Off Limits

chapter 12



Nix



I sit outside of Emily's apartment for a good twenty minutes to make sure her ex-douche doesn't come back. It occurs to me I don't even know his name, and I obviously don't give a shit. Ex-douche is good enough for me. Once I'm satisfied he won't return, I head back to Linc's place to take a shower and do some laundry. Then I load Harley up in the truck and we head out to my dad's place.

I usually try to spend most Sunday's with him. My pop is the only one, other than Linc, who knows the real me.

Hank Caldwell is a great father. At sixty-two, he's a little bit older than my other friends' parents. Well, when I say other friends, I mean those I had in high school. I really don't have any friends now, other than a few Marine buddies that I keep in touch with via text and email.

My father had a previous marriage that had faltered then disintegrated before he married my mother. That marriage had lasted for eight years before it ended in a bitter divorce. I don't know all the details but mom told me once, before she died, that dad had wanted lots of kids and his first wife didn't want any. That was apparently a recipe for disaster in a marriage.

Dad met and married my mom, Carolyn, just a few years after his divorce and I came along a scant nine months later. My dad apparently didn't want to waste any time in the baby making department. Linc came along two years later.

My mom died of ovarian cancer when I was just ten. My memories of her are fuzzy but they are warm. Dad raised us on his own after that, never falling in love again. He said he'd never find another woman like his Caro.

My dad provided a solid home for me and Linc. There may not have been a lot of money, but there was a lot of love and a lot of happiness. Dad worked his ass off to support us, putting in sixty plus hours a week at the shipyard. The crazy coot still works there. Linc and I have been on him trying to get him to retire but he won't listen to us. I think he's afraid that if he stops working, he'll die or something.

I pull into dad's driveway...my childhood home. It hasn't changed much over the years. Dad keeps it spruced up with help from me and Linc. It's a small, two bedroom bungalow that sits on about a quarter acre of land. The paint on the eaves and shutters is fresh, thanks to a working party we had last summer. The siding is clean and free from mold thanks to my dad's favorite tool...a portable pressure washer.

Harley runs to the front door before I can even get the door to the truck closed and barks. My dad opens it up, giving Harley an affectionate squeeze. He holds the screen door open for me and we give each other a half hug with lots of back pounding as I walk in.

I follow dad back to the living room and he already has two boxes of Giovanni's pizza on the coffee table and a cooler of beer sitting beside it. I reach in and pull out a bottle, grab a slice of pizza and sit on the couch. Dad is in his recliner that looks like it's about a hundred and fifty years old. Linc was going to buy him a new one a few years ago and he chewed Linc out for even thinking about it. He loves that old beast of a chair like it's one of his own kids.

We spend the next few hours watching the Jets get pounded by the Patriots so we are both left in a semi-bad mood. Dad doesn't help things when he asks, "Are you going to go back to see Dr. Antoniak?"

I try not to stiffen up because I know my dad is only asking because he cares. But he and Linc both know this is a touchy subject with me.

"I don't think so."

Dad stays silent and I can tell he's debating whether to push the subject. He decides to leave it alone but comes circularly at me.

"How about Paul? Have you talked to him lately?"

F*ck! Why can't he leave this shit alone? But I take in a deep breath and exhale it slowly through my nose. My fingers absently rub Harley's head as he sits beside me on the couch. I respect my dad too much to let loose on him. It's not a privilege I give anyone else, including Linc.

"No, Pop. He's called a few times but I've been busy."

My dad doesn't hold back. "You need to call him back. Better yet, get off your ass and go see him."

I sigh. "I know. I'll call him, okay?"

Sitting up in his recliner, my dad leans forward. He has that serious look on his face and he's staring me dead in the eyes. I want to turn my head, to avoid what he's going to say, but I won’t puss out.

"Son...you need to do something about this. I'm worried about you. You know I only push at you because I love you, right?"

I smile at my dad. It's ghost thin, but it's still a smile. "I know, Dad, and I love you too. I'll get up with him. Don't worry."

"That's my boy. I'm proud of you, Nix. So damned proud."

A pit forms in my stomach at those words. Why does he have to say things like that? There's nothing to be proud of here. The fact that he tells me he's proud only makes me more shameful. Acid churns and I can feel the beer and pizza wanting to make a re-appearance but I push it back down. Luckily, dad doesn't say anything else and the subject is dropped.

I stick around and watch half of the Pittsburgh/ Baltimore game before heading out. Dad gives me a hard hug again, holding on a little longer this time. I take in a deep breath and smile inside at the hint of Old Spice aftershave. It's one of the smells I remember from my childhood. Back when things were simpler.

Harley jumps in the truck and we head back to Linc's place. He's still out of town and won't be back until tomorrow. Which I'm glad. I think he and dad are in a conspiracy to get me to talk about old wounds. He always grills me after I come back from dad's, wanting to know what we talked about.

I take Harley for a walk around the block and let him do his business before we head in. I'm dreading what I need to do and I decide a little fortification is necessary. I only had two beers at dad's so I need something a little stronger. I pick up a bottle of Jack Daniels from Linc's bar and pour a shot. I toss it back swiftly, enjoying the burn as it goes down. I stare out the window as the night sky darkens, mesmerized by the twinkling lights of Manhattan across the river. I wonder what Emily is doing right now.

Shaking my head from thoughts of the dark haired beauty, I pour one more shot and slam it back. The burn is equally as pleasant.

Walking into the living room, I bring the bottle and shot glass with me. I sit down on the couch, drink one more shot, and then put my implements on the coffee table. I pull out my cell phone and dial Paul's number.

It rings four times and I consider hanging up but then he answers. "It's about f*cking time you called me back, you prick."

I smile. Only Paul.

"I've been busy, man."

"So damned busy you can't call your best buddy back? Oh, and did I tell you, you are a prick?"

I laugh. "I get told that every day by someone. I don't need you to confirm it."

There's silence there for a minute. Both of us waiting for the other to say something.

I go first. "So, how are you doing?"

"Freakin' peachy keen, jelly bean. Got my new walkin' legs last month. Of course, you'd know that if you ever called me back."

I grimace and my stomach churns. I'm in danger of losing the Jack all over Linc's living room carpet. "That's great. Do they put Lieutenant Dan's to shame?"

He busts a gut laughing at me. "They sure do, Forrest. Titanium steel. Actually, they have these new spring mechanisms in the knee joints that really take a lot of pressure off my hips and lower back. It's like walking on a cloud of air."

I lean back into the couch cushions, close my eyes and listen to Paul talk. He tells me all about his new prosthetics, he tells me about starting college, and he tells me he's going to ask Marie to marry him. He's happy, and well adjusted, and I want to vomit listening to it. Because I'm afraid he's putting on an act just to make me feel better.

And because it's my fault he lost his legs.

We talk for about an hour, and I doubt I hear ninety percent of what he says to me. I promise I'll come visit him soon, but we both know it's probably a lie.

After I hang up, I pour another shot of Jack and drink it down. I stare at the empty glass. It's how I feel. My instinct is to hurl it across the room as hard as I can and watch it shatter into a million pieces. But just as quickly that thought is gone because it just seems like too much work. Instead, I set the glass gently on the coffee table and stand up. I take the bottle of liquor back with me to the bedroom.

I'm not done with it yet. And it doesn't escape my notice the next time I tip the bourbon up to my lips that it's the same color as Emily's eyes.





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