Tease(28)

At the table, sitting around a big tub of ice cream, are Alex, Tommy, and our dad.

The boys are lit up like it’s Christmas morning—which is appropriate, since visits from our father are about as frequent as ones from Santa Claus. Dad’s in a suit, as always, and it’s kind of wrinkled and messed up, like he’s been driving in it all day. He probably has. He lives in Chicago, which is about eight or nine hours away, with his other family. Technically Chicago is pretty drivable to here, especially when he needs to stop for work somewhere in between—in Des Moines or wherever—but the new kids are really young, and somehow Dad just never seems to make it all the way out here to see his old ones.

But then once in a blue moon, these surprise visits. It’s been a while, but the guy definitely likes to be Mr. Hey, I Brought Ice Cream. The boys love it, but I know better. Or maybe it’s just that I’m not the one he brings the ice cream for.

“Where’s your mom?” Those are the first words he says to me. Tommy and Alex are still shoveling Neapolitan into their mouths, oblivious that our dad didn’t even say hi to me first.

“Um,” I say, not moving any farther into the room. It’s like we’re two magnets facing each other the wrong way—I feel physically repulsed by him, like even if I tried to move closer, I just couldn’t. “It’s four thirty on a Friday, so I’m going to take a wild guess and say . . . work?”

“Sara,” he says. Sharp, short. In his voice, my name is a knife. But as much as I can’t come into the kitchen and sit down with them, I can’t leave, either, and he knows I won’t. So he goes on. “There’s no need for that tone. I came a long way, I’m tired, I’d just like to have one peaceful minute before I have to get back in the car and drive another five hours.”

I don’t know if I’m supposed to respond to this, or to point out that I wasn’t trying to ruin his peaceful minute, or if I’m only here to play substitute punching bag. But Alex, innocent as ever, is already jumping in, saying, “Wait, Dad, you’re not leaving yet, are you? You just got here! You have to see my pitching! I’m gonna be as good as Dylan by the time I’m in high school.”

Right after he’s said it I can tell Alex knows he’s made a mistake. Dad’s face is a thundercloud. I think my knees might buckle underneath me.

We’re all silent for a minute. I don’t move, and Dad doesn’t look at me, he just stares over toward the sink, fuming. It amazes me that he can be so far away—geographically, emotionally, everything—and still know exactly who Alex is talking about when he says “Dylan.” My dad never even met Dylan, never saw one of his games, never talked to me about him. I know he talks to my mom about everything that’s been happening, and I know my lawyer’s always trying to get both my parents in a room. But Dad doesn’t want to talk about it. As far as he’s concerned, it’s all going to blow over and we can all “move on.” That’s what he says to my mom when they talk—“Let’s just all move on.” Like that’s not what we all want.

Alex is looking back and forth from my dad’s face to mine, trying to figure out what’s going on and, more importantly, what’s going to happen next. But Tommy seems to know the drill this time—he’s practically facedown in his bowl, shoveling ice cream, refusing to even come up for air.

And then, like nothing happened, Dad whips his head back around to his beloved (for the next few hours, at least) youngest son and says, too cheerfully, “So where’s your glove? Let’s go outside!”

Alex jumps out of his chair and goes galloping upstairs like his life depends on it. Tommy’s scraping the bottom of his bowl and Dad says to him, “You sure you got enough there? Need you ready for high school sports a lot sooner than your brother.”

Tommy pushes his bowl away and wipes his mouth on his wrist, still not saying anything but giving a little shrug.

“Huh,” Dad goes on. “They teach you anything at that camp I sent you to? Cost a fortune, could’ve been an all-star retreat.”

Dad is smiling as he says this part, like it’s a joke, but I hear the edge creeping back into his voice. I guess I’m not the only one disappointing our father these days.

Tommy is still looking down at his spoon, and from across the room I can see his jaw clenching. It’s the thing he does when he’s trying not to cry—and he never cries, he’s the toughest kid I know.

Seeing my little brother’s moment of weakness breaks the spell I’m under, and I practically lunge through the kitchen door and over to the table, grabbing the empty dessert bowls and opening my mouth to let a stream of nonsense cover up this crappy moment.

“It was a really, like, all-around camp,” I say, my words a little too fast and too loud. “You know, boating and horses and hiking and stuff? Tommy got really tan, he said he had fun, didn’t you, Tom-Tom? They had campfires and everything. S’mores. Wasn’t there a talent show at the end? Didn’t you win a ribbon for something?”

Tommy finally looks up at us and says quietly, “For archery. But it was just a finisher ribbon, not a real one.”

Dad snorts. “These places with their self-esteem crap.”

“Yeah,” Tommy says. “It was pretty dumb.”

“Well, I’ll save my money next year,” Dad says. “Get you to a football program.”