Page 130 of Boss of Me
“Good.” I help my father out of the helicopter. He’s still unsteady on his feet, but when I try to pick him up, he pushes me away and grumbles, “I can walk.”
“That’s a new development.” Disregarding his scowl, I guide his arm around my shoulders, clamp an arm around his waist and start toward the house.
Marlowe meets us halfway, the wind from the rotors whipping her hair around her face as the helicopter takes off.
“Well, well, well.” Dad looks her up and down and grins lecherously. “And who’s this pretty little lady?”
“None of your concern,” I growl warningly.
Marlowe falls in step beside me. “Do you need any help?”
“No,” I snap. “Go back to your studying.”
She flinches at the rebuff.
“Now, son, that’s no way to talk to a lady,” my father chides. “I raised you better than that.”
I bark a harsh laugh and drag him up the front steps.
Mrs. Calder meets us at the door, her eyes full of worry. “Oh, Dale.”
His expression softens when he sees her. “Hey there, Gemma Louise.”
She clucks her tongue in disappointment and lays her hand on his cheek. “Stubborn old fool. When will you ever learn?”
He scowls and waves her off, his face reddening with shame.
She trails after us. “Do you need?—”
“I’ve got it under control.” I want to preserve my father’s dignity, or what’s left of it.
As I steer him to the elevator, he droops and wobbles and mumbles incoherently. When we finally reach his bedroom on the second floor, he shoves away from me and scurries to the bathroom. He barely reaches the toilet in time.
I stand in the doorway with my arms crossed, grimly watching him hurl his guts into the bowl.
When he’s finally done, the smart toilet flushes automatically. He gives it a confounded look and mutters something about “fancy-schmancy crappers” before slumping against the wall and dragging the back of his hand across his mouth.
“You smell like shit,” I say flatly.
“Feel like it, too,” he mumbles, closing his eyes.
He looks so weak and defeated that for a moment I feel like I’m thirteen again, taking care of him after one of his drunken benders.
Don’t leave me, Gunny boy. Help your old man get sober before your ma wakes up. This’ll be the last time, I swear.
As the familiar resentment surges inside me, I stalk over to the double sink, squeeze toothpaste onto a toothbrush and order him to brush his teeth.
He gives me a bleary look and then crawls across the floor to take the toothbrush, grunting heavily as I pull him to his feet. He can barely stand on his own, hunching over the sink while I run a hot bath for him.
When he’s done brushing, I help him undress and guide him to the tub.
His sad blue eyes stare up at me as I bathe him with clinical detachment. Before the water turns cool, I assist him out of the tub, towel him dry and help him into clean pajamas that swallow him up.
As I tuck him into bed and pull the covers over him, he mumbles appreciatively, “Sheets feel good . . . nice thread count . . .” His voice tapers off as his eyes close.
I lean over him, silently appraising his hollow cheeks and the deep crinkles around his eyes. My chest burns with a soul-deep anger and sorrow.
“What’s wrong with you, old man?” I whisper tightly. “What’s eating you alive?”
