Stray Fears - Gregory Ashe Page 0,70

hug and helped me inside.

DAG (2)

It took a long time to get Elien to stop crying. Part of the problem was that he didn’t even seem to realize he was crying. He kept trying to apologize, and I kept trying to get him to use a tissue, and my dad kept trying to hear the golf announcer.

“Pat him on the back,” my dad said during a commercial for some sort of joint-pain medicine. “That’s what we used to do when you cried.”

Patting Elien on the back didn’t help.

During the next break, when they were explaining the magic of the new-and-improved Clapper, Dad said, “Maybe try some warm milk.”

“The fact that all of your parenting expertise comes from when I was two years old explains why I’m an emotionally stunted adult,” I said.

But I went to get the milk.

When I came back, Dad said, “You’re not an emotionally stunted adult. You’re my big handsome boy. You’re my champ.”

Elien didn’t want the milk.

“He doesn’t want the milk,” I told Dad.

“Let him think about it. Sometimes they have to decide they want it on their own.”

“No more advice, please,” I said.

Dad didn’t particularly like that, and he started punching the buttons on the remote. By the time the volume was at sixty-five, I was shouting so Elien could hear me. Finally, with a dirty look at my dad, I took Elien’s elbow and towed him into the kitchen. Behind me, the volume dropped substantially.

“Elien,” my mom said, “what’s wrong?”

He was still crying.

“You know what,” my mom said, tapping her lips. “I bet he’d feel better if we did something with his hair.”

“He’s not a doll,” I said.

“I know he’s not a doll. But I always feel so much better after I do a little self-care. I have the hair-cutting kit in the closet. We’ll just do a little trim, and then we’ll do his nails, and if he wants, maybe we’ll even do a makeover.”

“Absolutely not.”

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you, Elien? See? He nodded.”

“How did I survive being a child? How did I make it to adulthood?”

“I’ll get the kit.”

“I like his hair the way it is.”

“Well, yes, but it’s a bit long, don’t you think?”

I was standing behind Elien, and I pulled his head against my chest, trying to cover as much of his hair as possible. “No haircuts.”

“Fine,” Mom said with a sniff. “You could try singing him a song.”

“This explains everything,” I said. “My parents still think I’m three years old. This explains my entire life.”

“If I’m such a terrible mother,” Mom said, “why did I go to that fancy karate class graduation a few years ago?”

“That was the police academy!”

“Do not take that tone, Dagobert.”

“Dagobert,” my dad shouted. “No shouting!”

“Elien, sweetheart,” my mom said loudly, her face about three inches from Elien’s. “Would you like to stay for dinner?”

“Stay for dinner? He can hardly take a full breath.”

“That’s no reason to be impolite.” My mom brought over a sack of beans and a wire colander. “Elien,” she bellowed into his face again. “Can you sort these beans for me?”

“He’s not deaf,” I said, “and he—”

But Elien gave one final sniffle and nodded. Wiping his face with one hand, he leaned forward and examined the beans.

“Terrible mother,” my mom muttered as she moved back to the counter.

“I didn’t say that.”

“Maybe you could think a little,” Dad shouted from the front room, “before you say such horrible things about your dying parents.”

After scrubbing my face and trying to figure out what was happening, I dropped into the chair next to Elien. We picked through the beans in silence.

When the beans were done, Mom put Elien in charge of slicing the onion, the celery, and the bell peppers. When the vegetables were done, he was in charge of making the cornbread. When the cornbread was in the oven, he was in charge of the wine. The pressure cooker rumbled on the stovetop; hot butter sizzled in a skillet as Mom worked on the succotash. Elien’s eyes were still a little puffy, but he hadn’t cried in almost an hour, and he sipped his wine and stared off into the distance. After a moment, he glanced over at me, and a tiny smile curved his lips.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

I shrugged, and before I did something even more stupid, I made myself a Sugarfield and sat next to Elien, and we drank together.

At dinner, I could see panic mounting in Elien’s face as each dish was announced.

“Red beans and rice,” Mom said, setting a