Page 59 of Drilled (Dad Bod Contracting 2)
There’s a jar of rectangular, thick pencils that look like they’ve been sharpened by hand, and Franco withdraws one of these pencils and goes over to the wood on the sawhorses, standing back and staring at it for a long silent moment before leaning over it and dragging the pencil carefully and precisely around the perimeter, marking the new shape.
He says nothing to me, and I realize I’m going to have to ask.
“Franco…what just happened? Why did you react like that?”
He ignores me as he continues to draw an oval inside the rectangle of the piece of wood. When he finishes the outline, he stands back, tucks the pencil behind his ear, and turns to face me. He just looks at me for a moment, and then sighs. There’s another stool near mine, and he hooks it with a bare foot and pulls it out. There’s a small block of partially worked wood on the workbench, just a vague shape—he sits on the stool, takes a small fixed-blade knife from another little cup, and starts whittling at the wood.
He still hasn’t said a word.
“Franco?” I ask, wondering if he even heard me.
He just keeps whittling, but finally pauses and looks at me. “I was twenty-one. I met her at this big kegger. James and the others were there, too. It was a U-of-I party, lots of upperclassmen and lots of girls from several sororities. A real rager, out of control, the kind of thing that would get shut down by the cops if it wasn’t out in the middle of a damn cornfield. She was by the bonfire with her friends, nursing a cup of beer, just watching and laughing and sticking with her friends. Which I totally understood, because I didn’t really stray too far from Jesse, Ryder, James, and Renée either. Ryder knew I was crushing on her and dared me to go talk to her. So I did. Got a fresh cup of pissy-ass beer and went over.” He shrugged. “That seemed like it, for me. I liked her, a lot. I called her the next day and asked her out—”
“You didn’t wait three days?” I ask, teasing.
He snorts. “That bullshit is for pussies.” He whittles a bit more, and I start to see a recognizable shape emerging from the wood. “We went out, and hit it off. Went on another date, hit it off. Two dates led to three, and then we’d been going on dates for two months, and she finally asked if we were exclusive.”
“Were you anti-commitment even then?” I ask.
He twirls the knife in his fingers. “Eh…yes and no. Not as much as I am now, because of what happened, but yes, I was to an extent, even then.”
“Why do you think that was?”
He goes back to whittling. “Shitty example growing up, I guess.”
“Parents had a messy split?” I guess.
He shakes his head. “Nah, they’re still together, actually.”
“Something else?”
“It’s complicated.” He works the knife in a circle, digging out a little divot. “I’m from a long line of Irish Catholics on both sides. Real zealots, too. Not just Mass once in a while Catholics, but real-deal, super-committed stuff. You went to mass every Sunday; you confessed, you got confirmed, the whole thing. I have memories of going to Sunday Mass with Grandma and Grandpa and Mom and Dad, Dad’s brother and his whole family, Mom’s sister and hers…they’re all from this area. There was a time when I was a kid when we all went to mass together every Sunday.” He shrugs. “It was a big part of my childhood, to be honest.”
“So how does this translate into what you just said?”
He carves a little ear, long and rounded on top. “Catholics are vehemently against divorce, even under the worst circumstances. And my folks grew up in families that took the faith even more seriously than they did when I was growing up. Super stiff, formal, traditional backgrounds. You just did not get divorced, no matter what.”
“I see…”
He pauses, eyeing his carving with a critical eye. “My parents were…they weren’t suited for each other. Mom was super modern and forward-thinking, independent. Wanted a career, wanted to wait before having kids, wanted to travel, refused to wear skirts or dresses to Mass just to piss off her dad and grandfather. Dad was more traditional, wanted kids right away, wanted her to play the housewife and not work. They clashed a lot and, honestly, I’ve never been sure why they got married at all. I’m not sure if they ever even liked each other.”
“Were you the reason they got married, maybe?” I ask.
“You mean, was Mom pregnant so they were forced to marry?” He shakes his head. “No, I did the math. I wasn’t conceived until they’d been married almost six months. And they never had any other kids—I’m an only child. I’ve never understood it.” Another sigh. “Things in my home, growing up, were…chaotic, at best. Dad was a heavy drinker, so was Mom. They were verbally abusive to each other, always shouting and calling names. Think of the stereotype for an Irish Catholic family from Chicago, and that was us. Dad was a die-hard Cubs fan, grilled in the winter, shoveled snow in shirtsleeves, drank Jameson as religiously as he went to Mass and confession. Never hit me, I should point out. Wasn’t like that. But he and Mom would go at it, you know? Like, bad. Mom would throw plates and Dad would smack her sometimes, and Mom would smack back.”
