Present,March 1987
Toby
The cock clockreads five twenty, which means I have ten minutes to make a few sandwiches and eat them. There are three pieces of bread left, a half teaspoon of mayo, and three cheese slices. I stack and layer everything I have to work with and the result is a pathetic Big Mac. Minus the burgers. And lettuce. And pickles. And special sauce. I make a mental note to stop at the grocery store near school and pick up some food on my way home tomorrow afternoon.
Cliff wanders out of his room looking dazed. I assume he’s stoned but don’t ask.
“Babysitting tonight, Daddy?” he asks, though the normal sneering chuckle that usually accompanies this question is absent.
I take a few deep breaths before I answer simply, “It’s Tuesday.”
Every Monday and Thursday morning and Tuesday evening, Chantal waits tables at a diner a few blocks away. During her morning shifts her coworker comes over with her kids and takes care of Joey and Mrs. Bennett, and when she works, Chantal watches her three kids. The trading of care works out for both of them. The evening shift is mine. I’ll never forget the look of humiliation on Chantal’s face when she knocked on my door a little over a month ago and asked if I could help her out with Joey on Tuesday nights so she could pick up the extra shift. I’ve known Chantal for several years and though everything changed between us when she got pregnant, she’s still one of the proudest people I know. She clings to it, it’s her essence. Her defining trait. So, accepting help, let alone asking for it, makes her feel like a failure. I know what that’s like and don’t want her anywhere near failure because it’s destructive and she has too much to live for. But as much as she doesn’t want to admit it, she needs help. She needs a lot of help. You can’t care for a baby and an ailing, elderly woman on your own full-time. Everything has to be on her terms though—when she gets to the breaking point and desperately needs help, she asks.
“Is it weird being a dad at seventeen?” Cliff asks as I’m chewing the last bite of my sandwich.
He almost sounds sincere, which immediately puts me on high alert. Why would he ask a question like that unless…I turn to face him and scrutinize his eyes to figure out how messed up he is. “Did you smoke after school?” I ask.
He shakes his head and I believe him. “Wish I had, but no. Nobody could score any weed today.”
When I walk to my room to unlock it, he paces behind me and asks again, “Well, is it weird?”
I huff, because this is quickly turning into a Sex Ed talk that I would rather cut off my right nut than give. My back still to him while leaning in and grabbing my backpack and sketchpad, I ask, “Did you get someone pregnant, Cliff?”
His hesitation to answer churns the cheese sandwich in my stomach and I freeze mid-squat.
“No.”
When he finally says it, the air rushes out of my lungs in a gust of relief. Johnny would murder him if, while under his lackluster guardianship, Cliff knocked someone up at fourteen fucking years old.
Slinging my backpack over my shoulder, I lock up. “Good, keep it that way.”
“You didn’t answer my question,” he says, as I open the door to exit the apartment.
Normally I’d walk out the door without another word because that’s how Cliff and I communicate—he talks and I don’t—but for some reason, I give him the most honest answer I can. “You have no idea.” And I close the door behind me.
Chantal is wearing her pink uniform dress and name tag that reads,Trixie, pinned to her chest. It’s funny because Chantal could never be a Trixie. Trixie is a name people don’t take seriously. This woman is the opposite. From the stories Mrs. Bennett has told me, Chantal’s been through a lot. She’s the child of a mixed-race marriage who’s endured lifelong racism and prejudice but thrived in the face of it. She lost her parents at thirteen and Mrs. Bennett, her maternal grandmother, took her in. She entered the University of Denver at eighteen, the first in her family to go to college, and on scholarship no less. Her junior year she got pregnant, her future forever altered by an asshole who had no right to touch a woman like her. Two semesters short of her degree, Joey was born.
And here we are…
“Hi, Toby.” She sounds tired but determined as she slips on her jacket. It’s her demeanor ninety-nine percent of the time. When it’s not, you know it’s time to worry. “Joey just ate so he should be good until bedtime. Formula and bottle are on the kitchen counter. Make sure it’s not too hot.”
I nod. This is the standard drill every Tuesday night. “I know.”
She smiles that smile that tells me she knows she’s needlessly worrying. “I know you know. Sorry. See you at midnight.” She raises her voice over the volume of the TV to Mrs. Bennett, who’s sitting on the couch behind a TV tray with a half-empty plate of food and an almost empty glass of milk. “Bye, Grandma. Toby’s going to stay here with you while I’m at work. You remember Toby, he lives upstairs?” It must be a bad day if an explanation is needed.
Mrs. Bennett turns her head toward Chantal’s voice and I see the vacant look in her eyes and know recollection isn’t likely, reminders or not. “Who?” She’s studying me, but it’s the assessing of a stranger.
I nod toward the door, subtly giving Chantal the permission I know she feels like she needs to leave. “She’ll be fine,” I whisper as I watch Mrs. Bennett’s gaze snap back to the TV.
She always feels guilty leaving them both. Guilt is a burden we both carry, though she allows it to fuel her these days and I’ve always let it destroy me, but it’s harder on the days that her grandmother’s Alzheimer’s is in control of Mrs. Bennett, instead of the other way around. “I know,” she whispers before she slips out the door.
Walking to Joey on the floor, who’s holding a brightly colored plastic block, I sit down beside him on the blanket and set my backpack and sketchpad on the floor out of the way. I’ll do my homework after Joey goes to bed in two hours.
“That taste good?” I ask as he gnaws on the corner of the red block.
His hands and the block are covered in slobber. He stops momentarily and grins at me and the sound of my voice. He’s never done this for me. Chantal can prompt smiles from him all the time because he’s a momma’s boy. But this is new and it makes me feel not quite so invisible. Picking him up and sitting him on my lap, a sudden swell of emotion creeps into my throat and before I know it tears are blotting my eyes. I’m glad I have my back to Mrs. Bennett, because even in her current state of bewilderment, I don’t want her to see me like this. This is similar to the common surge of emotion that comes on several times every day, but especially at night. It’s the overwhelming rush of disappointment in me, my actions, and my life. It’s the constant reminder that I’m an asshole who deserves nothing and no one. It’s the message that runs on a loop through my brain, reminding me that I’m hopeless and everyone would be better off if I wasn’t around. Looking at this little boy, it’s also the unjustness that someone so pure and sweet wasn’t fathered by someone who should be the mentor and role model he’ll need down the road.
I let the paralyzing helplessness flow until the taps are dry, while Joey chews on his fist and his tiny fingers on the other hand fiddle with the drawstring on my sweatshirt. When the tears stop and I feel like I can breathe without hiccupping in air, I run the sleeve of my sweatshirt across my eyes and cheeks to clear away the evidence of my failure. I stand holding Joey and walk to Mrs. Bennett. She’s resting back against the couch cushions, settled in to watch the rest of aThree’s Companyrerun that’s playing.
