Chapter 6: Gavin
I think Corabelle is managing okay.
I watch her all the time, looking for signs that the strain is too much for her. But she does her Corabelle things. Dinner. Tidying. Reading. Studying.
I’ve been working extra hours at Bud’s trying to get ahead on bills. Today I have to replace a radiator, which is a pain and a half. Twice Bud himself has come over so we can wrangle it out from the hoses and tight-set motor.
Right now I’m hooking the new one in.
I came home twice last week to find Tina sitting with Corabelle. Once they weren’t even talking, just hanging out in the living room staring at the walls. Corabelle says she had a bit of a scare and Tina waited with her until she settled down.
The other time, they were painting rainbows on tall glass containers filled with candle wax. Corabelle has kept hers lit pretty much every moment since. She’s never really been a rainbow person, but maybe it was Tina’s idea.
I worry about her. But she’s back in class for the summer quarter, her load considerably lighter just taking classes and not being a TA. Her prof came through with a scholarship even though Corabelle had to turn down the adjunct position. He’s good like that. Corabelle was relieved as she felt like she needed to work at the coffee shop otherwise.
No way would I let that happen. I’ve taken the summer off from school to get more hours, and I could defer a semester. I’m already on the seven-year plan. Might as well go for ten.
We’re both marking time now. I guess parents do. But it’s not just the baby coming we count the days for. It’s the mid-pregnancy sonogram. This time, they’ll look at the baby’s heart and see if it is developing correctly. It’s not something they normally examine in a routine visit. But since Finn’s heart defect could be genetic, we have to know.
My phone buzzes, but I have to ignore it. I’ve got both hands in the guts of this Mazda, making sure every hose is locked down and tight.
Mario walks by. “You got it?” he asks.
I nod and walk my hands along the radiator, making sure it sits correctly and none of the hoses are pinched.
When I’m free, I pick up my phone to see who called. I really hope it wasn’t Corabelle with a problem.
It’s not.
It’s my mom’s cell phone. She hasn’t left a voice mail.
I don’t talk to her very often, just Christmas and Mother’s Day. I call my sister June on her birthday, though, and she sometimes calls me if she’s by herself. She’s fourteen.
I shove my phone back in my pocket. If it was important, Mom would have left a message. I head to the driver’s side of the car to fire it up and let it run to make sure it doesn’t overheat.
But my phone buzzes once more.
Mom again.
Something has to be going on, so this time I pick up.
“Hey,” I say.
“Gavin? Is that you?” Her voice is tremulous and scared.
“It’s me, Mom,” I say, and my heart thuds when I hear how she sounds.
“I need you to come home,” she says.
“Is June okay?”
She sniffles. “It’s your father,” she says. “He’s having heart bypass surgery the day after tomorrow.”
My body stills. I imagine my father dead and find I have zero concern about it. He’s a bitter, angry, awful old man, and no one is going to mourn his death.
“Gavin? You still there?”
“I’m here. I heard you.”
“Are you coming?”
I hesitate. “Nah. I’ve got a lot going on here.”
“But he’s your father. He might not make it through this.”
“I quit considering him my father the last time he gave me a black eye,” I say. “You and June still okay?”
“We are,” she says. “He’s changed, Gavin.”
“I doubt that,” I say. “But I’m glad he isn’t hurting you.”
I’d kill him if he did, but it was always about me. Never the girls.
I think about June. We don’t talk about Dad. But he can’t be good for her, even if he isn’t one to punch a female.
“Please, Gavin. Make amends with him before the surgery.”
“Is Grandma K there to help you?” I ask.
“Of course,” she says.
“And Uncle Ben?”
“He’s coming.”
“Then sounds like you have plenty of help. Let me know if he keels over. I’ll buy the first round.”
“Gavin!”
“I’m serious, Mom. Love you.”
And I end the call.
I do love her, and my sister. But if she thinks I’m going to drop everything and go play nicey nice with the man who bruised me body and soul, she’s wrong.
Dead wrong.
I sit in the seat of the Mazda, watching the temperature gauge. It’s holding steady, unlike the way I’m feeling inside.
