I also remember that my mother was very angry with my father about that crash. Every time the subject would come up, her face would twist and she would say, “Ted, you should have never been driving.” I’m not sure what she meant when she said that. My mother never drove, not when my father was around.
I will be seeing my mother in nine days. It will be the first time since August 28, which makes it 105 days since I’ve seen her. She spends only part of the year in Billings, and it seems like her stays have been getting shorter. Last year she went to Texas in September and she came back to Montana in April. The year before, she came back in March.
It’s been a long time since I talked to my mother about my father. Lately, I have been thinking about him more than ever, and that surprises me, because I’ve had a lot of time—three years, one month, and eleven days—to get used to the fact that he’s gone. I wonder if she thinks about him, too. I wonder if she misses him, like I do.
I will have to ask her, I guess.
It’s 7:53 when I see the lights of Boise, and Michael Stipe is singing about bang and blame, and I have this rush of happiness inside me that feels like a Coke bubbling over into my cranial cavity. I try to concentrate, though, because I know I’ll need to stay alert. It’s four right turns—and, unfortunately, two left turns—to get to Donna and Victor’s street, but finally, the Cadillac’s tires are on the pavement of North Twenty-Fifth Street. I drive along slowly, because it won’t be far now and because I cannot see the house numbers in the dark, and I’ve only seen pictures of their place. Michael Stipe is telling somebody not to go back to Rockville.
The house is not hard to find. Victor’s red Dodge pickup truck is parked in the driveway.
I pull along the curb and park.
When I pull myself out of the seat of the Cadillac, a dull ache is in my legs and my shoulders. I stretch.
I close the door to the car and head for the trunk to retrieve my things.
And then I hear her voice. “Edward!”
I pivot back toward the house, and Donna is bouncing toward me—she is literally bouncing; this is not hyperbole. She is running and leaping and calling my name, and behind her is Victor with a big smile, and he’s extending a hand for me to shake.
I walk toward them and Donna hugs me around the neck. Victor shakes my right hand and slaps me on the back friendly-style with his left hand.
They are happy to see me.
I am glad to be here.
In the doorway, under the light, Kyle stands.
He’s gotten so big.
TECHNICALLY MONDAY, DECEMBER 12, 2011
It’s 12:09 a.m. and I haven’t been able to keep my eyes closed for more than seven minutes and twenty-seven seconds since I came down to the basement at 10:04.
I don’t know what to do.
Victor and Donna were great. They understand me completely and work hard to be good friends to me. After we finished greeting each other on the street, they helped me bring my things in. Once we were inside and in better light, they saw my bruised nose and they were very concerned when I told them what had happened in Bozeman.
Kyle, for the first time, said something.
“He hit you?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. He doesn’t like the University of Montana, I guess.”
“Did you hit him back?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“It didn’t occur to me.”
“You should have.”
“He was gone by the time I was exactly sure what had happened.”
Donna and Victor told me to sit down on the couch in the front of the TV. The Cowboys were playing the New York Giants, and the second half was just under way. They knew I’d need to see the rest of the game, and even though what I probably should have done is focus on visiting with them, they made allowances for me. That’s what good friends do for each other.
“It’s a tight one so far,” Victor told me.
He said Tony Romo had played great in the first half, with two touchdown passes, and the Cowboys led 17–15.
Donna asked Kyle to come over and sit with me and watch the game. He was standing against the far wall and hadn’t said anything after all the questions about my being punched.
“I hate the stupid Cowboys,” he said.
I worked hard at not responding to that. Kyle and I have been over this subject before, and while I understand and appreciate that he is a Denver Broncos fan, he has never been willing to appreciate that I am a Dallas Cowboys fan. I have been ascribing (I love the word “ascribing”) that to his youth, which often comes with bullheadedness. But he’s getting older—he’s now 191 days older than he was when I last saw him in Billings—and still he persists. It’s getting to be a pain.
Donna was calmer than I would have been, so I’m glad she’s the one who spoke first. “But you like Edward, so maybe you ought to focus on that.”
Kyle didn’t say anything to that, but he did walk over and sit on the far edge of the couch, away from me. He still had a twisted look on his face, the kind of face that my grandpa Sid used to call “puckered up like a chicken’s asshole.”
I waited for a commercial break to talk to him.
“How tall are you now?” I asked.
“I don’t know.”
“You were five feet six and seven-sixteenths inches tall on June first. You look a lot taller than that now.”
“Duh.”
“Can we measure you?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because that’s weird, you douche.”
“Hey!” Victor said.
Donna, clearly mad, came over from the recliner she was sitting in and put her face directly in front of her son’s.
“You know I hate that word. I won’t have it here, or anywhere else. You apologize to him right now.”
Kyle didn’t even look at me. “Sorry.”
The game was back on now, so I left him alone. After stopping the Giants on their first second-half possession, the Cowboys were trying to get moving, but Tony Romo got sacked.
“Come on, Romo,” I said.
I have said this many times since Tony Romo became the Cowboys’ quarterback—far too many to count, and I’m glad I don’t keep track of such things.
“Suck,” Kyle said.
“Huh?”
“They suck.”
“They’re still ahead, Kyle.”
“You suck.”
Donna was on her feet. “That’s it. You’re done, kid. You can’t be with civilized people, you’ll be alone.”
She grabbed Kyle by the arm, lifted him to his feet, and led him out of the living room. Kyle swung his left arm violently and dislodged her hand. That’s when Victor left his chair and stepped toward Kyle, who seemed to shrink physically, although that’s not technically possible. But he definitely knew that he was in trouble and that he didn’t want to tangle with his stepfather.
“Bed,” Victor said. “Now.”
Kyle didn’t protest further. He left the room, with Donna trailing him.