“Evan. Evan.”
My dad is bent over me.
I squint at him. “What time is it?”
“It’s almost five.”
“In the morning?”
He looks at me strangely. “Yeah. Do you want to go get doughnuts?” He stands up straight. This is a thing my dad and I do. He usually gets up at four a.m. and is out the door no later than five. His work at the bakery starts early, and on certain days, he wakes me up and we go to Dunkin’ Donuts. Ironic that we go to a doughnut chain when his work, his life, is baking. We sit at the counter. He orders coffee and a doughnut. I order a doughnut, sometimes two, and we mostly sit there in silence. If he’s feeling like we have some extra money that month, he buys a dozen on our way out. Then he takes me back home and goes to work.
I get up and look for my shoes. I fell asleep with my clothes on. I check my phone. It’s a bunch of texts from Henry after I dozed off.
Where RU?
Home?
Just drove by house. WTF, is there a party?
Call. CU
I should have texted him. I run to the bathroom and turn on the faucet, but not full blast so that I don’t wake my mother. I splash some water on my face and try to tame my hair with my wet hands. It’s not working. I sneak back to my room, grab a baseball cap, and meet my dad outside. He’s got the car already running and is leaning against the trunk taking long drags off his Marlboro Light. He’s looking toward the house across the street. With the streetlight hitting his face, his already strong profile is even more prominent. My dad has the kind of looks I wish I’d inherited. His face is bold, with angular features and a sharp, severe nose. My face looks like my mother’s.
He hears me opening the passenger door and comes around to the driver’s side. A cigarette dangles from his mouth as he slowly closes the door. He doesn’t want to wake her either.
“I can go in a little later today. Want to try a different Dunkin’ Donuts?”
Our neighborhood Dunkin’ is less than a mile away. We could walk there, if we really wanted to.
“Sure. Which one?”
“I don’t know. I saw one the other day on the way home. It’s in the opposite direction of the one we usually go to. It looked bigger.”
Bigger is code for better. More is also better. Bigger and more are not things my family can afford, so when there’s an opportunity to partake in one or the other—or, on that rarest of occasions, both—we’re all in.
The window on my dad’s side of the car is halfway down. He holds his cigarette out of it when he’s not smoking. He knows that cigarette smoke makes me dizzy, but I never have the heart to tell him that when he does that—open the window—the air actually just blows the smoke back and straight into my face. Usually most of my time in the car with him is spent trying to find new ways to hold my breath. But I don’t mind because we’re spending time together. A little secondhand smoke and light-headedness is a small price to pay.
The ride is in silence. We’re on surface roads. This time of day is kind of perfect. It’s so still. I actually let myself wonder if this could be the start of something new and better.
I daydream that maybe, suddenly, everything in Kalakee, Illinois, starts to change. My hair goes straight and floppy. The flat landscape is suddenly circled by lush, flowering hills. I can walk into any room filled with people without sweating. Everywhere. No more Greek school on the weekends. Our house is quiet and safe and I am loved.
“We’re here.”
My dad tosses a cigarette out the window.
I get out of the car and follow him inside. The place is almost empty except for two guys, both hunched over at the end of the counter, sitting side by side. Their heads are buried in the Chicago Tribune.
“Good morning, Eli.” The waitress behind the counter has a big, friendly smile.
Obviously my dad has been to this Dunkin’ without me.
We sit down at the counter.
“Is this your son?” She places a coffee cup in front of my dad with one hand and effortlessly pours with the other.
“Yes. This is Evan. For Evangelos, but he likes Evan.” He taps me on the head as if I’m five years old.
I smile at her. She has a broad, open, and friendly face.
“Handsome must run in the family.” The words lilt from her mouth as she searches for a coffee cup for me. “My name’s Linda. For Linda.”
My dad says, “He’s not drinking coffee.”
“Nice to meet you, Linda.” I do want coffee. I want a lot of coffee.
Linda leans on the counter, her hands spread apart. She looks at both of us and asks, “What do you gentlemen want this morning?”
“I’ll have a cruller and Evan will do a chocolate glazed.” My dad looks at me just to make sure.
