Page 35 of The Sixth Spring

His chest ached. He turned and walked back to his shoes.

Twenty minutes later, in bed, Will closed his eyes and imagined Itori’s voice in his ear.

I have you.

He hoped that hadn’t been the last time he’d hear it.

###

The walk to his father’s place the next morning was long and scorching. By the time Will was rapping on the front door, he’d sweat through his shirt.

“Come in,” came his father’s gruff voice from the other side.

Will had two tote bags worth of food constituting a good chunk of his recent paycheck. He hefted them inside, taking the food straight to the cluttered kitchen.

Will went through the usual tasks–tossing the molded food from the refrigerator and loading new groceries into it. His stomach growled, and the back of his neck went hot in anger at all the waste.

After clearing the food, he took out the trash, replaced the bag, and then set about making a handful of sandwiches and bagging them. The last one he took with a glass of water to his dad in the living room.

Will should’ve made one for himself, but he hated eating here. His father always had something to say about anything that Will did.

The man scowled at the sandwich. “Bring me a fucking beer,” he groused as he took the plate.

Usually Will would try to push the issue. Try to make his dad drink at least a single glass of water. Today he felt too tired and angry to make the effort. He shuffled back to the kitchen, put the water in the sink, and grabbed a beer.

“Robbie came by last night, brought the good stuff,” his dad said as he took the beer from Will and cracked it open.

Will took his usual seat across from his dad’s recliner, on the checkered couch with the failing springs. The TV was playing sports highlights. Will’s eyes drifted around the trailer as his father mowed through the sandwich and beer.

There’d been so much shit in the trailer even before his father’s accident. Will had been the one to clean the place, to sort out things when his dad wasn’t looking. In his absence, none of it had gotten done.

Without Will, the place was slipping further and further into squalor. Every bit of space was littered with boxes and bottles and cans. Robbie had left a full ashtray of butts beside the couch that stank of nicotine. There was ash on the carpet.

Would this be Will’s life eventually? Would the loneliness of his life, the shackles of this town, eventually drown him like his father? Will didn’t drink, but he knew it was easy to start. Had seen the men around town fall into the bottle, because it was easier to numb themselves than deal with the hand they’d been dealt.

“Fuck Robbie,” his dad said as he finished his sandwich, chucking the paper plate on a pile of trash.

“What?” Will asked.

“Pussy ass bitch,” his father said with a sip of beer. “Came over last night and brought the good stuff. Fuckin’ buttering my ass because he’s cancelling the fishing trip. Got some bitch now, and she wants to go down to Miami.”

His dad and Robbie went back far.

“Oh?” Will prompted, even though he didn’t want to.

“Yeah. Told him if he needs to get his dick wet so bad, there’s plenty of that down at the bar.” His dad snorted. “And what the fuck is in Miami, anyway? We got beaches here.”

Will stayed silent, his eyes locked on the TV, seeing nothing. He could feel the rant building, and knew from experience it was best to sit there and shut up.

“Robbie starts going on about how it’s serious, and they’re in love, and blah fuckin’ blah. Some real pussy shit. I mean he’s almost fifty, ain’t he over that kid shit? Darla ain’t even that good lookin’ either. She’s got this–”

Will tuned him out. None of this was new territory. Dad hated just about everything and everyone, and he had more than enough colorful descriptors to paint a picture of exactly why.

Will wasn’t a woman, but he still felt those barbs like tiny spikes in his own back. He was still a kind of person his father didn’t respect. Likely the only reason his father hadn’t ended their relationship yet was because Will was too valuable in bringing him food and running errands.

The man went on for ten minutes, finishing his beer and then demanding another. Will retrieved it, sat back down, and didn’t speak.

His father complained about every little thing Robbie had ever done that had annoyed him. He had a seemingly endless supply of saved grudges. Now, suddenly, even the way that Robbie held his cigarette was suspect. The way he used a pool stick was ****** ****. Will was a statue. The words crashed into him, wave after wave, and he let himself slip into a numb half-listening. He couldn’t react, or he’d become a target.