“Why, Son?” the judge had asked with something like disbelief. He remembered that office, overwarm and dusty. The judge sat behind a giant wood desk that Marshall would swear was designed to make people on the other side feel small. The shelves were lined with books, matching leather-bound volumes. He remembered that a few years ago, this judge who looked so imposing now in his big black robe had slept on their couch, too drunk to drive home after a poker game. “Why would you want that?”
“Because he’s my dad.”
It was all Marshall could think to say. There was something deep within him that clung, held on tight. Even when he hated his father-and sometimes he really, really did-there was still a part of him that waited like a puppy for a bone. Anything-a smile, a pat on the shoulder. Anything.
Now he heard his father hammering in the basement. He flipped on the fluorescent light in the kitchen and walked over to the refrigerator. There were some dishes in the sink; the garbage was starting to smell. In the fridge, a six-pack of Miller Lite and the leftover Chinese takeout from last night sat lonely and uninviting. He let the door swing closed, then reluctantly walked down the hall and descended the stairs to the basement.
“You’re late,” his father said. Marshall sank onto the bottom step, wrapped his arms around his shins.
“Sorry.”
His father didn’t look up from what he was doing. “Where were you?”
Marshall didn’t answer. Travis let the hammer drop and turned his gaze on his son. Something about the look on his father’s face, and the hammer in his hand, made Marshall’s heart beat fast, his throat go dry.
“I told you to stop going there,” Travis said.
“I told her,” said Marshall quickly. “I told her I didn’t want her in my head anymore.”
Even saying it now, remembering how she’d looked at him, he felt sick. He didn’t tell his father how he’d hung around her house for hours, almost went to see her to apologize, then ran off when she came out and spotted him, too afraid, ashamed, confused to say what he wanted to say. All the words and emotions jammed up in his throat and his chest. All he could think to do was run.
Travis gave his son a nasty smile. “And what did she say to that?”
“She said it was my choice to come or not.”
“Damn right it is,” said Travis. He went back to his hammering, a slow lift and a heavy drop.
He was building shelves for his office. His father had a talent for things like that. The walls were painted, the new carpet laid. The office was starting to look good. They’d put together his desk, bought a computer on credit. They’d had a phone line installed and ordered a plaque: TRAVIS CROSBY INVESTIGATIONS. He was proud that he’d helped his father, even if Dr. Cooper didn’t seem overly impressed. What did she know?
“So where were you all this time?”
“I went to see this girl I know.”
“Oh, yeah?” Travis looked up at him, a crooked smile on his face. There was a shade of shared mischief there, the slightest hint of approval.
“And?”
“And we hung out. I took her for a ride in the car. She had to go home; she’s got a strict mother.”
“Is she a slut or a good girl?”
Marshall let out a little laugh at that. “I don’t know,” he said. He felt the heat rise to his face.
Travis gave him a look. “That was a trick question, Son. They’re all sluts.”
Now it was Travis’s turn to laugh; it sounded more like a cough. Marshall looked down at the toes of his combat boots, which he’d bought from the army-navy shop in town. He had that feeling he always had with his father, like he’d failed a test he didn’t know he was taking. No matter what answer he gave, it always seemed to be the wrong one.
“At least you’re seeing a girl in the flesh instead of living your life on that box upstairs.” His father meant the computer. Why he insisted on calling it a box, as if he didn’t know what it was or what it did, was beyond Marshall. His dad wasn’t that old.
“I didn’t hear you complaining when we hacked into Mom’s Facebook account,” said Marshall. He brought this up as often as possible because it always made his father smile.
Predictably, Travis let out a laugh at the memory. “That was pretty cool. Did she ever figure it out?”
“Nah. But she’s not seeing that guy anymore.”
Marshall had a gift for figuring out passwords. It really wasn’t that hard; most people were pretty lazy, wanted something easy to remember and then used that same password for everything. He knew his mother’s password for the wireless router at her place was his name and the year of his birth. Marshall figured it was probably the same for Facebook, and he was right. Last week, he and his dad had logged in to her account and left a wall message on her boyfriend’s page: I don’t want to see you anymore. Your dick is too small. You’ve never satisfied me.
Marshall hadn’t seen or called his mother since then. If his mother suspected him of hacking into her account, she didn’t get in touch to say so. Marshall noticed that she’d “unfriended” the loser she’d been dating, and that her boyfriend (now ex-boyfriend) had done the same to her. Mission accomplished.
Josh, Amber’s boyfriend, had been equally easy. His nickname on the football team was All-Star. Marshall guessed that was his password, and, again, he was right. Now the school was buzzing with Josh and Amber’s breakup. But, of course, she still didn’t seem that interested in Marshall, not even with the cool car and smokes. In fact, she’d practically run away from him.
His father went back to his hammering. It took Marshall a minute to realize that whatever nail Travis had been hammering was already sunk deep into the wood. Why was he still hitting it like that? Marshall stood and started to move back up the stairs.
Marshall didn’t have a lot of good memories of his father. Dr. Cooper had asked him to think of some moments when he’d felt happy and safe with his dad. He wasn’t sure what the point of that exercise had been, unless it was to make him feel more like shit than he already did. But he did come up with two occasions.
There was the time they went to the zoo together and his father had bought him an ice cream. He remembered that because it was his own cone; he didn’t have to share it. They’d seen some tigers. His father had said, “Man, they’re beautiful, aren’t they?” Marshall remembered looking at his father’s face and seeing something strange there-maybe it was awe. Travis had dropped an arm around Marshall’s shoulder and squeezed him tight. Marshall remembered that his happiness had felt like a swelling in his chest.
Once, Travis took him to the beach. Neither of them had been wearing bathing suits, so they swam with their pants on. They’d jumped huge waves and laughed when they wiped out. They’d driven home wet and shivering, ordered a pizza, and watched a game afterward.
Also, it was always safe to be around Travis when he was busy building something. His temper didn’t flare when he had his mind on a project, or when he was having a good time doing something. It was places like the dinner table or the couch that should be avoided, anytime Travis was idle and looking for someplace to direct his attention.
“Need some help?” Marshall asked.
His father shot him a look, a kind of up-and-down appraisal, ending in a sneer of disapproval. “An hour ago maybe. But not now.”
Marshall stood for a moment, watching his father’s thick arm lift and drop with the hammer. He wanted to say, Dad. You got it. You can stop hammering. But he didn’t. Then, when it was clear his father didn’t intend to look up again, Marshall turned and shuffled back up the stairs. He took the sack of egg rolls from the fridge, threw it in the microwave for a few seconds, and carried it upstairs.