FINCH
Day 22 and I'm still here
The minute we walk into my dad's house, I know something's wrong. Rosemarie greets us and invites us into the living room, where Josh Raymond sits on the floor playing with a battery-operated helicopter that flies and makes noise. Kate, Decca, and I all stare, and I know they're thinking what I'm thinking: toys with batteries are too loud. Growing up, we weren't allowed to have anything that talked or flew or made a sound.
"Where's Dad?" Kate asks. Looking through the back door, I can see the grill sitting closed. "He came home from the trip, didn't he?"
"He got back Friday. He's just in the basement." Rosemarie is busy handing us sodas to drink straight out of the can, which is another sure sign that something's wrong.
"I'll go," I tell Kate. If he's in the basement, it can only mean one thing. He's in one of his moods, as Mom calls them. Don't mind your father, Theodore; he's just in one of his moods. Give him time to settle down, and he'll be fine.
The basement is actually nice and carpeted and painted, with lights everywhere and my dad's old hockey trophies and framed jersey and bookshelves packed with books, even though he absolutely does not read. Along one entire wall is a giant flat screen, and my dad is planted in front of this now, enormous feet on the coffee table, watching some sort of game and shouting at the television. His face is purple, and the veins in his neck are hulking out. He's got a beer in one hand and a remote in the other.
I walk over to him so I'm in his line of sight. I stand there, hands in pockets, and stare at him until he looks up. "Christ," he says. "Don't go sneaking up on people."
"I'm not. Unless you've gone deaf in your old age, you had to hear me coming down those stairs. Dinner's ready."
"I'll be up in a while."
I move over so that I'm in front of the flat screen. "You should come up now. Your family's here—remember us? The originals? We're here and we're hungry, and we didn't come all this way to hang out with your new wife and child."
I can count on one hand the times I've talked to my father like this, but maybe it's the magic of Badass Finch, because I'm not one bit afraid of him.
He slams the beer so hard against the coffee table that the bottle shatters. "Don't you come into my house and tell me what to do." And then he's off the couch and lunging for me, and he catches me by the arm and wham, slams me into the wall. I hear the crack as my skull makes contact, and for a minute the room spins.
But then it rights itself, and I say, "I have you to thank for the fact that my skull is pretty tough now." Before he can grab me again, I'm up the stairs.
I'm already at the dinner table by the time he gets there, and the sight of his shiny new family makes him remember himself. He says, "Something smells good," gives Rosemarie a kiss on the cheek, and sits down across from me, unfolding his napkin. He doesn't look at me or speak to me the rest of the time we're there.
In the car afterward, Kate says, "You're stupid, you know that. He could have put you in the hospital."
"Let him," I say.
At home, Mom looks up from her desk, where she is attempting to go over ledgers and bank statements. "How was dinner?"
Before anyone else can answer, I give her a hug and a kiss on the cheek, which—since we're not a family that likes to show affection—leaves her looking alarmed. "I'm going out."
"Be safe, Theodore."
"I love you too, Mom." This throws her even more, and before she can start crying, I am out the door to the garage, climbing into Little Bastard. I feel better once the engine has started. I hold up my hands and they're shaking, because my hands, like the rest of me, would like to kill my father. Ever since I was ten and he sent Mom to the hospital with a busted chin, and then a year later when it was my turn.
