I knew my old man’d be calling on Thursday at four. He always did. It was his one allowed phone call a week, and I dreaded it every time. I mean, he was my father. I guess some part of me loved him, deep down, but on the surface, I was real glad he was doin’ time.

Actually, in my entire life, I’d only ever known him to be on the outside six or seven times. And each time he was at home, he made my life miserable. It became very apparent, even from an early age, I was better off without him. We all were. Not that my brothers thought so. But I wasn’t like my brothers. They adored him, idolised him, and were stoutly protective of him.

Where I, on the other hand, saw him for what he was.

I brought some more wood inside and stoked up the fire. Our house was old, and if the wind blew hard enough, there’d be drafts comin’ up through the floorboards. The fibro cladding on the outside was old, faded, and did little to stop the cold seeping through. And this winter was supposed to be a cold one.

I looked at Pops, sitting in his old recliner. “You warm enough?”

“Yep,” he said, giving me a smile. “No need to fuss.”

I threw another log on the fire. There was plenty of reason to fuss. Pops was my one good thing. He basically raised me. Saved my hide plenty of times by stoppin’ my older brothers from givin’ me a flogging. And from my dad too. Pops was the one who kept me fed when I was real little, and he taught me how to cook. Not that I was any kind of fancy cook, but I could keep us both fed well enough now it was my turn to look after him.

“Want me to put your show on?” I asked, picking up the TV remote.

He looked at his watch. “Guess so. It’s almost four.”

Almost four.

My stomach twisted. I clicked on the TV and made sure it was on the right channel. Just as the theme music to The Young and the Restless started, the phone rang. I raced to the kitchen and snatched up the receiver. He didn’t like it if I let it ring too many times. “Hello?”

“Hey, boy.” The sound of his voice was familiar in an unpleasant way. Raspy and hoarse and always sounded like he knew the punch line to your joke.

“Hey, Dad. How’s your week been?”

“Same old. Got good news but.”

Oh no.

“Got parole. Comin’ home, boy.”

I swallowed down the lump in my throat and tried to act happy at the news. “That’s great. When?”

“A week today.”

A week?

“Make sure there’s beer in the fridge waitin’ for me, won’t ya, boy? And steak. Want some real meat, none of that prison shit.”

I had no idea where I was supposed to get the money to pay for all that, not that he’d care. “Sure thing. Sounds good.”

“Is Pops there?”

“Yeah, he’s watching TV. Just stoked the fire up for him. ’S gettin’ cold.”

He grunted something I couldn’t quite hear, then he barked down the phone. “You’ll pick me up from the train station, wontcha, boy?”

Maybe I could borrow Mr Barese’s car . . . “Yeah, of course.”

“I’ll need a ticket, too.”

I bit back a sigh but leaned my forehead against the wall. “Sure. I’ll let you know the details next week.”

“Good lad.”

And he hung up.

I slammed the receiver down. “Goddammit.” With a heavy sigh, I fell onto the couch.

Pops took one look at me. “He coming home?”

I nodded. “Yep. Next week.”

I could feel Pops’ eyes on me, but I didn’t look at him. I didn’t need to. “Don’t worry, CJ. He won’t be out long. Give him a month. He ain’t ever out much longer than that.”

I was so pissed I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t even unclench my jaw. I stared at the TV, at Pops’ silly show he watched, not seeing any of it. I didn’t realise for how long until Pops stood up, his legs unstable. “Better start some grub.”

“I’ll do it,” I said. “Lost track of time, sorry. You sit down and yell the answers out to me.” Family Feud had started, his second favourite show. I went into the kitchen and took the last three potatoes out of the cupboard and started peeling ’em. “I’ll have to get some more veggies tomorrow,” I said loud enough for him to hear.

But he spoke behind me, “CJ,” and I almost jumped out of my skin. He put his hand on my shoulder. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to scare ya.”

I turned back around, roughly peeling the potatoes in the sink. “’S okay. Didn’t hear ya come in. Aren’t ya watching your show?”

He waved his hand at the door, dismissing it. “It’ll be all right, CJ. He won’t be here long.”

I sighed and let my shoulders fall. “We just had everything goin’ good, didn’t we?”

He nodded slowly. “And we’ll have it just fine when he’s gone again.”

I looked at him then. He looked so much older than his sixty-three years. He was a full head shorter than me, silver hair, wrinkled skin, and his once-blue eyes were now grey. They’d been a hard-as-hell sixty-three years, and now, sober and clean for twenty-two years, only for emphysema to knock him on his arse. It wasn’t fair.

