“Okay. That’s it.” Drew said. He flung one arm out and pointed toward his kitchen table. “Go in there and sit down. I’ll get us a couple of beers and you can tell me what the hell is going on.”
His dad parked it at the table, and Drew pulled a couple of Elysian Brewing’s Men’s Room Original Reds out of the refrigerator. Owen, the chef, would be here in a couple of hours to start dinner; maybe he should text Owen and let him know he’d be making twice as much of whatever was on the menu tonight. His dad regarded the beer with a skeptical eye.
“What the hell is that?”
“It’s good, Dad. Try it. I also have some Arrogant Bastard Ale if you’d like some of that.”
“Doesn’t this town have some Bud or maybe a Coors Light?”
“Dad. You’re in Seattle. Everyone drinks microbrews here.” Drew grabbed his phone out and texted while he talked. “You and Mom are fighting?”
“She’s mad at me because she served me takeout Chinese food for dinner the night before last, and I told her I wanted a home-cooked meal instead.”
Drew hit “send” on his text and regarded his father with disbelief.
“You said that to Mom? You love Chinese takeout.”
“Not right now I don’t. Your mother made me a sandwich for dinner. A sandwich. She used to make a big dinner every night with sides and salad, and now it’s a sandwich and takeout.” He pounded a little on the table. “I don’t work all day to come home to a sandwich—”
“Maybe she was tired or she didn’t feel good. Dad, I know damn well it wasn’t only a sandwich. She probably made potato salad or some other thing, and she made sure it was your favorite, didn’t she?”
“It was pulled pork,” he mumbled.
“And?”
“She used to cook for me. She used to make sure everything was the way I liked it. Now I’m lucky if the laundry makes it into the laundry room, let alone my shirts have that starch in them I like. She’s too busy for me.” His dad wrapped a ham-like fist around his beer and took a swallow. He didn’t meet Drew’s eyes.
“Dad. She’s never too busy for you. What is causing this? You and Mom don’t fight.”
“Oh, we fight. Just not in front of you kids.”
His dad was acting like a recalcitrant teenager. Or, he was acting just like Drew did when his parents told him there was a curfew, and he was expected to keep up his grade point average or he couldn’t play football, or one of a hundred other things he tried to get away with as a teen. The bowed shoulders and sadness in his dad’s face told him this wasn’t something minor, but Drew was fighting the impulse to drag his dad out to the car, take him to the airport, and shove his butt onto a plane home.
He wasn’t going to be able to solve this. His parents needed to fix it. Plus, he couldn’t figure out why his mom had suddenly decided she wasn’t cooking and cleaning for his dad anymore. The last time he was home for a visit, she couldn’t do enough for them. Things seemed normal. How could a thirty-five year marriage fall apart in less than five months?
Drew heaved a sigh. “Dad, maybe you should start at the beginning and explain what happened.”
His dad took another swig of beer. He claimed he didn’t care for Drew’s taste in beer when he visited Seattle, but he managed to drink a few. Maybe Owen, the chef, might pick up a six-pack or two along with the ingredients for tomorrow night’s dinner if Drew gave him a few extra bucks to do so. Grocery stores were yet another place Drew stayed out of during the season; a beer run might take two hours after signing autographs. He knew it was part of his job. He enjoyed meeting Sharks fans. Sometimes, though, he longed for the same quick, anonymous errands people in his family or his non-football friends enjoyed.
Drew settled back in his chair and waited. His dad put the bottle back down on the kitchen table with a slight thump and let out a long breath.
“Your mother went out and got a job.”
“Why?”
“She said she hardly knew what to do with herself. You all are out on your own, it’s just us, and it didn’t take her eight hours a day to wash my shorts and figure out what was for dinner. She also said something about wanting her own money, which is ridiculous. I told her thirty-five years ago that it wasn’t “mine” or “hers,” it was ours. She said she feels weird about buying me a present with my money. I told her I didn’t give a shit about that.” His dad passed one hand over his face again. “She works during the daytime. Sometimes she works on the weekends. I want to sit and watch the game with my best girl, and she’s taking clothes orders or working in the returns department instead.”