Page 33 of A Very Grumpy Father's Day
FOURTEEN
Declan
BREAKING DAD
*Father’s Day*
This will not stand, y’know. This aggression will not stand, man. The dad will not abide.
Sending a father out to run an errand on Father’s Day morning? On the first Father’s Day he celebrates as a father? What the fuck kind of celebration is this? I give my wife the thing she’s wanted for months—a bath with the supposedly irreplaceable products that she’s been missing since we moved. And what do I get in return? A good night’s sleep, breakfast in bed, a beautiful piece of paper that my baby made some lines on with crayons, a kiss on the cheek, and nothing.
Suddenly, I have to go pick up my wife’s dry cleaning on a Sunday morning instead of doing what everyone else on the Upper East Side does—have it delivered? If this is just some ruse to get me out of the house so I can come home to a big surprise party, I will not be pleased. Does that sound like the kind of thing Maddie would do for me? No, it does not. But neither of us are thinking straight lately, so I wouldn’t put it past her either.
I can’t believe I had to walk three blocks in this beautiful sunshine and stand in line for thirty seconds at the only dry cleaner that’s open around here on a Sunday. I’ve passed by countless families waiting in line to have brunch. I’ve seen so many dads with little kids who are on their way to the park. I saw a dad getting his nails done at a nail salon and his little daughter who was wearing a princess costume was jumping up and down next to him, so excited to be giving him this present. I can’t wait for Ciara to be old enough to force me to get a terrible manicure.
The doorman, Rolondo, nods at me as I approach my building. “Back already, Mr. Cannavale? You need some help carrying that up?”
“I got it, thanks, Rolondo.”
“Happy Father’s Day again,” he says. And he winks at me as he holds the door open.
I don’t know what that wink means, but it better not mean he just let twenty people up to my condo while I was out.
I have never unlocked the door to my home with such dread. I feel a chill run down my spine as I enter the foyer. It’s quiet. Eerily quiet. I do not like it. I hang my dry cleaning on the coat rack and look around. “I’m home,” I say hesitantly.
“Hey! Welcome back,mothafucka!”
Oh no.
I watch in horror, unable to move, as I see Billy Boston emerge from my baby’s bedroom. Alone. No one else is jumping out to saySurprise!And no one is clubbing Billy over the head and then forcibly removing him from the premises, which is very, very unfortunate. My wife, in particular, is not emerging from any room and I don’t hear her anywhere, and that is extremely problematic.
He’s smirking. He’s always smirking. But he’s smirking in a particularly mischievous way right now as he strolls toward me down the hall. His dark wavy hair is unusually tidy, and his flannel shirt is tucked into his jeans—which is ridiculous. He looks like a construction worker who’s going to court to contest a traffic ticket before stopping by five different restaurants in five different Brooklyn neighborhoods for brunch. He’s holding a baby monitor. My baby monitor.
I snatch my baby monitor from him. “What the fuck are you doing here, Billy?”
“Well, happy Father’s Day to you too, Manhattan.”
I rush past him into Ciara’s room. She is asleep in her crib. She’s breathing. The humidifier is quietly emitting lavender-scented steam. There is nothing in the crib that my baby could choke on. Nothing has been broken or set on fire. In short: I see none of the usual signs that Billy O’Sullivan has been in this room. I quietly close the door and call out, “Maddie!” I dash over to the kitchen.
Billy follows behind me slowly, hands in his pockets. “You can call for your wife all you want. She’s not here.”
“What is happening?”
“Just calm down, Daddy Boy. Maddie’s gonna call any second now to explain everything. You bring me takeout?”
“What? Why would I bring you takeout? I had no idea you’d be here. Why are you here?”
“Uncle Billy’s here to save the day, that’s why. You’ll thank me later. Everyone always does, eventually.”
“What? What are you—” My phone vibrates in my jacket pocket. I whip it out because I need answers and I’m never going to get any from this idiot. But it’s not Maddie. It’s my ma. Shit. I forgot to call my dad. Or are we supposed to do that later? I don’t remember because that’s the kind of thing my missing wife remembers for me. “Ma? Is Maddie with you?”
“What? Why would Maddie be with me? Why isn’t she with you? What’s goin’ on over there?” Great. Now my ma’s in a panic too.
I look over at Billy, who’s shaking his head as he opens the refrigerator. “Hey.” I snap my fingers at him. “Did I say you could eat my food?”
“No, but your wife did.”
“Dec?” My ma says. “Talk to me. Did you and Maddie have a fight? Please, dear God, tell me you and Maddie did not have a fight.”
