Chapter 2
2
Charley
I shake my head, still muttering to myself. “Sure, come to a football game. Get tackled on the sidelines. Who does that?”
Clearly, I’m not another player. I’m not six-foot gigantic with pads on. And doesn’t the tackling and grunting stop after you cross the last, thick white line? Ugh.
The stadium was too big, too loud, too many people. Too everything .
How much trouble am I going to get in for leaving early though…?
I pass quickly through the dank tunnels and out into the parking lot. If Coach asks, I’ll tell him I didn’t feel good after getting plowed over by one of his guys. That sounds like a legitimate excuse to me.
Stretching my neck and shoulder, I try to work out the discomfort. Truthfully, it isn’t as bad as it could have been because the guy did try to change direction at the last second. But who would willingly sign up to wrestle people to the ground play after play? Sounds awful. And the people who watch them, cheering their lungs out? Even worse.
I linger in the parking lot, people watching and pretending to wait for a ride so I don’t get home too early. The last thing I need is Dad knowing I flaked out, considering he’s the one who pulled some strings to get me the position with Coach T. When I’m so bored I can’t stand it, I walk home slowly, counting the cracks in the sidewalk.
I hit eighty-seven when our front gate looms. The once white, hip-height fence looks like it should be outside of a haunted house. Pickets are missing or broken. What’s there is decaying day-after-day, overwrought by mold and moss. The top hinge hangs loose, so I have to lift it to secure the sliding lock. Not that this thing is keeping anyone out. People could step over it if they wanted to, or kick it right down.
I hesitate with my hand on the rusty metal. The yard needs to be mowed. The porch should be painted. Hell, the porch should be torn off and rebuilt. Repairing the broken wood would only be putting a Band-Aid on something that needs stitches.
Staring straight ahead, I try not to see what everyone else must. The worst house on the block by far. The mousy daughter of a recluse. At least the neighbors have stopped asking how my dad’s doing every time they see me, but that could be because the ones who knew me from when I was a kid don’t live here anymore. And the others? Who wants to talk to the grubby people on the block?
Sliding the lock into place, I walk down the jungle-like path and up the creaky steps, avoiding the broken plank with the chipped paint.
I twist the doorknob, settling myself by taking a deep breath before I step inside. I barely have the door open before my father’s voice calls out, “Charley?”
Who else would it be? I shut the door behind me and look up. “It’s me.”
“Well?”
That one word hangs in the air like a suspended anvil. I swallow, making my feet move once more toward Dad in the living room. Immediately, I start clearing the empty containers from the food I brought him before I left for the game. “I…think it went well.”
“Was T impressed?”
Reaching down, I grab the empty two-liter of soda and add it on top of the other two containers. “I don’t know why he wouldn’t be. Though—” I stop, not knowing if mentioning that a player tackled me will bring me sympathy or something else.
With my dad, you never know.
Before I can finish the sentence, I retreat into the kitchen to throw away Dad’s mess. As I’m discarding the soda bottle, I sneak a peek back into the living room and see that he’s staring at me, still waiting. His glasses are too small for his face and taped on one side because he accidentally set a Cho’s chicken container on them.
He cocks his head, his jowls doubling more than usual with the look of disapproval. “Though what? …And while you’re in the kitchen, grab me a sandwich. Tuna.”
I nod, getting straight to work. Three pieces of bread, tuna layered inside. He’s been eating it like this for years.
“I’m waiting…”
Here we go . “Well, I got tackled…on the sidelines,” I add. Taking a step backward, I move into my father’s line of sight to show him my new Warner Bulldogs Football sweatshirt. I’ve only seen the bottom portion but it looks like I’ll be dealing with a grass stain that I hope comes out easily. I didn’t even want this stupid sweatshirt, but Dad thought it would go a long way in getting Coach to like me. I maintain it’s a waste of precious money. Even more so now that it might be ruined permanently.
“Who gets tackled on the sidelines? You must have been in the way. You can’t actually be out on the field during play. You know that, right?”
The half smile dies on my face, and I return to layering the tuna. “I was watching the game and then this guy came careening straight for me.”
“Who was it?”
“No idea.”
“Well, what position did he play?”
Shit. He had the ball and he was running, so … “A runner.”
“A running back?” he asks with a sigh.
“Yeah, that.” I grab another two-liter of soda and the layered sandwich and bring it out to Dad. He flicks through TV channels while I sit his early dinner on a tray. The top swivels over in front of him so he has a place to eat, though we had to elevate it from the bottom so it would pass over his stomach. I wait until he finds something to watch and then shifts backward, grimacing and grunting to get his body in a comfortable position, before I slide the tray in place.
The first thing he does is take a long drink of soda, nearly downing a quarter of it right off the bat. I turn my head, trying to quell the nausea rolling around inside me, then take a seat on the couch.
He’s silent for a while as I mindlessly watch TV, but then he burps and asks, “Well…did they win?”
I’m glad I’m turned away because the look of complete horror on my face would be a quick indication that I have no idea. After doing a rapid assessment that includes their winning year plus the fact that it’s highly unlikely my dad would ever find out otherwise, I answer with, “Of course. Keeping up their winning streak. Coach T was happy about that.”
The lie feels sour on my tongue—even if it is necessary—but then my dad taps my forearm with the plate I made his sandwich on. Peering over, the paper plate that now only sports a few leftover crumbs is suspended toward me. Instead of taking it right away, I peer up at my father. His arm starts to shake with the effort of holding it out. His thin lips purse. Unlike most everyone else, my dad’s most prominent feature is his cheeks. They take up more landscape than his eyes, nose, and lips. Sometimes when I look at him, I don’t even know who I am to him anymore. I know what it feels like most days, but I hate to even think the words.
After taking the plate, he leans backward with a big sigh, placing the two-liter on his stomach and cradling it between his droopy pecs. Immediately, his stare goes back to the TV like I’m just a blip.
“I’ll take care of this.” I don’t know why I say it. He’s not even listening anymore, and it was expected anyway. Walking into the kitchen, I discard the plate into the trash and then announce I’m going upstairs to do homework. A response doesn’t come, so I run up the steps and take a deep breath once I’m in the sanctuary of my room. A little bit of the tension eases off my shoulders.
Flopping down on the bed, I turn to find the picture of Dad and Mom before she died. Dad was normal sized with a huge smile on his face. There was even a spark in his eye. That niggling thought runs through my brain again, and I hate myself for it but… This picture is proof of who my dad is, deep inside. I don’t recognize this guy in him anymore. Over the years, he slipped away, and fat and hostility took its place.
I don’t blame him for being miserable. I’d be miserable too if I weighed as much as he did and never got out of the house. If food was my only friend and my reason for getting up in the morning.
Squeezing my eyes shut, I try to sweep those thoughts somewhere else so I can focus on my current plan. Now that I’m the Bulldogs’ coach’s assistant and actually getting paid, I can stash money away to get my own place. Maybe afford a nurse to check on Dad because it’s clear I’m not doing something right. I’m an enabler. No matter how many times I’ve tried to have a conversation with him about his eating habits, all he ends up doing is yelling. First, it’s a massive guilt trip. Then he gets mad.
“Do you think I want to look like this? Do you think I enjoy being this big? You took the one thing I ever loved from me, what did you expect would happen?”
I love my dad very much, but I will not sacrifice my life for his.
I can’t.