Page 76 of Love What's Left
Duane’s a liar.
I can still smell him on the blanket. So, if I close my eyes and don’t try to pet him, I can imagine I’m not alone.
Finally, I hear a scraping at the door handle and a thump, then the driver’s door flings open, and Dad half climbs, half falls into his seat.
“Shit.” He laughs, then gives a big burp.
A damp breeze from the open door blows the beery smell back to me. When he leans his head on the steering wheel and blindly scrapes his key around trying to plug it into the car, I sit up in the backseat.
“You have to shut the door. Rain is coming in,” I say.
“Smart as a whip. What would I do without you?” he asks.
“Prolly drown in rain,” I say.
“Good thing I got you, then.” He drags the door closed and manages to turn the car on.
“You said only one beer tonight. You promised.”
“A man can’t turn down a drink from friends, or he won’t have friends for long,” he says like I’m being silly.
“But you just got me back.” I try to say it without sounding like a crybaby, so it comes out mad, instead.
“And I’m keeping my girl. You worry too much,” he says.
I rummage around and find his water, then twist open the plastic cap and hold the bottle out to him. He stares at it like he’s never seen a water bottle before.
I nudge his arm with it. “You gotta drink it so your head don’t hurt too bad for work in the morning.”
He swipes it from my hand and only spills a little, not that it matters, ’cause he’s already wet. “You’re a good kid. The best daughter any man ever had. You know I love you, right?”
“I love you too, but I wish you’d tell Little Mitch you like apple juice.”
Dad laughs and slaps the steering wheel.
I dig around for the big bottle of headache medicine, push down hard on the wiggly cap the way Dad taught me and twist, so I can get it open. I count out three ’cause he’s a big man and needs them, then pass them up one at a time.
He swallows the pills, then reaches for the gear shift.
I reach forward. “Wait. Aren’t you going to let me drive?”
He turns toward me. “You want to, Syd the Kid?”
If he’shad one too many, he gets tired when he’s driving. The car goes all over the place, and he needs me to sit on his leg and steer while he pushes the pedals. “Yeah, but I’m covering you in Howard’s blanket first.”
He scratches the back of his head. “The hell you are. It’s almost summer. Too hot for that shit,” he says in the voice that sounds like his mouth forgot he has a tongue. “Then we’ll both smell like wet dog.”
“You’re all gross.”
He chuckles. “You’re not made out of sugar, sugar.” He throws his hands up. “I’m melting. I’m melting.”
Figuring I might as well get it over with, I hitch my leg up through the middle of the seats to climb through, but Dad pats my knee with his big bear-paw hand. “You don’t have to get wet, honey. Your ol’ man is good to go. I haven’t had too much.”
I gnaw on the inside of my cheek. Maybe it’d be okay. I seen him drive way worse.
“Trust me. Take a nap. I’ll carry you in the house when we get home like you’re still my sweet lil’ baby girl.”
I roll my eyes. “Okay, Dad.” He can’t carry me if he needs me to help him up the steps so he don’t fall down and sleep in the yard. Sometimes I wish I still was his baby, though, getting carried around, instead of eight years old and too big for people taking care of me.
