Page 11 of Wrong Pucking Move
I could only think of one person who would inspire my dad to get up out of his chair in the middle of one of his WWII documentaries.
And it was the person Ineverhoped to see again.
But I couldn’t very well ignore this, for god’s sake.
I dropped the bag of spinach and raced after them.
And out on the sidewalk I saw Jesse Wisniewskifending off both Mike and Dad. My brother was fully six feet tall, but Jesse still towered over him. He was wearing a white cable-knit sweater and jeans and was dodging Mike’s blows at the same time as he had a grip on Dad’s suspenders.
“Just give me a chance to explain—” he was saying.
“No fucking way, asshole!” Mike shouted. “Not after you dumped my sister!”
Jesse was forced to let Dad go and put an arm up to block Mike’s punch.
I was gratified by this evidence of brotherly affection, I guessed, but for a moment the breath was driven so hard from my lungs that I couldn’t speak.
Dad picked up a statue of Santa that was still on the front porch, because we were one of those families that didn’t get decorations down until Valentine’s Day at the latest, and jabbed Jesse firmly in the back with it.
“Scram, punk!”
If I didn’t want to scream with rage, I would have smiled to see my dad taking on Jesse as if this professional hockey player wasn’t a foot taller and fifty pounds of hard muscle heavier.
Mike was coming with both fists at Jesse, his arms windmilling in the air.
But suddenly my ex saw me and Jesse froze, his eyes widening. I realized I was in a long-sleeved T-shirt with no bra on but I refused to cover up. He could choke looking at my tits for all I cared.
Mike pulled his arm back like an old-timey cartoon and pasted Jesse right in the mouth. My ex barely reeled back, his eyes still locked on mine, that ice-blue burning hot and deep.
“What are you doing here, Jesse?” I asked.
There was a little smear of blood on his lip from where Mike had hit him, but Jesse wasn’t even paying attention as it dripped down his face.
“Ineedto talk to you.Please.”
“Talk to my sister?” Mike roared, incensed. “I don’t think so, asshole.”
“You dare to show your face here?” Dad raged. “And what is this?”
He pointed to a Tupperware that had been set down on the sidewalk.
“Szarlotka,”Jesse said, still staring at me. “I made some for you.”
“Fuck your apple pie!” Mike roared, kicking the Tupperware so it skittered across the sidewalk.
“All right, calm down,” I said, walking down the steps and grabbing the back of Mike’s shirt. “Just leave, Jesse.”
“No!” he insisted. “I’m not leaving until you hear what I have to say. Can we go somewhere? Maybe get a bite to eat.”
“You can talk to me here,” I said tightly, jerking my head at Dad and Mike so they’d leave.
They went back up the stairs and inside, glaring at Jesse the whole way. I saw Dad scoop up the Tupperware first as Mike pointed his finger in Jesse’s face.
“If you so much as lay a finger on her, asshole. . .”
Jesse’s face was flushed, two pink spots of color high on his cheeks.
“Who the fuck do you think you’re talking to?” he growled.
