“He’s trying, Jesse.” Her voice is soft, but holds a bite to it. If I didn’t love her so much, I’d try and shake some sense into her.
“Yeah, I can tell.” My sarcasm is evident but she doesn’t comment.
“He stopped drinking last month.” She goes back to making the salad. I try not to let the news of my father being sober affect me. I always thought the alcohol was to blame for the intense hate he has always shown me and my brothers, but hearing the news that he’s been sober for over a month, sober today, rules out that assumption.
“Wow, is that the longest he’s been?” I finally acknowledge the news of my father’s sobriety.
“He’s really trying, Jesse.” She looks up and I can see the trust she has for him in her eyes. She honestly believes he has changed, and I’m happy for her, but for me, a month of sobriety does nothing to squash the deep hatred I’ve had growing for my father over the last thirty-four years.
“So, where’s Jay?” I change the subject and ask about my younger brother. The last thing I need is to get into it with my mother.
“He’s away, some police conference in the city.” She fluffs her hand about, not really understanding my brother’s job. Jay works undercover, only a select few know his real job; my mother is not one of them. I’m not close with Jay. Being seven years older than him, there was never really a time when we clicked. By the time he was old enough to be even remotely able to hang out, I was long gone. I couldn’t wait to get out of this place. Out of my father’s control.
I look around at my old kitchen. Memories are etched into the walls, reminding me of the shit I used to get up to. I fucking hated it. Always have. I don’t even know how Jackson comes here every week. I’ve never been like him. Maybe that’s my problem. Some call it middle-child syndrome, and maybe a deep-seated part of me agrees. I’ve always lived in the shadow of Jackson my whole life. Perhaps it’s what my issue is.
“So it’s just Jackson and me?” I ask, leaving the past behind. There’s no point asking questions when no one wants to answer.
“Just us.” She looks up from her carrots.
“This is going to be fun.” I remark knowing without Jay here, the Colonel will lay it on thicker with me.
“It’s going to be fine, Jesse. Just don’t push him.” She continues cutting up the carrots. I try not to let her comment piss me off, but it does. Everyone knows he’s the issue. Yet the more everyone steps around it, the more he continues to be an asshole.
“Steaks up,” Jackson calls from the deck.
“Can you help me with the plates?” Mom asks, rushing around the kitchen.
“Yep.” I move to grab them, but before I do she reaches for my forearm and looks up at me.
“Promise me, Jesse, don’t push him.” I could give it to her straight. Tell her it wouldn’t mater if I pushed him or not. The man is an asshole. But I know it wouldn’t matter what I say. She wants me to be the bigger person. Whatever.
“Fine,” I agree, hating myself for it. I’d do anything for my mom, even deal with my asshole father for her.
“You just gonna stand there boy, or you gonna help around here?” My father breaks the moment throwing me straight back to hating the asshole.
“That’s why I come here, isn’t it? A nice cooked meal from Mom?” I wink at my mother and brush past my father. He mumbles under his breath, ‘Good for nothing,’ but I don’t bite back. The night has only just started.
And going by the first five minutes, it’s going to be a long one.
“I call bullshit,” my father shouts, breaking his record for the longest time he doesn’t lose his shit.
“John dear, maybe we could play another game.” Mom tries to calm the situation between my attitude and my father’s temper, but I don’t think there’s any going back. Once again, I have managed to piss him off.
“No, Catherine, I’m not playing another round until Jesse admits he’s wrong,” he huffs. It’s almost laughable that a sixty-year-old former Marine is sulking like a three-year-old, but we are talking about John Carter, the man who doesn’t like to lose.
“I’m not wrong.” I laugh, not giving in. I want to point out the rules are clearly written in the instructions, if the asshole just read them, but that would only push him deeper into anger. This right here is where I differ from my brothers. Where they will concede to keep the peace, I don’t give a fuck. The man dictated our whole lives. I refuse to allow him to have any control over me as an adult.
“I think we should play a round of Pictionary,” my mother tries again, but like always, it just pushes my father more.
“I’m not playing no damn Pictionary.” He sweeps his hand across the table, knocking off all the pieces of the board game.
“And that’s my cue,” I say, knowing when it’s time to leave. A few years ago, I would’ve stayed, engaged in this drawn-out argument, but it wouldn’t matter; my father is a stubborn man. There’s no telling him.
“Jesse, please.” Mom stands, frustrated at the outcome. I don’t know why she’s so shocked. It’s how we always end one of these nights.
My father blowing up, then me leaving.
“I really do need to go, Mom. Got shit I need to tend to.”
“Watch your language, son.” My father stands, pushing his chair back in anger.