Page 33 of Fun Together
The screen door slams shut with a whack as I walk in.
“It’s me!” I shout, otherwise he won’t hear me over the television he’s always blasting.
I dump the grocery bags on the yellow linoleum kitchen counter next to a pile of mail, and peek into the living room to see that he’s in his usual spot—in his brown recliner watchingThe Walking Deadat full volume. I can see the top of his Teamsters trucker hat over the back of the chair.
“Can you turn that down?” I yell over the sound of a zombie getting its head chopped off. It’s a small house, and I don’t want the sound of zombie brain splatter as my background while I unload the chili I brought.
The volume lowers slightly. “You got the goods?” he asks.
“Yes, but Donna tells me you aren’t taking your blood pressure meds.” Donna is an in-home nurse who comes by twice a week to check in on him. She gives me updates since I’m the one who hired her.
“She narc’d on me, huh?”
I unload a few pre-made salads he may or may not actually eat. “She’s trying to take care of you.”
“Hate those damn pills. Make me have to take a piss every two seconds.”
“I know, but you’ve got to take it. Otherwise, you can’t have these.” I hold up a bag of Reese’s cups. I’m hoping he won’t notice they’re sugar free.
“Alright, alright.”
“I made you some chili to eat this week. I’ll put it in the fridge.”
The older he’s gotten, the more he doesn’t want to cook for himself. I try to make it as easy as possible for him, but he’s stubborn about accepting the food I bring him for some reason.
“I’ve been eating down at Roy’s.”
Roy’s Restaurant, known for healthy fare such as the Big Belly Burger and something called “Fried Gravy.” I don’t ask because I don’t want to know. “Well, if you want to give Roy a break, you can heat this up.” I place the chili container in the fridge and toss out some expired milk and the container of soup I brought him last week.
“You didn’t like the soup?” I ask, as I sort through the mail stack.
“Hmm? Oh, I forgot it was in there.”
His mail is mostly junk, from real estate agents or lawn care companies. But then, I come across something that gives me pause. The envelope has already been opened, so I take out the wedding invitation, its swirling embossed calligraphy inviting my grandpa to a celebration of love between Marsha Lee Clifton and Michael Bowers at a church in Charlotte on September 28th.
That would be my mom and her latest.
I slide the invitation back into the envelope and head into the living room to take my usual spot on the love seat adjacent to his recliner.
He glances at me through the aviator glasses he’s always worn. “You’re looking a little green in the gills there, Bambi.”
He’s called me Bambi ever since I was a toddler because he said I walked like a baby deer.
“I’m fine,” I say, although I feel a little unsteady today. “Met some tequila the other night that didn’t like me very much.”
“Could never stand the stuff. If you want a little hair of the dog, I’ve got some Jim Beam in there somewhere.”
My stomach lurches. “I’m good. Played some pool though, which was fun. It’s been forever.”
“Oh yeah?” He sits up, interested in where I’ve taken the conversation. “You still any good?”
“I was surprised how fast it came back to me.”
“Who’d you play with?”
“My friend Eli.”
“Eli, huh?”
