The Shotgun Rule

Why doesn’t he come home?

He stays out all the time. But tonight of all nights, why doesn’t he come home?

Kyle Cheney sits in the livingroom, his back to the front door, TV tuned to NBC. The Tonight Show was on when he nodded off, but now it’s only a cloud of static. All the lights are off. The scene is set. But his son won’t come home.

He’s at George and Andy’s.

Where else would he be.

That’s where they always end up. He watched them exit the trailer park, weaving their bikes back up the street, knowing where their next stop would be. After they disappeared he let himself go back to the QuickStop, ignoring the pints and half pints behind the cash register this time, going to the back where the proper bottles are. And then discovering he was 27 cents short. Having to dig through the change in the loan a cent on the counter. Sweaty, counting pe

Then heading for home and realizing he couldn’t park the car in front of the house. If there was any chance of the boy coming home before midnight it would be ruined if he thought his father was there.

Parking the car two blocks away. Walking with the bottle in a brown paper bag, cradling it in the crook of his arm so it would be less visible.

People, nosy people, butting in.

Waiting. Sitting on the kitchen counter, peeking out the window, waiting. Waiting doesn’t work. And it’d be worse if Paul found him like that, desperate like that. He got cleaned up, took a shower. Ate a Hungry Man. A few bites, anyway. Thought he should get the car, decided not to.

Maybe Paul will look out a window over there, late, see the car missing, wonder what’s wrong, come looking for his father. Like any son would.

He needs not to be desperate when that happens. In control. Relaxed. In the livingroom, watching TV, back to the door, not concerned.

Don’t let him know anything. Not until he goes to the bathroom and opens the toilet and sees the note. Then he’ll be scared. Then he’ll have to listen to what his father has to say.

When he comes out of the bathroom and sees his father with the bag of methamphetamine sitting right next to him? Paul will understand everything, without being told.

He reaches for the brandy bottle on the floor, misses, gets it on the second try, opens it and takes a drink. His eyes want to close again. It’s the brandy. Too much today. Normally he has it under control. It’s just that today was so stressful. Finding out your son is involved with drug dealers is stressful. Who wouldn’t need a few drinks? The problem, the problem now, is to stay awake. Can’t let the boy see how upset you are, but you also can’t have him slipping in and out while you’re asleep. Time for a little self discipline. He puts the cap back on the bottle and puts it down.

The TV hisses.

And his son doesn’t come home. Doesn’t see the missing car. Or sees and doesn’t care.

Yes, the trick will be not letting Paul know how much he cares. He wipes the tears away, hiding the signs.

Date Night

– Mijo, where have you been? All night. All night.

Hector bends and kisses his mother’s cheek.

– I was at George and Andy’s. I told you yesterday, Ma, I spent the night like I told you.

– No, mijo, you didn’t.

– I did.

She turns from him and stirs a pan of refried beans.

– No, Hector, you didn’t tell me. I didn’t sleep. All night I didn’t sleep.

– Ma, I told you.

– No. You did not tell me. You did not. Do not lie to me.

– Ma.

– You tell me you told me, that is a lie. Lying to your mother.

– What did he do?

Hector’s father stands in the open door of the kitchen, leaning on his cane, his bathrobe hanging open over his belly.

– What did he lie about?

She crosses the kitchen to him.

– Nothing, nothing, mi amor.

She puts a hand on his arm and tries to guide him to the table.

– Sit, I have your breakfast, sit.

He shrugs her off.

– I can walk. Leave me, I can walk to the table.

She smiles and nods and backs away toward the stove.

– Amor.

She starts filling a plate with beans and tortillas and a few links of Brown ’N Serve.

– Hector, take this to your father.

Hector takes the plate and a fork and a paper napkin and sets them on the table.

– You been lying to your mama?

– No, Pop.

– Bring me some water.

Hector fills a glass of water from the tap and takes it to the table. His mother keeps her back to them, tending the pots on the stove.

– Here, Pop.

His father takes the pills from his robe pocket and hands the bottle to his son.

– Two.

Hector opens the cap and takes out the pills and hands them over and watches as his dad washes them down with the water.

He puts the glass aside and cuts one of the sausages with his fork and pushes a piece of it around in his beans.

– What did you lie to your mama about?

– Nothing, Pop.

He puts the sausage and beans in his mouth.

– And now you’re lying to me?

– No.

– Yes. Yes, you are.

He swallows the food.

– Go on. You came here to get some food, to change your clothes, to do that thing to your hair. Go on. Do the things you came here for. But don’t come to my house and lie to my wife. You come home when you want to, I am not an animal, my son has a home, I don’t kick my son out no matter what he does. But don’t come home to break your mother’s heart. Go on, go take care of your things. Just get out of the kitchen before you tell another lie.

– Pop.

– Go on, get out.

Hector puts a hand on his mother’s shoulder.

– Ma, I didn’t.

She shakes her head, brushes her hand in the air, doesn’t look at him.

– Go on now, Hector, like your father says. Go on, it will be better right now.

– But.

His father bangs his cane on the floor.

– You heard your mama, go on. Go be with your friends and listen to your music. Go tell lies in their homes.

Hector squeezes his mom’s shoulder.

– I’m sorry, Ma.

She smiles, but doesn’t say anything.

His father points at a cabinet.

– Where’s my wine?

Hector leaves the kitchen.

– Look at the bad pe

– Hey, Amy.

– Don’t let the cat out! Don’t let the damn cat out!

Jeff sticks his leg in front of the cat, blocking its path, and snags it by the scruff.

– Got ’im.

He dangles the cat.

She puts her Marlboro 100 in her mouth and holds out her arms.

– Easy, easy, he’s a old cat.

She takes the cat and rubs her ear against its neck.

– Aren’t you? Just a little old man, aren’t you?

She turns and walks back into the house.

– You comin’ in?

– Yeah, sure.

Jeff follows her, watching her ass under the tight white jeans.

She climbs inside the bell of a wicker chair that dangles from the ceiling by a heavy chain, crossing her legs and putting the cat in her lap.

– What’s up, what you looking for?

He settles on a Spirit of ’76 souvenir beanbag from the bicente

– They got me doin’ splits again.

– Shit.

– Yeah. Graveyards, I can take a couple ludes the first few mornings, get used to sleeping during the day. This half and half shit, don’t know when I’m up and when I’m down.

– Need help with the ups, huh?

– Supervisor drove by this parking lot, a parking lot I’m fucking protecting, I was crashed out. Finds me asleep again, says he’s go