After Hours at the Almost Home. Tara Yellen

shots? Anyone ready for shots?

      Steph frowned. Well, she said, glaring at Denny. Anyway.

      So about this game, Denny’s father said.

      It’s tomorrow, Denny said, taking a drink. Sunday.

      Morning or night?

      Steph said, Afternoon.

      His father said, Well, that works.

      Denny watched him mop his plate with a chunk of bread, watched his face, his dark pores, his short nose, his thin mouth, which, when relaxed, fell loose into a sneer. Now it was in a sort of half smile Denny didn’t recognize—like his father was trying them on, new expressions.

      In the morning, Steph got up early to cook a fancy breakfast and while she and his father stood in the kitchen polishing off the last of it, discussing Jack Russell terriers, some BS about dog shows, Denny went into the bedroom and closed the door.

      His father’s flannel pajamas were folded on the pillow, his cracked leather duffel on the floor beside the bed. Denny stood there for a minute. Now the whole room smelled like his father. He slid open the bottom dresser drawer and felt underneath the t-shirts for the wooden box, sat down with it on the bed. He took out his pipe and ziplock of weed and packed a bowl, a good one, then lit it, pushed aside the pajamas and lay back, blew smoke at the ceiling. The pipe was Jamaican, a gift from James, a regular who went to Jamaica every year. He stayed in Negril, the cool part, not the touristy shit in Montego Bay. One of these years Denny was going to go with him. He was invited, James had said, anytime. The pipe was black wood, carved into a man. His mouth was the bowl. It made him look surprised. Every hit, a surprise.

      Denny got up and turned on the TV that was beside the bed. It was a shitty set, a little black-and-white number. Denny wanted to move the living room one in here and get a big screen. But Steph refused. She wouldn’t throw this one away because it was the first thing she’d bought as an adult. That was so like her, to get sentimental over something like a TV. Piece of crap. The picture was all grainy and it had an on-and-off vertical hold problem—every time something important was showing, it seemed. Like now, the early news was talking about the game. The local sports guy was saying how two weeks’ rest prior to the Bowl seemed to favor the Packers because they were more banged up, but his voice kept popping and his face kept traveling up. Denny smacked the side a few times, which only made it worse, so he turned it off. Seven more hours to kickoff.

      Steph swung open the door and snapped it shut behind her. I can smell it, she hissed. She was still in her bathrobe, but she’d already put on makeup, Denny noticed.

      He shrugged, took another hit.

       Denny.

      He doesn’t know the smell. And so what if he does?

      You could at least wait until he goes to church.

      I’ll smoke now. I’ll smoke when he’s in church. I’ll smoke all day if I feel like it.

      She said, The door was unlocked, he could’ve walked right in.

      This is my place, not his.

      It’s our place. She gave him the cow look. She said, I’m alone out there.

      So stay in here. He blew a line of smoke, made it as long and thin as he could, watched it go fuzzy and dissolve into air.

      Denny. I can’t just leave him out there.

      You’re getting along famously.

      She fiddled with a dresser pull. You know what? You thought he wouldn’t accept or respect me, but I think he does, Denny. And the two of us, you know, as a couple. I think he thinks we’re good together, I really do. The dresser pull came off in her hand, and she slipped it into her robe pocket, like a guilty kid.

      Denny stared at the ceiling. The paint swirls were like waves. Jamaica, he thought. He’d work some extra shifts and go to Jamaica, maybe walk around the edge of the island, backpack around the whole thing, meet people, smoke some good bud—not the dried shit he was getting from Spencer lately, all seedy. And James wasn’t all that bad, he could hang with James—hell, he could hang with anyone in Jamaica, on the beach, with the sun and crazy-blue sky and that bright white sand. An ice bucket of tallboys. Marna was always saying she might come too. Denny watched the paint waves and decided he’d tell James first thing on Monday.

      Steph, he said then, we’re going to Damon’s.

      But we can’t.

      It’s the Super Bowl. We made plans and I’m not staying home.

      He’s your father. He’s visiting.

      So, he said, coughing out a hit. So fine. He’s welcome to come.