Chapter Five

After dessert, Chris and I packed our bags for Dad’s. Mom stood in the doorway like she always does.

“Got clean underwear? Toothbrushes? Gloves? Hats?”

You’d think after thirteen years she’d get used to us leaving every other weekend and Christmas Day. But no.

She has this way of looking all pathetic and orphaned. Except this time Jean-Paul put his arm around her.

Dad came to the door. That was unusual for him.

“Merry Christmas, Molly,” he said to my mother. He wasn’t looking at her though. He was giving Jean-Paul the once-over.

“Merry Christmas, Dan,” she replied. “Dan, Jean-Paul; Jean-Paul, Dan.”

They shook hands. My father’s a big guy. I saw Jean-Paul wince from his grip.

“Pleased to meet you,” said my father. But he was looking at my mother then.

“The playzhur, it’s all mine.” said Jean-Paul.

Chris and I high-tailed it to the jeep. I thought we’d die laughing.

“Next they’ll start to butt heads,” gasped Chris.

“Bye, Ma! Love ya,” we shouted.

“Call me!”

“So what do you think of the frog?” I asked Dad the minute he got back inside the jeep.

“You’re racist,” snapped Chris.

“Am not! He’s a scuba diver, isn’t he? So, he’s a Frogman? Get it?”

“He’s a nice guy, Dad,” said Chris. He batted the back of my head.

“Actually, he beat me three times, and I think he’s a child molester, too.”

Dad roared. If Mom were here she’d be giving me a lecture. But she wasn’t here so we laughed. Even Chris.

“So, Jules, how’s it going?”

I cringed. I knew what would come next. Sure enough. Dad slapped his hand down on my thigh and squeezed. It’s his way of showing affection. I know that. But jeez, does he have to pinch so hard?

“Good.” I pounded his leg. There, I thought, we have just hugged hello.

“Male bonding is beyond me,” my mother would say with sarcasm. “Men still need to learn how to express their more feminine sides.”

Just as I was hearing her voice, Chris farted. “Ahhh, that felt good,” he said. My father burped with his mouth open wide as the Grand Canyon. I sat there and scratched my balls in comfort.

Good thing Mom wasn’t in the jeep.

At Dad’s place, the kids had already overdosed on candy canes.

“They’re even more hyper than usual,” Erika said as we hung up our coats.

“That’s a scary thought,” said Chris.

“Sure it’s safe to come in?” I added.

“Ohh, you two! Merry Christmas,” she laughed. She had to stand on tiptoes to kiss our cheeks.

“I’ll need a stepladder soon if you two keep growing so fast!”

I know I’m supposed to rag on about my stepmother. As in the wicked stepmother. Erika’s wicked all right. As in she rocks! Not that I’d ever want to mess with her. She’s Irish. She makes good stew beef and the best pumpkin pie I ever tasted. She makes cute kids, too. Even if they are all “yanging orangutans” as Dad calls them.

Here’s the photo album of my stepfamily. These are my favorite pictures. I keep them in my head.

Snapshot Number One:

Hanna Melanie Hall. Born April 3, five years ago. She has white blonde hair that looks like cotton candy. Her eyes remind me of wet blueberries. She reads better than I can. Her favorite book of all time is Go Dog Go. I’ve read that to her a bazillion times. When she gets tired she rubs the tip of her nose with her ratty flannel blanket and twirls a piece of her hair. When she’s cranky, you do not, I repeat, do not, want to go near her. In this picture she is blowing out candles on her third birthday cake. I’m the guy holding the balloons. Mom gave me that bunch for free.

Snapshot Number Two:

Luke Ferguson Hall. Born September 12, three years ago. Luke would be the runt of the litter if he were a puppy. If he were a puppy, he’d be a miniature poodle. He’s got thick, black curls all over this teeny little head. His head still looks too big for his body. His eyes are as enormous as those cartoon characters he’s always watching. He drools when he sleeps and he drools when he’s awake.

“Shut your mouth Lukie,” they’re always telling him. So the spit won’t run down his chin. Poor kid. No wonder he doesn’t talk much.

“We’re taking him to a speech therapist,” said Erika last month. “We’re getting worried.”

In this picture Lukie’s riding piggyback. I’m the horse.

Snapshot Number Three:

Maddie (Madison) Marie Hall. Born on my birthday, July 26th, this year. Hair sticking up like porcupine quills. Peeling skin with a scrunchy face from all that crying.

“She’s colicky,” says Dad. “Hasn’t slept a night through since she was born. Should have stopped while we were ahead, I guess.” Poor Maddie, I suppose she’ll grow up hearing that over and over and over again. His line for me goes something like, “I think we had Julian to try and save our marriage. Our last hope.” More like hopeless, I guess.

In this picture Maddie’s looking into the camera and smiling like a little pumpkin. I’m the one taking her picture. I’m the one who can always make her laugh.

Snapshot Number Four:

Dad. The man I learned to call Dad. He’s not my father. I mean, he’s my blood father, but it’s complicated. I see him with Lukie and the other kids. I watch him with Chris. It’s different with me and we both know it. Does he love me? Sure. Do I love him? I guess. Love’s not the issue here. But do we like each other?

I think he’s a goof. Always spouting off without thinking. He drinks. This pisses me off. “He’s a harmless drunk who holds down a good paying job,” says Chris. This is true. He’s a foreman at the lumberyard. And he doesn’t smash the furniture or push Erika around. Still. When I see him drooling like Lukie at the end of the kitchen table, his eyes little slits in his head as he staggers up to bed, I hate him. I hate him for being that… weak. Big Strong Dan Hall. Not.

Anyhow, in this picture he is wearing a brown checkered shirt. He’s asleep on a striped blue sofa. He has sideburns. There’s a baby tucked in his arms, fast asleep. The baby is me. This picture is the only proof I have that once upon a time we lived under the same roof. So much for happily ever after.