Page 24 of Trusting Blake
“Was that so hard, Everett? To look at me?” Popeye remarks. “You’re staying inmyhouse. The least you could do is stop actively avoiding me, but maybe you’re too ashamed of yourself.”
“Hey, c’mon now, Wesley,” Ruben says as he hastens over to Dad’s side like the ultimate protector. I mean, howdaresomeone talk to the great Everett Harding like that?
Popeye snaps his head around. “It’s Mr. Harding to you.”
“Mr. Harding,” Ruben reluctantly corrects, spreading his hands wide. “Let’s not raise our voices, huh? Let’s just be calm and civilized.”
Flabbergasted, Popeye can’t even muster a reply. He stares agape at Ruben as though he is truly from another planet, and I don’t blame him. Ruben, for as much as he’s aided Dad over the years, can also be a bit of a bumbling idiot when it comes to reading the room.
“No,” Dad says. He extends his arm in front of Ruben’s chest, keeping him back, as he steps forward and fastens his weary gaze on Popeye. “Let him vent. C’mon, Dad. Tell me exactly what it is you wish to say to me. What you’ve wanted to say out loud for years.”
“Ooookay!” Sheri turns the stove down and flaps a dishtowel over the bacon as she dashes over. “Everett, Dad, stop it.”
But they don’t stop.
Popeye moves forward too until he and Dad are in each other’s faces. They are equal in height. It’s the strongest I’ve seen Popeye all summer, with his shoulders broadened and his hands balled into fists by his side. They tremble, but still. Popeye kinda looks like a badass.
“I think,” he snarls, “that you will never be happy. You can’t just settle for a normal existence like the rest of us. You always want more, more, more. More glamor, more adulation. More attention. Nothing is ever good enough for you, is it? Not this ranch, not us – your family.”
I flinch, but Dad seems to take it in his stride. “Here we go again!” he groans, like a bored kid. “How dare I want moreout of my life than the family ranch? How dareI not want what you want for me?That’s what it’s really all about, isn’t it?” Dad scoffs. “I’m not sorry, Dad – not even a little – for living my own life.”
“Everett,” I hear Mom caution as she stands from the table.
“You know why I don’t visit?” Dad continues, jaw clenched in fury now. “Because you look at me like dirt. You can’t admit that I actually made it, that I provide better for my family than I ever could have if we’d stayed here living what you like to call anormalexistence.”
I finally swallow my mouthful of soggy cereal and clink my spoon down hard against the bowl. As Dad glares into Popeye’s face, I notice something in his eyes, something other than rage. There is pain. Dad is hurt.
Over the past few weeks, I couldn’t help but notice the way Popeye spoke badly of Dad and his choices in life. How flippantly he dismissed Dad’s success and the tone of disapproval whenever he spoke of him. I tried not to overthink it, but I can’t dismiss that Popeye, sweet but oh-so-old-fashioned Popeye, was never all that supportive of Dad’s – to him, unfathomable – dreams. And until right now, I never considered what that would feel like for Dad, but that flicker of a lifetime of disappointment in his eyes makes me wonder. I thought Dad didn’t visit because he was too busy living the high life to care about the small town he left behind. I didn’t imagine for even a second that perhaps he didn’t go home often because this small town makes him feel rejected.
Popeye shifts on his feet, narrowing his eyes at Dad. “You think I want to be proud of a son who can’t remain faithful? Who has no morals? Who will stop at nothing to get his own way? You traded in LeAnne Avery for Marnie when LeAnne was smart enough to suggest you pursue a sensible degree, because if anyone has the audacity to challenge you, you throw them out of your life!”
I am totally rooted to my chair, my body frozen. This is. . . intense. Are there any boundaries that Popeye and Dad won’t cross? How thehelldid we ever survive Thanksgiving dinner together once upon a time? How much effort did my family have to put into maintaining a facade to protect me as a kid?
“How many times do we need to talk about LeAnne?” Dad snaps. “I already explained that to you – two decades ago! Why do you have to bring her up againnow?”
“Enough.” Mom’s voice cuts through the strained atmosphere, and suddenly she is by Dad’s side, pulling him back from Popeye. I’m finding it extremely confusing to watch – Mom, who’s supposed to be furious at Dad, stepping in to remove him from the situation. Her hand tightens on his arm, tugging him away.
“I smell burning,” Ruben says, sniffing the air, and for a moment I’m even more confused – can he smell flames leaping out from the massive episode of Harding drama being acted out in front of us?
“The bacon!” Sheri gasps at the exact same second the fire alarm goes off.
This is, officially, the biggest breakfast disaster of my life.
Mom pulls Dad from the kitchen, the two of them disappearing in the midst of the ear-piercingbeeps, while Ruben remains leaning against the counter. He wears a look of indifferent weariness as he watches Sheri grab the sizzling frying pan full of charcoaled bacon from the stove and a grumbling Popeye pull out a chair to stand on to turn off the fire alarm.
Chaos. There is no other word for it. Complete and utter chaos.
I make a swift exit from the kitchen in search of my parents, and I find them in the living room, face to face. Dad is seething. His shoulders rise and fall with his deep, angry breaths, and his nostrils flare. Mom offers her hands out to him, trying to calm him down. I watch from the doorway. Whatisthis? It’s not that I don’twantmy parents to stay together despite everything, it’s just that it feels a bit too soon to find Mom being there for him like this.
I move into the room, my steps light. “Mom? Dad?”
Mom steps away from him, almost guiltily, and Dad turns his head. The sheer intensity of emotion I can read on his face would honestly have me believe that he was in the middle of rehearsing a scene for an upcoming movie. I’ve never seen Dad, in real life, look such a mess.
“I’m sorry, Mila. I know he’s your grandfather, and I shouldn’t talk to him like that in front of you, but I just. . .” He exhales a long breath. “I need a minute.”
He strides out of the room and his footsteps can be heard on the stairs. Mom looks at me, and I throw my hands up in that universal signature of “what the hell is going on?”
“Aren’t you mad at him?” I ask.
