warily. Maybe he hasn't slept off his buzz; maybe he's disoriented. He's been known to sleepwalk. Jack wonders now if he's even fully awake yet.
Michael grunts and rolls his eyes. "She doesn't live in Wentzville."
Jack leans back slightly, understanding now that, yeah, he's awake, and his comment was an accusation. Wentzville, on the opposite side of the Missouri river, is nowhere near their home in West County. The calming effect of the talk with Celeste in the car quickly begins to erode.
"What's your point, Michael?"
Michael lowers his eyes and doesn't respond. Maybe he's realizing he's already in enough trouble.
"How much did you two drink
tonight?" When Michael just shrugs, Jack adds, "You must have an idea."
"I don't know, a few shots each, I guess." He still won't look at Jack.
"What's 'a few?'"
"Two or three."
Jack is certain it was more. "Where'd you get it?"
Michael is silent.
"Were Jason's parents home?" Jack asks, trying another route.
"Yeah, they were home." Jack is about to express disbelief that Jason's parents would let kids drink at their house—he knows these particular parents—when Michael adds, "We didn't drink it at Jason's house."
Jack is silent. Michael understands he's waiting for more.
"About six of us left early. We went on the trail. We built a fire and partied out there for a while."
He's referring to one of the trails in the woods at the top of the street. The developer didn't raze that part of the land when he built the neighborhood because the bluffs in the middle made it
impossible to build on. The bluffs split the woods into two, one upper level and one lower level, and the neighborhood kids have forged winding trails
throughout, even a treacherous one that leads from top to bottom and requires a hiker to hold onto tree trunks and boulders on the way down. By day, the young kids play hide and seek and ride their dirt bikes on the upper trails; at night the teenagers hang out on the lower level, out of sight and under cover of the noise of the bubbling creek that runs alongside the bottom trail.
Michael knows he's not supposed to be there, but Jack has enough issues to deal with tonight to bust him for that, too.
"Where'd you get the whiskey?" he asks again, coming back to the earlier question that Michael avoided.
Michael fidgets on the couch. He's no longer looking down, but he's not looking at Jack, either. He stares into space.
"Michael."
"I'm not one of your frickin'
witnesses," he mumbles.
Fed up, Jack stands quickly. Michael flinches as if he's about to be hit. Jack has never hit either of his kids and he never would. Yet Michael believes, after what he's done tonight, Jack might.
In the kitchen Jack throws his coat over a barstool. He turns on the small light over the stove and opens the cabinet where Claire keeps the liquor. He paws through the bottles—vodka, tequila, gin, the rum that she uses in recipes—most of them have been untouched for months, some even years. The only liquor Jack ever drinks, in the rare instances when he drinks something other than beer or wine, is Jack Daniel's. The bottle is gone.
He turns back toward the family room.
The kitchen and the family room form one big space, and the stove light allows Michael a clear shot of Jack.
"What? You figured we'd never notice?
Is that it?"
"No. I just didn't really care."
Jack is glad for the distance between them, because at that moment he feels as if he just might violate the "no hitting"
policy. He wants to ask Michael if he knows how lucky he is, if he realizes how many fathers would break their sons' jaw if spoken to like that, or take a belt or worse to them. But he doesn't. Michael knows. No matter how much he provokes his father, he knows Jack would never lay a finger on him.
"Well, I care." Jack returns to the family room and sits on the arm chair at the end of the couch. "And Mom will care. And she'll care even more about what's going on with Celeste." It might not matter to
Michael grunts and rolls his eyes. "She doesn't live in Wentzville."
Jack leans back slightly, understanding now that, yeah, he's awake, and his comment was an accusation. Wentzville, on the opposite side of the Missouri river, is nowhere near their home in West County. The calming effect of the talk with Celeste in the car quickly begins to erode.
"What's your point, Michael?"
Michael lowers his eyes and doesn't respond. Maybe he's realizing he's already in enough trouble.
"How much did you two drink
tonight?" When Michael just shrugs, Jack adds, "You must have an idea."
"I don't know, a few shots each, I guess." He still won't look at Jack.
"What's 'a few?'"
"Two or three."
Jack is certain it was more. "Where'd you get it?"
Michael is silent.
"Were Jason's parents home?" Jack asks, trying another route.
"Yeah, they were home." Jack is about to express disbelief that Jason's parents would let kids drink at their house—he knows these particular parents—when Michael adds, "We didn't drink it at Jason's house."
Jack is silent. Michael understands he's waiting for more.
"About six of us left early. We went on the trail. We built a fire and partied out there for a while."
He's referring to one of the trails in the woods at the top of the street. The developer didn't raze that part of the land when he built the neighborhood because the bluffs in the middle made it
impossible to build on. The bluffs split the woods into two, one upper level and one lower level, and the neighborhood kids have forged winding trails
throughout, even a treacherous one that leads from top to bottom and requires a hiker to hold onto tree trunks and boulders on the way down. By day, the young kids play hide and seek and ride their dirt bikes on the upper trails; at night the teenagers hang out on the lower level, out of sight and under cover of the noise of the bubbling creek that runs alongside the bottom trail.
Michael knows he's not supposed to be there, but Jack has enough issues to deal with tonight to bust him for that, too.
"Where'd you get the whiskey?" he asks again, coming back to the earlier question that Michael avoided.
Michael fidgets on the couch. He's no longer looking down, but he's not looking at Jack, either. He stares into space.
"Michael."
"I'm not one of your frickin'
witnesses," he mumbles.
Fed up, Jack stands quickly. Michael flinches as if he's about to be hit. Jack has never hit either of his kids and he never would. Yet Michael believes, after what he's done tonight, Jack might.
In the kitchen Jack throws his coat over a barstool. He turns on the small light over the stove and opens the cabinet where Claire keeps the liquor. He paws through the bottles—vodka, tequila, gin, the rum that she uses in recipes—most of them have been untouched for months, some even years. The only liquor Jack ever drinks, in the rare instances when he drinks something other than beer or wine, is Jack Daniel's. The bottle is gone.
He turns back toward the family room.
The kitchen and the family room form one big space, and the stove light allows Michael a clear shot of Jack.
"What? You figured we'd never notice?
Is that it?"
"No. I just didn't really care."
Jack is glad for the distance between them, because at that moment he feels as if he just might violate the "no hitting"
policy. He wants to ask Michael if he knows how lucky he is, if he realizes how many fathers would break their sons' jaw if spoken to like that, or take a belt or worse to them. But he doesn't. Michael knows. No matter how much he provokes his father, he knows Jack would never lay a finger on him.
"Well, I care." Jack returns to the family room and sits on the arm chair at the end of the couch. "And Mom will care. And she'll care even more about what's going on with Celeste." It might not matter to
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