Page 7 of Frosty Felicity
“Your father hasn’t changed a bit.”
“Why would he? He’s happy being a football fanatic and twenty-four-seven nutjob. Did Andrew tell ya that he wanted me to speak at his school?”
“Yeah, he told me. He said, ‘Mom, Dad is coming to my class to talk about his job and discuss self-defense.’”
He nodded, loving that Andrew still called him Dad. Oddly enough, his biological father had decided in the last couple of years to contact him. Their divorce was final, and initially, Brett felt a bit territorial when it came to Andrew, but in the end, he just wanted what was best for him. Andrew didn’t call the sperm donor ‘Dad’… he called him by his first name. But him? He was still Dad, and he hoped to always fill those shoes, especially since he and Liza never had any children of their own.
“Andrew has been getting into football lately, I see.”
“Yeah,” She tapped her fingers against the counter. “You see Andrew is with them in there. He couldn’t wait. I couldn’t tear him away if I needed to right now.” They were both silent for a bit—an awkward quiet, with a sense of finality. The kind of quiet where you knew, once she and Andrew walked out that door, things would never be the same between them again. “After the game, we’ll be heading out.”
“Okay. Drive safely, please. Crazy people on the road tonight. You know today is—”
“A big drinking day…” She sniffed, then made her way out of the kitchen.
He stood there and kept washing the dishes, thinking of Mom, of better days. I like Thanksgiving, but damn if this one doesn’t hurt. I miss ya, Mom.
Minutes later, Andrew came into the kitchen, crumbs all over his mouth and a big smile on his eleven-year-old face.
“Hey, Dad,” The boy thrust his phone towards him. “You got a call, but your phone is locked, so I couldn’t answer it. It went to voicemail. I saw on the screen it was your boss though. Sargent Thorndale.”
“Thanks.” He took the phone from the boy, then Andrew quickly retreated to the crowd in the living room. He poured himself a cup of coffee, then played the voicemail.
“Hey, Brett, this is Mike. I hate to do this to ya, but Jacobs, Henderson, and Williams can’t do their shift tonight. Jacobs is sick. Henderson just finished a double, and Williams is probably somewhere goofin’ off, but said his kid was sick. We’re getting a crapload of calls right now, due to some traffic problems on I-75 and other spots, too.” Brett pulled his kitchen curtains open, noticing a fine mist dropping in the falling temperatures. Ice. “If you can’t come, I understand. I know it’s Thanksgivin’ and all, and it’s shitty for me to call when you just worked sixty hours last week, but can you loan me, hell, a couple of hours for some of these traffic accidents and calls tonight? We’ve got two lights out on Reading Road, Montgomery Road is a freaking mess, and we just need to help get these guys off the main path until the salt trucks can get down there. I’d appreciate it if you could.”
Less than fifteen minutes later, Brett was in his police uniform, and telling his father to man his cave.
“I’ll be back, everyone, but feel free to stay here.” He tossed up his hands as a bunch of his relatives, mainly the men, kept their eyes glued to the screen, barely paying attention to him. “I have to leave for a little bit for work. Don’t drink all of my beer, and for God’s sake, if the Kansas City Chiefs win, don’t come cryin’ to me!”
