Felix laced his hands together, twisted his palms heavenward, and stretched. Let day one of full-time fatherhood begin. First task: pack Harry’s lunch.
Harry had said he wanted a turkey sandwich, which, according to Ella, involved a smidgeon of mayonnaise spread on one side of the bread (white from that funny little bakery in Chapel Hill), turkey sliced so thin it was almost shaved (Whole Foods in-house roasted turkey), one crunchy—not limp—piece of iceberg lettuce, superthin Swiss cheese, and two rashers of bacon.
He and Harry had done a small shop at Whole Foods on the way home from school. Ridiculously overpriced, but Ella was big on organic fruits and vegetables. They all were, but really, could Harry’s brain chemistry detect the difference between a Pink Lady apple from Whole Foods and one from Harris Teeter? Still, they had picked up supper—barbecue ribs that had been quite tasty. Although a tad too salty.
Felix laid out everything on the counter.
The first sandwich didn’t look right, so he made a second. Then they both went in the bin, after he’d extracted the lettuce for the composter and the turkey for his own lunch. He moved on to sandwich number three.
Handling bread was rather disconcerting—Felix had given up carbs for his fiftieth birthday. He didn’t miss bread, but he did miss potatoes, especially Ella’s potatoes au gratin. He eyeballed the generic fat-free yogurt on the counter. His breakfast. Next to it, the horrifically expensive chocolate croissant for Harry. Surely Harris Teeter pastries were a perfectly acceptable substitute—and cheaper?
The third sandwich was satisfactory. Not overstuffed. Nice layers that worked. Paying attention to the position of the knife, Felix cut the sandwich down the middle, then sliced off one crust, turned it round, and sliced off the other. Repeated. After spearing both halves with toothpicks, he wrapped the sandwich in heavy-duty aluminum foil. Twice—to make sure it was properly secured and therefore able to withstand the abuse Harry heaped on his lunch box. After pausing to double-check Ella’s list, Felix added the organic apple, a bottle of water, a small Tupperware of baby carrots, and an individual bag of salt and vinegar chips that stimulated saliva and nostalgia for pub lunches.
Felix glanced at the clock. In two minutes, he would wake Harry. Perfect. He flicked on the kettle. This stay-at-home parent thing was much easier than he’d suspected.
Ten minutes later, he was standing in Harry’s bedroom, yelling, “Get out of bed! Now!” Harry, the little rotter, had gone back to sleep. Why had Ella not included that—Make sure he gets up—on the list?
“Five more minutes, Dad.”
“No.” Felix yanked back the duvet and slipped an ice cube down Harry’s T-shirt.
“What the fuck!” Harry shot out of bed.
“Your language is appalling.”
Harry grabbed at his back as if he were on fire. Then he stopped and threw the ice cube onto the carpet. “But you were torturing me.”
Felix’s head jerked up; he took a breath. Had he—had he tortured his son?
“It was just an ice cube, Hazza.” Was his voice shaking? Did Harry remember? Did Harry hate him? On the day Harry was born, Felix had sworn he’d never raise a finger against his son. But he had crossed that threshold once, just once. He must never do so again.
Harry scratched through his hair and yawned. He didn’t look traumatized, but then, as Felix knew only too well, it was hard to tell. Felix’s heartbeat returned to normal—for now.
“We’re leaving in twenty minutes. If you’re not dressed, I’ll take you in your pajamas. Do you have the folder for your voice lesson?”
“Yes, Dad.”
“And your bag is packed?”
“Yes, Dad.”
“And you printed out your English essay?”
“Yes, Dad.”
“Breakfast in five. And please pick up that ice cube before it melts all over the carpet.”
“Yes, Dad.”