Tim working out there—you’re at least halfway done.”

“Half of half, maybe,” said Stan, piling his plate high with Caesar salad. “There’s still a long way to go.”

“Dad, can I go to a movie?” Becca asked in a sweet voice, but before he could answer, Mom broke in: “I said you may ask your father after dinner.”

“What movie?” he asked.

“Why does that matter?”

Tim’s eyes were already darting between the participants of what was likely to be a violent but short-lived skirmish.

“Tell him,” said Tammy. “Then tell him who else is going.” She was smiling again, even more evilly, Tim noted, than when Dad had jokingly suggested that the patio project go on hiatus.

“ Full Metal Jacket and The Untouchables , at the drive-in,” Becca sighed, eyes focused on her still-empty plate. “And a bunch of people are going. Jammi, Molly, Tara, Tracy, Stacey—lots of people. It’s going to be cool.”

“Tell him who else,” cooed Tammy, between bites of salad. “Because as much as I hate the idea of you seeing a couple of R-rated movies with all of your polite, well-mannered, and utterly gracious girlfriends, all of whom I’m sure are saving themselves for marriage, I really love the idea of that deadbeat—”

“He is not a deadbeat!” Becca nearly shouted. “Tyler is cool, and didn’t even ask me to go. He’s just going to be there, it’s not like it’s a date or anything.”

“Which is good,” snapped Tammy. Tim forced himself not to smile as he ate. “Because as it has been made quite clear to you on numerous occasions, you are not going to be dating anyone. Not Tyler Cranston, not Harrison Ford, not anybody.”

“Heard some great news, Mom,” snapped Becca in an exact replica of her mom’s tone. “It is now the 1980s, and everyone is dating. Even babies like Tim go on dates if they’re not too ugly, or busy playing with their loser buddies.”

“Twelve-year-olds are dating?” Tim asked. That was news to him.

His question was ignored, however, as his dad stood, dumped salad on his daughter’s plate, and sat back down. “Becca, eat.” To demonstrate, he stuffed a forkful of salad between his lips, chewed, and continued. “And she did say it wasn’t a date, Tam.”

Tammy rolled her eyes at her husband, who pretended not to notice. “So if it’s not a date, what is it?”

“A gathering of friends,” said Becca, her voice all but dead.

“And will this gathering of friends be consuming alcohol or smoking pot?”

Becca rolled her eyes. “None of my friends do that. They’re not idiots. Besides, Tyler has to stay away from all that stuff, or he could lose eligibility for football. Even the people that do that stuff don’t do it around him, just because it wouldn’t be fair for him to lose his chance at a letter.”

“When would you be arriving home?” Stan asked.