That’s pretty much my standing order. I’ve been known to eat at least half a dozen of them in one sitting. You’d think I’d be larger, but my theory is that the internal nervous energy I work so hard to conceal keeps my metabolism running on high.
Linda is off to get the doughnuts. My dad is drinking his coffee and staring at the doughnut racks in front of us.
“Did you sleep okay?” he wants to know.
“Fine.”
I don’t mention the nightmares. My dad means well, but he doesn’t want to hear about things like nightmares. He wants to hear things like “I slept fine.”
“We didn’t wake you for dinner last night because we assumed you were exhausted. You must be starving. What do you want to drink?” Before I can even answer, he motions toward Linda, “Hon, get the boy another doughnut, and he’ll have a milk.”
With this sugar rush, I am going to be on fire for the first few hours of class.
“Here you go, dears.” Linda places our doughnuts and my milk on the counter and floats away.
“I heard about yesterday,” my father says with a mouthful of cruller. He takes a swig of coffee and motions for a refill.
“What did you hear?”
“I heard some people from church came over.”
Just as I’m about to take a bite of my chocolate glazed. The most important bite—the first one. The one that sets the tone for the rest of the doughnut experience.
I stop myself. Put the doughnut down and swivel to look at him. This is a very calculated move. I want him to know that the next thing I’m going to say is important.
“Dad, they think I have a demon inside me. Does that seem normal to you?”
“Oh, don’t be so dramatic. They were just praying for you. Nothing wrong with that.”
I ask him again. “Do you think I have demons?”
“Apparently not anymore.” He’s amused with himself.
I still haven’t taken a bite of the doughnut. Does he not notice? No one loves doughnuts more than I do.
“This isn’t funny. She’s making it harder and harder for me to have any kind of normal life.” When he doesn’t say anything, I add, “And I have nightmares. I don’t sleep fine.”
“Evan. Eat.”
I start in on it and say with a mouthful, “I’m not the one being dramatic. She’s creating it. What happened was—is—”
“Evan.” He looks right at me. “Let’s drop this. It’ll pass.”
“It won’t.” Under my breath: “She always gets away with it.” I’m mad at my father right now. Disappointed. It’s easy to be angry with her, but I expect more from him.
“Your friend asked about you a lot when you were at Bible camp.”
That’s out of left field. “Henry?”
“He came by the house. I was outside working on the car.”
“He knows we’re not allowed phones or—”
“He just wanted to see how you were. If we had heard from you.”
“I’ll see him today.”
He nods.
“Your mother thinks—we think—that Bible camp was a good change this year.”
“I could have gone camping with Henry and his family in Wisconsin again this year.”
“Maybe next year.” He turns. “Linda, we’ll take a dozen assorted to go. Make sure there are six chocolate glazed, three crullers, and Evan will pick the rest.” My father takes out a big wad of cash from his front pocket and hands it to me. “Pay the lady. I’ll be outside.”
“What’s with all the cash?”
“I went to the bank yesterday. We’re not using credit cards right now. Emergencies only.”
He goes out, lights a cigarette, and leans up against the car. It’s not autumn yet, though he’s dressed for it. He’s wearing a beige cable-knit turtleneck sweater and too-tight cords. It’s an outfit that he can pull off, but it embarrasses me. I’ve had female teachers tell me how good-looking my father is, in a very inappropriate way.
“Here you go, Evan. I made the rest some of my favorites, if that’s okay with you.” Linda hands me the box of doughnuts. “How old are you, honey?”
“Seventeen. I’ll be eighteen in October. I plan on getting a car soon.”
Why did I say that? Linda doesn’t care about my transportation plans. The sugar is starting to take effect and I’m running all my words together.
“Do you have a girlfriend?” she asks with her big, broad smile. “You must. I bet she’s really pretty.”
I turn bright red, hand her the money, and walk out.
We’re pulling out of the parking lot when I say to my dad, “Why do you put up with her?”
I regret the words even as they are coming out of my mouth. He never takes his eyes off the road.
“You know she’s had a hard life. There’s a lot you don’t know. Your mother’s childhood back in Greece wasn’t easy.”