“Everything all right?” Mario asks. He bends down, his head by the door. His hair is wild, black and curling. He hasn’t cut it since his last girlfriend.
“Just parent stuff,” I say. “Nothing important.”
“Temp holding?” he asks.
“Looking good.”
“Cool. Because some hot chick just drove in an engine overhaul, and I’m going to need a second set of hands.”
“For the car or the chick?”
He elbows me. “Yeah, right. You won’t even shoot pool with me anymore. Bona fide househusband. Your bachelorhood is blown.”
“I don’t make a good wingman,” I say.
“Yeah, they always want the married one anyway,” he says. His fingers comb through the wild tangle on his head. “I’m thinking of growing my hair long, get a beard. That’s the look now.”
“Don’t ask me for grooming advice. I barely remember to shave.”
“The chicks seem to dig that look on you.”
I shrug. This is one of the reasons I don’t hang with Mario since Corabelle came back. He doesn’t recognize that my priorities are completely rearranged.
“I’m going to bring her car around,” he says. “Bay three.”
“I’ll be there in a sec,” I tell him. I’ll have one of the grunts take the Mazda for a drive to make sure it’s all working.
I clear the tools from the area and drop the hood. A towel gets caught in the latch, and I have to lift it again to clear it. My head betrays me, flashing back to a morning a long time ago, working on Mom’s car with Dad. He had me do that a lot, insisting I learn a trade.
I was probably ten or so. Normally Corabelle hung around when I was with Dad, as he wouldn’t hit me when she was watching. He felt like the Rothefords were nosy and would call the cops even though he had every right to discipline his son. But that day Corabelle was shopping with her mom.
That morning I closed the hood on the shop towel, just like I did today. It shouldn’t have been any big deal. It’s just a crappy old rag, and lifting the hood a second time took all of five seconds.
But Dad was already frustrated and annoyed that he’d had to buy a new battery for the car. He blamed Mom for it, since she only ever drove to church and back, and he was sure those short trips were killing the alternator or the battery or both.
It was stupid, and we both knew it. He tried to make her walk instead, told her she could use the exercise anyway. This was his way of berating her, keeping her down. I only knew he was wrong because I practically lived at Corabelle’s house, and I saw the way a man ought to treat his wife.
But I couldn’t do anything about it.
I pulled the towel out and lowered the hood, hoping he wouldn’t say anything about my mistake.
But of course he had. He snatched the towel from me and snapped it at my head. The corner whipped against my cheek, causing a sharp sting.
I turned away to pick up the tools, but he was just warming up.
“You can’t do a single damn thing right the first time, can you, boy?” His voice had that low threatening quality I knew meant I better split fast. I could run, hide somewhere for the day, wait for Corabelle to come home. Most weekends I stayed over there until late, when I could sneak in, my father snoring on the recliner.
I dropped the wrench in the toolbox and headed past the car to the sidewalk. My father was strong but not fast. I could outrun him if I got a chance.
He knew it, stepping between me and the car. I was blocked.
I could go back through the garage into the house and cut through the kitchen. But he’d know I was running then. It would only make things worse later, tomorrow or whenever it caught up to me.
For some reason, that day I decided I was done running. I stared him right in the eye and stood up straight.
I would take this blow and move on.
His face was a sneer as I did my best to square my shoulders. We glowered at each other, seconds ticking. I waited for the blow. He didn’t do it.
So I asked, “You want me to start it up?”
This caught him a bit by surprise. He expected me to cower, to run. He wiped the battery crud off his hands onto the towel. His squinty eyes took me in. “Yeah,” he said. “See if you even connected it right.”
No blow.
I scooted past him and he cuffed my head as I passed, but that was nothing. I climbed into Mom’s car and turned the key. The engine hesitated, uneasy. But after a catch or two, it fired up.
My father stood there, frowning at the car, hands on his hips. He seemed less intimidating with the car between us. I could close the door and lock it. If I dared, I could put the car in reverse and just take off.
Or put it in drive and run him over.
But it was a big moment. I hadn’t backed down.
The towel has reminded me of this moment, this knife-edge of wanting to be gone, or him dead.
Now I’m grown, and I’m gone, and he might die.
And by God, I simply can’t find any sympathy in my heart.