Page 92 of Beg, Borrow, or Steal

Jack

I hate this dining room table.

My dad once did a photo shoot in this house when I was fifteen for a magazine article about his life, his family, and following his muse. My mom and I were with him for one of the setups where we were playing a board game right here, on this table. I’d never once played a board game with my dad before that moment. Before the shoot, my mom practically threw it at me when she realized the plastic was still on it so I could run into the kitchen and crack it open with a knife. It was the strangest feeling being photographed as we smiled and laughed playing a game we were pretending to have played hundreds of times before. We didn’t know the rules. Or the objectives. So we rolled dice and moved pieces around the board for no reason at all.

The person on set whose job was to make sure none of the lighting equipment scraped the floors looked at me after our segment and said, “Man, I’m jealous! You’ve got such a cool dad.”

I knew he was just saying it to be nice, so I agreed and then went in my room and threw a pillow at my window—wishing itwould be enough to shatter it, and terrified at the same time that it would.

“Your mom told me about visiting your new place in Rome, Jack,” says my dad from his throne at the head of the table.

“Yeah? I’m really happy there. When it’s done it’ll—”

“I just think you’d be better off putting teaching behind you and doing something important with your life. Seems like Rome is a dead end too. Just an old rotting town.”

My mom texted me somewhere in between me pulling up to James’s place and Emily darting into the house. It was the kind of text I’ve come to understand as an SOS from my mom.Can you come for a late dinner?It’s innocuous. If he read her text messages he’d see nothing but a mom inviting her son over. But I got the message. What it really means isHe’s in a mood. Please help.

I know my place tonight: peacemaker. But it’s a struggle to respond to his comment tactfully. “Oh, I don’t know; the town is full of good people, and working with kids is pretty important to me.”

“The women can do that job just fine. You should be doing more.”

I set down my fork and it clanks loudly against the plate. “I don’t believe in gender-specific jobs. It’s an honor for me to teach those kids how to read and write—and a damn hard career.”

My mom clears her throat, looking panicked. She saw him trending toward a mood that preludes a rage fit, and she hoped I would intervene like always to smooth him over before it got to that point. I usually ask him questions about his books and act impressed with his answers and before long, he’s feeling high enough on himself again to act civil. It’s a bad pattern we’ve fallen into.

But tonight, it’s feeling too difficult to sit at this table and move pieces around an imaginary board game again. As long as we keep playing, my dad will always win.

Fredrick raises a cut of steak to his mouth, finally looking at me instead of his plate. “I just think your intellect could be used elsewhere. You’re my son; I’m sure you could accomplish big things if you wanted to.” This isn’t the first time he’s said this to me. For him, working in education will never be considered “big things.”

I clench my teeth. “I’m happy teaching, Dad.”

He’s chewing and talking at the same time. “But that can’t be enough for you. However, if you want to use these summer months wisely instead of playing fixer-upper in a decrepit town, I could help you find a new career path that would better suit you. Maybe you could put that English minor to good use and try your hand at some editorial work. I have connections.”

My blood is simmering. “I don’t need your connections.”

Fredrick scoffs. “Do you think it’s easy to get into the publishing world? If you tried to do it yourself, you’d have to start at the bottom. But with my help, you could go places right away. Finally do the Bennett name justice.”

He’s getting angry—looking to pick a fight. I’ve been here a few times with him before. Something in his life isn’t going the way he wants, so he hyperfixates on me and what I could be doing better according to him. Spoiler: Nothing will ever be good enough.

Now would be a good time to agree and show my gratitude for his help, even if I don’t end up needing it, because he will inevitably lose interest in me when his “muse” returns and he goes back to his usual routine of writing and blocking out the rest of the world.

But I can’t.

I don’t want to anymore.

“Did you get a bad review or something? Your editor give you some rough feedback? Is that what this is about? Because it seems like you’re trying to pick a fight with me.”

“Jack…” my mom pleads.

“Excuse me?” my dad asks.

“Do you even realize you do this? You pick fights with everyone around you when you’re mad. I have spent my life tiptoeing around your moods just so you’ll be a little more bearable. Because you make this entire world revolve around you and your moods and it’s exhausting. And heartbreaking. And youneverapologize.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says, eyes looking a little wilder. “Excuse me for having a stressful job. And I never once asked you to ‘tiptoe around my mood.’ ” He puts air quotes around those words. “You did that all on your own.”

This. This is why I don’t try to call him out on his shit. He doesn’t hear me—or anyone—ever; he only listens for sound bites that he can use to twist and throw back at me. It’s a never-ending battle.

He continues, looking more self-righteous by the moment. “Tonight I was only offering to help you achieve bigger success. Maybe even spend a little more time together in the process. You should be grateful that I even offered since my schedule is tight. I won’t make that mistake of extending my help or connections again, though…you can be sure of that.”

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