My go-to move normally is to just nod my head and pretend to understand. But I don’t understand. How can someone who had a difficult life want to make their child’s life even harder?
“That’s no reason to do what she does. I’m getting too big to beat, so now she punishes me with mind games and this prayer shit. I don’t understand it.”
“Evan!” His eyes are still on the road.
“I’m sorry.”
I whisper, almost to myself, “Have you forgotten all the things she’s done over the years?” Have you forgotten my entire life?
I can tell just by looking at his face that he hasn’t.
I’m seven years old. Dad leaves the apartment at four a.m. for his first gig. He works all day at the bakery. He’ll come home for a quick shower midafternoon, and then go off to the next job, as a restaurant line cook. Sometimes he doesn’t get home till ten p.m.
Today when he came home between jobs, he found me in the corner of the living room. In a ball. Blood coming down my face from somewhere under my hair. It’s summer with a lot of midwestern humidity. We don’t have air-conditioning in the apartment, and the mixture of sweat and blood is such a weird, uncomfortable feeling. I’m too scared to get up and go anywhere else in the house.
He calls to me but I don’t move. He walks over and places his hand on my head. He can feel the lumps. I know he can. At that moment, my mother walks into the living room from the bedroom. I hold my breath.
It would be better if he hadn’t found me, because the fact that he has makes it into a “thing” with my mom. And once he leaves for his second shift, everything gets worse. He usually never says anything when this stuff happens. I want to believe that he secretly yells at her. But she’s usually the one yelling at him.
Today is different.
He lifts his hand off my head. My left eye must be swollen shut. I can’t see anything out of it. I turn slightly so I can see the action with my right eye. My shirt is drenched and sticking to my body. He walks toward her and grabs her upper left arm. I can tell the force of his grip on her bare skin by the way his fingers look—all red and white.
They just look at each other. She starts to cry.
Her crying no longer affects me. It stopped having an effect on me about a year ago.
He pulls her into their bedroom and closes the door behind them but I can hear clearly. It’s a cheap apartment with even cheaper walls, windows, and doors.
“Are you trying to kill him? Is that what you want?”
I’ve never heard him speak this way to her.
“Do you want me to come home to a dead child?” His voice is escalating. She’s sobbing.
He continues. “I don’t know what to do here. I don’t know what to do. I can’t.”
“He’s not a good person. I don’t want him. I want him gone.” I can tell she believes it. I’ve heard it so many times that I believe it.
Am I bad?
Is there something wrong with me?
“This isn’t right. It has to stop. One day he won’t survive this and it’ll be on you.”
I can tell he’s too tired to continue, but I don’t want him to stop.
I want him to yell at her.
To hit her the way she hits me, beats me, throws things at me. But I know that will only make her stronger.
We pull up in front of the house. I stare down at my box of doughnuts and take off my baseball cap.
“Evan, just try. Please.”
Isn’t that what I’ve been doing for years?
I take a breath and look out the passenger window. “Why the credit card freeze?”
“Things are kind of tough right now. My hours are getting cut back. And this house. It takes a lot. Plus there’s your Greek school to pay for.”
“We didn’t have to buy these doughnuts.”
“Doughnuts aren’t the problem.” He reaches over and musses my already wild nest of hair.
“Dad.” I duck my head away.
“It’s okay—I didn’t mess up your precious hair. It would be easier if we could afford to send you to the private church school. It’s difficult straddling both worlds.”
“I need a haircut. It looks ridiculous.”
The thing he doesn’t know: I’m actually straddling multiple worlds.
“I wish I had your hair. Look at this.” He points to the sides of his head, where his hair is the thickest, and pulls his wavy strands out as much as he can. “I look like Larry from the Three Stooges.”
My dad loves the Three Stooges. They’re one of the few things that make him laugh out loud.
Inside the house, I place the box of doughnuts on the kitchen table and go downstairs to the small bathroom to take a shower. I don’t want to wake her. She usually doesn’t fall asleep till three, four, sometimes five a.m. She sleeps her hardest in the early morning. It’s when I feel the safest. I want to get out and go to school before she’s up.
I grab my backpack and open the drawer where I put my notebook. I stick it in my backpack and head out as quietly as possible.