Free You Only Get So Much by Dan Kolbet Page A

Sclerosis. He's somewhere else. Obviously
there are a myriad of medical concerns raging inside him. Tucked away in a horrible
tangle below his graying skin that I can't see. The grill smoke burns my eyes
as I recall the last time my father and I were alone together. If you don't
count our short interaction at the retirement home—before Mom came
in—the last time my father and I had a conversation alone was a few days
after Jane and Aspen died. Of course he didn't say anything. It wasn't a
conversation at all. Men have a way of not messing up a perfectly good silence
with mindless words that feel scripted or forced.
    It was at the old house,
the one I bought after I cashed in on Isolated Highway . He drove himself over, which
even all those years ago, was a scary proposition. I was in the dining room
trying to hang a curtain rod and cover the three large windows that I had neglected
to attempt for a long time. Jane had asked, repeatedly, for me to do it, but I
was gone or too busy to be bothered with it.
    He had parked in the
driveway, walked in unannounced, saw my struggles and helped. That's it. Didn't
say a word. We worked quietly on stools, arms extended in the air until the
dining room curtains, the ones that Jane had wanted hung for so long, had
finally been installed. I'm not sure why I thought it needed to be done. I
guess it was my way of trying to make up for everything that went wrong between
us, yet I had no way of making up for what I'd done. I needed something to go
right. Any little thing.
    I think Dad knew that I
had screwed up, although he had no idea of the struggles Jane and I had. He
just wanted to express his love and concern for me when I was at my lowest
point, but didn't know how to put words to it. All the things my friends said
and all the well-intended conversations with family did nothing for me really.
But that time with my dad—curtain rod in hand—was memorable.
    Two men working in
complete silence. An unspoken bond between father and son. A pillar of support
that didn't need to be packaged or perfected. It just was.
    As I flip the burgers,
my eyes burn, but it's not the smoke that's making my eyes water. I miss my dad
too, although he's sitting just six feet from me.

Chapter 13

 
    "Young man, we
haven't met before," Mom says to Ethan as we're about to sit down at the
table to eat. "A proper greeting requires a handshake."
    Ethan gets to his feet
and shuffles over toward her. He walks gingerly and I note that he is wearing
very loose-fitting gym shorts, no doubt to allow the two stitches on his penis
some unencumbered room with which to rest. I have very little fear of any funny
business between Kendall and Ethan thanks to the zipper incident. He begged me
not to tell his parents, which I reluctantly agreed to so long as he promised
that I would never have to discover such a scene again. No boy sleepovers. It
was a good rule.
    "What are your
intentions with my granddaughter, Ethan?" Mom asks.  
    The expression on his
face is blank—no comprehension of the question.
    "Leave him be,
Grandma Vera," Kendall says. "We're just friends."
    I catch the look between
Kendall and Ethan that my mother missed. She just saved him from a Grandma Vera
water-boarding. The pain he experienced days ago, would have been no match for
the merciless barrage of personal questioning that may have ultimately led to
him running from the backyard and never looking back.    
    Mom has always been hard
on outsiders. Every girlfriend Trevor and I dated in high school was raked over
the coals when they were introduced. And it was a requirement that they be
introduced to Mom before any official date could occur. The tough
ones—girls strong enough to take her on—were keepers. They didn't
all make it though. The line of girls who never even made it past the first
interview with Mom was long—and sad.
    It's terrible to think
that you can't even bring your girl home to meet your parents for fear that
she'd be ripped