hours later, he was up waiting in the La-Z-Boy. He’d tried to go to bed, but it was useless, like he’d downed a couple pots of coffee. Did you think I could sleep after getting that note? he asked when she finally opened the door—when, surprised to see him, she gave a high-pitched oop and said, Hey cowboy, lookin’ to get some?
Note? She dropped her purse by the door and shook off her coat, let it fall on the couch. She kicked off her shoes, then tripped over them. Then tripped over the dog. Giggled. Said, Oh god, you should have seen Cheryl tonight. Do we have anything to eat?
Denny took a deep breath. Very slowly, he said, Why is my father coming to visit the weekend of the Super Bowl?
Oh that note. Whatdya mean why? To visit.
Yeah, I got that part.
Well, now I finally get to meet him, right? We can still watch the game. She sat down beside him, on the arm of the La-Z-Boy, and touched his shoulder. Like this was a moment. She’d spilled something on her blouse. It formed a pink island over her left boob.
Denny stood up and snapped off the TV. Sure, he told Steph, maybe we’ll get scripture at halftime. Sounds like loads of fun.
Is it that big a deal?
Yes, Steph, yes it is.
Okay, she said. But it’s your father. What was I supposed to say?
How about no. Or, No. Or, Not a good weekend. Or, Super Bowl Sunday, for crying out loud. Or, Broncos. The only day in the whole year that fucking matters. Or, Christ, Steph, don’t pick up the phone, let the machine get it, like a normal person.
So call him back. She got up and drifted into the kitchen, like that was the end of that—like too bad for you—and got a jar of peanut butter out of the cupboard, started eating it, pulling out big chunks with her thumb and index finger. A glob of it fell and stuck on the island—you are here, he thought—but she didn’t pick it off. She just kept eating, shoveling it in. Typical. She’d go on these ridiculous diets, vegetable juice and boiled liver and shit, and complain about her thighs, oh I’m so fat, and then she’d get a few drinks in her and what would she do but chow down on everything in sight.
That’s some great advice, he said. Thank you, Miss Oh-so-sensitive-expert. Thank you, Dr. Dear Abby. And he grabbed the jar from her hand, pulled it away mid-dig, so that she almost stumbled backwards.
Denny didn’t call his father back the next morning. Or the morning after that. Or that. Last time Denny’d seen his father was at least five years ago, when his father was still living off his mother’s poultry farm, letting her take care of everything, the farm, the bills. The house could go up in flames and his father would be rationing out the words. Please. Help. House. Fire.
His mother visiting—now, that would be okay. Denny talked to her on the phone pretty regularly. She liked to call and check in, and a few times a year he made the seven-hour drive back to the farm. She hadn’t remarried yet or even done much dating—which surprised Denny. When he first heard that she’d finally kicked out the old man, Denny’d pictured her having some fun, getting into that line-dancing or square-dancing shit, wearing a checkerboard shirt, maybe a hat.
His mother would have been one thing. But his father. As if they’d have anything to say to one another. Plus, Super Bowl or no Super Bowl, now that Denny had moved in with Steph, it wasn’t just a matter of his father visiting him. He would be visiting them. How could that conversation have gone? What had his father said when Steph answered the phone? Denny tried to push her on it, but she was still sore about the peanut butter. About the way he’d acted.
Sorry, he said. Then again, like he meant it: Sorry.
Sometimes, she said, I don’t think I know you, Denny. She had that look going, deliberate and cow-eyed, like something she’d practiced in the mirror.
You know me, he said. How do you not know me?
Well for one, I don’t know anything about your father.
My father. My father gives a shit about himself, and Jesus Christ, and—wait, who else? Oh yeah, no one. So, there, now you know.
Two days before his father’s arrival, she started cleaning. She dusted the molding, took everything out of the cabinets, reorganized the closets, emptied out the junk drawers. There were piles of papers and garbage everywhere. Don’t touch any of it, Steph warned. I have a system. Her head was wrapped in a pair of pantyhose, her hair jutting out in places, sticking to her cheeks in little curls. She was sweating.
Denny said, I don’t think he’s going to check the refrigerator drip pan.
I just want the place to be clean.
It is clean.
But really clean. Parent-clean.
Listen, Steph, I have some news for you. It’s not the apartment’s cleanliness he’s going to be concerned with.
But she kept going around with the Lysol, the dusting cloths. She set up their bedroom for him, put out towels and a matching wash-cloth she’d bought special. Apparently, Denny and her’d be sleeping on the fold-out bed in the front room. She even made a sausage lasagna, from a recipe, frying the meat, chopping onions, getting it set to cook, baking it halfway.
This looks good, Denny admitted, poking at the crust along the edge.
She pointed a red-tipped spoon at him. Don’t you dare.
Hey. He wrapped his arms around her and kissed her neck, which smelled like soap and garlic. Could you take a chill, baby? Eat a Valium?
It was like the pope was coming or something.
John fucking Elway or something.
The dog skittered around their feet, snuffling, poking its nose up pant legs as Denny did the introductions.
Oh wonderful, Steph kept saying. She touched his father’s arm. Look, she said, pointing to the dog. She loves you.
His father made a halfhearted, stiff move to pet the dog and missed, stroked air. Said, We have a Stephanie at our church. Stephanie Saunders. Same color hair as you.
How funny, Steph chirped. Isn’t that funny, she said to Denny.
For crying out loud, Denny thought. At dinner he wanted to pass her a note. Quit the production. She kept chattering. About everything. The cold. The hot. How the Denver airport is supposed to look like a mountain range, but really it looks like a banana-cream pie.
His father ate quietly, nodding steadily in agreement.
Denny, Steph said, tell your dad about that funny thing that just happened. The truck breaking down.
What funny thing.
You know, when you were stranded and ended up sleeping in some old lookout tower.
Fire tower. That was months ago.
Got lost? his father asked. That’s from me, no sense of direction. You got that from me. Can’t find my way out of a paper bag.
Steph laughed. You should’ve seen him, in the morning. With splinters all in his jeans, all the way through. Do you remember all those splinters, Denny? Awful.
I wasn’t lost. And it was months ago. And it wasn’t that awful. He muttered, You seem to be enjoying it.
Steph studied him for a moment, then turned to his father. You should’ve seen him, she said again.
His father nodded. So where you working these days, Denny?
Denny paused. Thought, Where are you working. His mother was sending checks. She said she wasn’t but Denny was pretty sure she was. He said, Same place.
Oh yeah? That’s good.
Right. It’s a job.
His father paused. Then asked Steph, Mind if I have another helping?
Too