A good man. The best there ever was.

And here he was again, looking after me. “I know. We’ll be all right. I’ll make sure of it.” I went back to peeling the potatoes. “Bangers and mash okay?”

“Perfect.”

“Go back and sit down. You know the cold air don’t do your lungs any favours.”

He waved me off as he shuffled back to his seat by the fire. I could hear him wheezing until I started frying the sausages. I made sure Pops had at least three veggies a night, and much to his disgust, I didn’t cook with salt. He didn’t need to add heart disease to his list of problems.

I served us up our dinner, then cleaned up afterwards. Pops was in bed early, like every night, and I made sure his room was warm enough. I watched some lame reality TV show in hopes of seeing some shirtless guys, or even naked ones.

It was pretty fucking sad when that was the extent of my sex life. I had to wait till my Pops was asleep in bed before I could perv on late night television. If I was lucky, there’d be an R-rated movie on SBS. And if I was real lucky, it’d be a gay movie.

But tonight I was shit outta luck. It was a double-header of some soccer series. Just my freakin’ luck. I stabbed the Off button on the remote and took my sorry, frustrated self to bed.

* * *

I got up early to stoke the fire so the house was warm when Pops woke up. He normally shuffled out before seven, so I started his pot of porridge. He liked his oats every morning, and I liked him eating something hot and substantial. He needed more meat on his bones.

After we’d eaten and I’d cleaned up, I spent a few hours outside. I ran the mower over the front yard, hopefully for the last time before winter. I made a mental note to make sure Del’s was done too. Maybe I could go run the mower over his lawn this afternoon . . .

I mean, our house wasn’t anything flash. But it was still my home. I could still make it look the best it could look. I’d fixed the front garden as much as I could without spending any money. I’d weeded, pruned⁠—hacked, probably, but whatever⁠—and mostly tidied. It had never looked so good. The front fence was fallin’ apart, and most of the palings were missing, so I fixed that up the best I could too. We weren’t ever gonna win no ‘best house’ awards, but I didn’t care.

The house needed new paint, a new roof, new plumbing, a new bathroom . . . hell, it needed bulldozing. But it was our house. It wasn’t much, but it was Pops’ and my home.

Around ten-ish, I went back inside, knowing Pops might want a cup of tea or maybe something to eat. I put the kettle on and remembered some washing that needed hangin’ out, so I went and did that. The old washer just about shook the house off its stumps, and it didn’t spin the clothes real dry anymore, but at least it still washed ’em clean.

“Dunno how much longer that washing machine’s gonna last,” I said as I came back inside and walked into the kitchen.

“It’s been around since Jesus was a boy,” Pops said, still watching his telly. The house was small enough that a conversation could be had no matter which room we were in.

I smiled. We’d had that washing machine all my life. I was surprised it still worked at all. “True.” I poured the boiling water into his old teapot and fixed the lid. “Want a piece of toast with marmalade?”

“Nah, thanks anyway,” he answered. “Maybe for lunch.”

I took his teapot and favourite cup and sat it on the small table next to his seat just as a car pulled up out front. “Is someone here?” Pops asked.

I looked through the curtains. There was a white Commodore stopped right outside our front gate. “Yeah,” I answered quietly. “Looks like a government car.”

“They lost or something?” Pops asked, pouring himself a cuppa.

Normally I’d think yes. No one came down our road. Ever. Unless the coppers were bringing my old man home after a bender, but he was still in the clink. And this weren’t the police.

Then the driver’s door opened and I saw who got out. Blond hair, blue eyes, and a jaw that could cut glass.

Oh, hell no.

“What the hell does he think he’s doing here?”

“Who is it?” Pops looked up at me from his seat and I saw a flicker of uncertainty, of fear, in his eyes. When he put his tea down, his hands shook more than normal. He started to get up, but I stopped him.

“Nothing to be worried about. You stay there. It’s just my new PO.”

“I thought you said he was all right?”

Is that what I’d said? He was all right, all right. Young and hot—for a government worker. Filled his work shirts out nicely, and his pants too. He had a crooked smile and his eyes would squint when he smiled. And he had a freckle above his right eyebrow that I wanted to touch. The edge of his jaw made him look a bit tougher than he was and I wanted to run my thumb across it. And he smelt nice, which’d always been my Achilles heel . . . Anyway, that was beside the point. That was stupid thinkin’ and good for nothing but trouble. “Well, he was all right. But he ain’t welcome here.”