Page 28 of One Step Too Far

“You’re right. Absolutely right. I should find work. Get off this damn sofa. Tomorrow, honey. I promise. Tomorrow.” Then he’d crack open another beer and return to his Naugahyde bliss.

One afternoon, I took it upon myself to tend the house. I scrubbed the counters, scoured the bathroom, vacuumed the floor. Was I protecting my father? Saving my mother? Can any child answer that question?

My mother arrived home late, her shoulders slumped with exhaustion. She peered tiredly at the spotless kitchen, then at me, sitting patiently at the table, even though it was nearly midnight. I thought she might smile in gratitude. Give me a huge hug. Burst into song?

She said, “For God’s sakes, Frankie, at least learn from my mistakes.”

Then she headed for her bedroom.

Later, I listened to them fight: “I mean it, Ron. Seven days from now if you’re still like this, I’m out. And I’m taking Frankie with me. You’ll never see either one of us again.”

Then I listened to my father cry.

The next afternoon after school, I returned home to my father sitting upright, his back ramrod straight on the edge of the sofa. He had his hands clasped tightly before him, clearly waging some kind of internal war with himself. A tremor snaked through his frame. He screwed up his face in fierce concentration till the shaking stopped. Though his hands still gave him away.

Finally, he noticed me standing in the doorway. “You’re home. Thank God, you’re home!”

He exploded into a whirlwind of nervous energy, fixing me a snack, unloading my backpack, fussing over my schoolbooks. I must have homework. Didn’t I have homework? Let’s do homework!

I didn’t have homework. But I found some math worksheets and spread them out on the table. We did the problems together, first giggling lightly, then laughing hysterically because we were both so terrible at it. For weeks afterward, the phrase carry the one had us rolling on the floor all over again.

My mom came home to dinner. Frozen pizza, but still, my father took it out of the wrapper and baked it himself.

That night there was no fighting. That night, the house was so quiet, I couldn’t sleep from the sheer agony of the unknown.

The following afternoon, my father had collapsed back into the sofa, covered in sweat and shivering uncontrollably. I bathed his forehead with a wet washcloth, fetching him blanket after blanket.

Eventually, my mother arrived. I waited for the yelling, the blame, the torrent of rage. But to my surprise—my father’s surprise?—she took a seat next to him. She rubbed his back.

She said, “I’m so proud of you.” She murmured, “I’ve missed you, Ronnie.”

She whispered...

That I couldn’t hear.

Couple of days later, my father’s sweating and vomiting stopped. His color returned. He once more achieved the vertical position. I came home to more snacks. My mother gained a clean house and evening meal. And the house existed in a perpetual state of peace and quiet. So much peace and quiet. I couldn’t figure out how people did it, living day after day with this amount of peace and quiet.

One day my father greeted me with a huge grin on his face. Surprise! He and I were going camping. Well, actually, we were going to spend the night in a borrowed tent in our backyard, but close enough, right? I bounced all over the house in excitement. Yes, yes, yes!

My mom actually smiled, caught up in our enthusiasm.

Saturday morning was all about prep. We were going to need all the makings for s’mores, plus hot dogs and baked beans. I thought we should definitely have a fire. My father thought we should definitely not. He spun some yarn about mythical forest sprites who would carry away our food and return it magically cooked. I was offended. What? Did he think I was still five?

Just yesterday, he assured me wryly. And the day before that, I was a newborn. Then he cleared his throat and ruffled my hair.

Late afternoon, we carried our gear outside.

My father attempted to assemble the borrowed tent. Much cursing and swearing ensued. I ran piles of blankets and pillows from the house to the yard because we didn’t have sleeping bags, something my father hadn’t realized till just now.

Everything took way longer than expected, my father’s expression becoming less excited, more frazzled. But eventually, the sun just starting to descend, he had produced a tent-like shelter, while I had procured every piece of bedding we owned. I would organize our sleeping quarters. My father would inform the forest sprites of our dinner reservation.

He was gone a very long time. But then, I had a lot of blankets to arrange.

When my father finally reappeared, bearing a tray of cooked franks and baked beans, he was beaming from ear to ear. So pleased with himself. So happy. So very, very happy.

Just like that, I knew why he’d been in the kitchen for so long. His smile faltered. He opened his mouth as if to say... No!... You’re wrong!... I’d never do such a thing!

But the words didn’t come. He closed his mouth, held out the tray. We sat on the ground and ate our meal with our hands, dipping the franks into the baked beans and making a huge mess. I wanted to giggle at the baked beans dripped across my father’s lap, the smear of ketchup on his cheek. I wanted to scream, “Carry the one!” just so he’d laugh uproariously and I could collapse beside him and we’d both be so very, very happy.

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