Page 82 of The Life and (Medieval) Times of Kit Sweetly

A blush creeps across Lars’s cheeks, but he crosses his arms. “Things happened, Courtney.”

“Kit,” Chris and I both say at the same time.

“Fine, Kit, Courtney, whatever. I was going to sign the papers, but some expenses came up and I can’t afford all the divorce fees.”

The smell of his morning breath combined with the stale beer and smoke he reeks of make me take a step back. But I’m not backing down.

“By ‘expenses’ I assume you mean the cocaine on the table in there and the booze?”

Lars runs his hands through his messy, greasy hair. “You’ve got no idea what it’s like to be an adult, Kit. There’s so much pressure on you, always. Sometimes, you just need to unwind.”

“You’re so predictable,” says Chris in a dangerous voice. “This is why I didn’t want to talk to you at the Castle. And this is why we don’t want to have anything to do with you.”

Chris is coming in hot, and he moves toward Lars like he might take a swing.

“Your arm is broken.” I pull him back. “Simmer down. Why don’t you go wait in the car? I’ve got this.”

“I’m not leaving you alone with him!” Chris snaps.

“I’ll be fine.” I put a hand on Chris’s shoulder and turn him away from the trailer. “Be there in just a minute.”

He looks up at Lars for one long moment, hatred burning in his eyes. “This is the last time I’ll warn you, Dad.” In Chris’s mouth the word comes out like acid. “Leave Kit, Mom, and me alone. Don’t call. Don’t try to make up. Just sign the papers and leave. We don’t need you and we sure as hell don’t want anything to do with you.”

“Chris—Son—please—” Lars reaches out for Chris, but then he kind of stumble-trips over his own feet and lands on his knees.

Chris doesn’t look back.

Lars looks tired as he watches Chris walk to the car, but he doesn’t say anything else for a long moment. He’s weak and broken as he kneels there. I have the most unwelcome impulse to hug him and somehow save him from himself.

“I’m sorry I messed up, Kit,” he says, standing up. “I screwed it all up. Our family. Your mom. Your and your brother’s chances for college. I just wanted to make it better, but old habits die hard, you know?” He turns his arms over. Red puncture marks and purple bruises line the inside of his arm.

“I don’t know,” I say, keeping my voice as steady as possible, “because I’ve never bought drugs with money that was supposed to help my family.”

The slump of his shoulders and the way he looks toward the trailer, like he’s longing to get inside and get this conversation over with, takes all my anger from me. I feel sorry for him. And for what we could’ve had. But some things just have to be let go.

“Why didn’t you give Len the guitar back?”

Lars looks up at me. His face is a wreck now, but in that moment, he looks just like Chris. “I was going to give it to him at the hospital. I swear. But then he was running late, and all those people kept looking at me funny, so I got out of there. I’ve been avoiding Len’s calls ever since.”

“You’re lucky you didn’t pawn it. Len would’ve had you drawn and quartered.”

A funny little sound, like a laugh that’s rusty from use, breaks out of my dad. “That’s funny, Kit,” he says. “Because he thinks he’s a King, right?”

I nod. “Exactly.”

“Can I have a donut?”

I’d almost forgotten I was holding them. I give him the box.

“Here’s what I’m going to do, Dad.” His face softens when I say it, but I think we both know I’ll never call him Dad again. “I won’t bother you anymore. You sign these papers. While you do that, I’m going in there, and I’m going to take Len’s guitar and give it back to him. If you try to stop me, I’ll call the cops.”

He nods. “No need to break down the gate with a battering ram. I’ll sign the papers and I’ll give you the damn guitar if it means that much. Least I can do after everything else.”

I follow him into the narrow, dark trailer, trying not to touch anything. There’s the lights-get-turned-off-because-you-paid-the-electric-bill-late poor we are, and then there’s the drug-addled-bad-choices poor my dad and Janet are. Janet’s hacking cough comes from the back of the trailer, and fruit flies buzz around the pile of dirty dishes in the sink.

“Here you go.” Lars grabs a pen off the table and signs the divorce papers. Then, he picks up the guitar. His fingers linger above the strings for a moment, but he hands it over. “Not sure how I’ll do this gig without it, but I’ll figure something out. I was going to pawn it anyway.”

“Thank you for this at least.” I feel like I should shake his hand or hug him or something, but I don’t. Instead, I dig into my pocket and take out a handful of singles. My change from the donuts. I plop them on the table. “Use it for food or gas or anything but drugs.”