I heard Dad turn off the music and settle into the kitchen chair as Mom did the dishes in front of him. He was wearing what he called his dress clothes, which meant just a clean pair of jeans and a T-shirt that wasn’t stained or ripped. Dad always said he was a mess, hopeless when it came to fashion, a disaster next to Mom. She’d overheard him once and rolled her eyes at him and said, “Give me a break, James Dean. What you mean is you don’t have to do anything to look good. Unlike some of us.”
I had no idea what she was talking about until I searched James Dean on Jess’s computer, and besides the fact that Dad had dark hair and kept it short, they did sort of look alike. Except instead of a cigarette, Dad smoked cigars, and that was just once in a while and only ever outside because Mom said the smoke got stuck in the rugs and pillows and curtains, and it was bad enough that she already had to deal with the smell of fish.
Which wasn’t true, because Dad always left his boots and coat outside in the hallway and showered first thing when he got home, and I’d never smelled anything on him besides soap and the aftershave he sometimes wore.
But some days Mom acted like that. Like everything Dad did bothered her. And then she’d complain when he stayed out of her way, out on the boat for hours and hours.
Like that made any sense.
Now Dad leaned forward in his seat, and suddenly Mom was there, his arm on her waist, his forearm huge around her middle. He pulled her into his lap.
She gave a halfhearted laugh and tried to stand, but he hugged her tighter, moved her legs across his lap, and leaned back in the chair with her.
“Shh, just sit with me,” he said.
His fingertips ran the length of her thigh, and his other hand played with the black hair that hung down her back. I wanted to look away. I knew I shouldn’t be watching, but I couldn’t pull my eyes away from the mirror. Jess and I used to make silly faces when Mom and Dad kissed and hugged. I didn’t remember the last time we got the chance to do that.
“Jack, stop. Let me just finish.” Mom patted his leg and gave him a quick peck on the cheek, but her voice was high and tight, and her body looked stiff and uncomfortable on his lap.
“Leave it. I’ll finish them. I just want to sit here for a minute with my wife.”
Mom’s wrap dress had come loose, and he traced the opening with his finger. I saw her stiffen and move his hand away. She held it in her lap, where it was no longer covering her chest, and pulled her dress closed with her free hand.
“Let me finish,” she said. “Then we can go to bed together.”
I wasn’t sure if it was what she said or the way she said it, but everything changed right then. I saw it in Dad’s reflection in the mirror, the way his face went hard, the way it was most of the time.
Abby, my camp counselor who got sent home at least once a week by the recreation director with instructions to put on shorts that were not so short, told me once that she didn’t know how I could live with someone as hot as my father. But why didn’t he smile more? she’d asked me. I didn’t know what to say because he was my father, and who was I supposed to live with? I lied and said that he smiled all the time, just not at her.
Truth was, he never really smiled at anyone unless it was me or Jess or Mom. It was just the way he was.
But now he wasn’t smiling at all.
“What?” Mom asked.
“Nothing,” he muttered.
She hugged her arms across her body as if a cold wind had come through.
“I’m asking you to wait until I’m ready, and you’re upset.”
“You’re not asking me to wait,” he said. I didn’t so much hear it as read his lips. That’s how soft it came out.
Mom stared at the floor, and I heard the clock in the kitchen ticking away time.
“What does that mean?” Mom’s voice cut through the silence like a dull knife. “What do you think I’m asking?”
He shut his eyes and sighed, a long one that seemed to empty him out, the way he sank deeper into the chair. “You know what, Hope? I don’t know what I’m saying. Let’s drop it.”
“You work a hundred hours a week. You disappear out there.” She waved at the water behind our house. “But when you’re ready for me, well, sound the alarm.”
He looked at the ceiling for a minute, then back at her. He didn’t speak.
“Say something,” she said.
“You don’t want to hear it.”
“Try me, Jack. At least you’re talking instead of disappearing on that boat.”
“Disappearing? And what do you call this? This right here.”
“What right here?”
Dad shook his head, his eyes on the floor.
“What?”
He looked up, studied her. “You haven’t been ready in a year,” he said in a flat voice.
Mom stood up, and the air seemed to leave the room. “That’s not true,” she said.
“No? When was the last time we were together and you didn’t do this . . . vanishing act that you do?” His hands made a large circle in the space between them.
“Stop it,” she said, and her arms went around her body again.
Dad picked up his beer, took a swig of it, and slammed the bottle down so hard, the table shook. The noise made Mom jump. My first thought was he was going to be sorry tomorrow.
“Stop what? Trying to make love to my wife, or trying to figure out why she hates it when I touch her?”
His voice was thick and gravelly. I pulled the blanket up higher on my face. I hated that his eyes reminded me of the sheepdog’s.
Mom went to the sink, gone from my view. I heard a drawer open and the clinking of silverware.
Dad put his head in his hands. When he looked up, I saw his eyes and yanked the covers up so only a tiny sliver of space was left to see through. I knew that look.
“You had an admirer tonight,” he said calmly, as if giving her the weather. But he was watching Mom, staring at her so hard, I thought it must hurt to be on the other end of it.
“Oh, please,” she said, and muttered something under her breath I couldn’t hear.
“What’s that?” he asked.
“I said I don’t need this crap.”
“What’s crap is you pretending to not notice him noticing you.”
Mom walked over to my doorway to where the light switch sat on the wall and flicked it on, as though she hadn’t been able to hear Dad without the light on.
“Him who?” she asked.
“Your new buddy Finn, that’s who.”
“Ry?”
“Ry?” he asked, pronouncing the word with force. “I didn’t realize we were using nicknames.”
“It was how he introduced himself.”
“Well, Finn, oh I’m sorry, Ry, couldn’t take his eyes off you.”
“Don’t pick a fight with me, Jack,” she warned.
But he already had. Even I knew that.
“Why did you invite him?” he asked, as if it were the craziest idea she’d ever dreamed up.
“What do you mean why did I invite him? He’s Peggy’s husband. The reason for the party was to introduce them to some of our friends.”
“I don’t want him here again,” he told her. He leaned back in the chair and crossed his legs out in front of him. He might have looked calm, but I saw his jaw pulse. “Did you hear me? They’re not allowed to come over here again.”