Page 23 of The Falcon and the Foe

“You know how to use an iron?”

He put the plates on the tables, looking down the whole time.

“I’m not mad,” I clarified.

“I watched some YouTube videos on how to use one. Edith helped me. I, uh, wanted to look nice for the meeting. It means a lot to Scout Leader Russ.”

“Who cares what Scout Leader Russ thinks?”

His eyes met mine. The realization hit me in my gut.

He cared.

“Scout Leader Russ is always on time, and his uniform is done right.” Josh got louder but then quiet again, a wave cresting on the shore. He shrugged and dropped nuggets on his plate.

“You look great, Josh. You really do.” I slid the remaining tray of food onto my plate. We sat across from each other. I didn’t have an appetite any longer. “We’re leaving in five minutes. We’re going to be the first ones there.”

Around us was a mess of a house that came into stark focus for me. Dishes in the sink. Bills and notices and junk mail strewn across any available flat surface. A pile of clean laundry balled atop the dryer waiting to be folded. I was used to the mess. It was so easy to leave things for later, but the laters piled up.

I saw it through Josh’s eyes, though. In every class, there was the kid who lived in the dump, where the other parents wouldn’t let their kids come over. Growing up, that kid was Jenny Daddario. A classmate over for a playdate claimed they’d found a dead mouse pressed between a stack of old newspapers.

Our house wasn’t that bad. A little mess never hurt anyone. We couldn’t be Mr. Clean like Russ, who probably followed Quentin around with a dustbuster.

Yet, a sick feeling spread through me like black tar. Was Kimber right? Was my parenting turning him into the weird kid?

I unbuttoned my Falcons uniform. “Would you be able to iron mine, too? It looks like you have the magic touch.”

I dug out the iron and ironing board from the depths of the linen closet, and we ironed together, father and son. Josh took such care and consideration to press every inch of my shirt, including the collar and hard-to-pin-down shoulder area. While he ironed, I clotheslined papers and junk on the kitchen counter into the trash. I’d sort out what needed to be kept later, though most likely, it could all be junked. Seeing one clean counter gave me a burst of hope.

“Let’s go!”

Josh tossed me my shirt, and I buttoned it as we hopped into the car. The warmth from the iron gave my skin a hug. “Nice job! You’ll have to teach me your magic.”

He shrugged, but a smile crept up his face.

We looked good. Not that it mattered in the least what he thought, but Russ was going to shit his pants.

8

CAL

Father and son burst through the door of the meeting room at the Bea Arthur Center looking like a million Falcon bucks.

Russ didn’t shit his pants—at least from what I could tell and smell—but the way he opened and closed his mouth as if to say something he couldn’t put words to was glorious. No brutal comment or serious retort.

The shock on his face was a moment that truly fed my petty soul.

What I didn’t expect, though, was what came next. His lips curved into a crooked smile that spread across his face before returning to his resting grouch face. It reminded me of this Ray Bradbury story I read in school about people living on Venus where it rained every day, except for one hour every seven years when the sun shined and flowers instantly bloomed.

“We’re early,” I said.

“You’re on time.” Russ organized duffel bags on the table while Josh joined Quentin to do homework.

“You said to get here twenty minutes early.”

“Twenty minutes early is on time for scout leaders.”

“I got here twenty-three minutes before the meeting started.” I pointed to the clock for proof. I balanced on my tiptoes like I was teacher’s pet. Damn, was I wanting to get a rise out of him? “So I’m three minutes early.”

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