The Boy At The Door

It Ain’t Happy, But It’s Home

The Day It Happened

Paul, 12:40 a.m.

        “Daddy!”

        I’m in the middle of dreaming about possums selling magazine subscriptions and they won’t shut up about the savings. Oh, God. The savings. All I wanted is to wake up.

        “Daddy!”

        I blink and roll over, unsure where the dream ended and my fuzzyheaded world started. Who was screaming? Was that Ollie? Or was that possums? Possums are pushy salesmen.

        “Mommy! Somebody help me!”

        “Paul!” Hanna springs out of the covers like some kind of mom-in-the-box. She can be ready to go at a moments notice. Not paranoid, but attentive. She’s great like that. Ollie could be upstairs with his Transformers and Hanna could be downstairs watching something on BBC. She’d hear a power tool one street over and if it so much as faintly sounded like a crying child, “Is that Oliver?”

        “No. It’s a weed eater.”

        “Are you sure? Shhh. There it is again.”

        “I don’t hear-“

        “Shhh! There it is.”

        “I still don’t hear-“

        “Because you keep talking!”

        And then I would go, “Ollie? Are you okay?”

        “Yeah, Daddy.”

        And I’d just shrug at her. It might sound annoying at times but honestly, I thank God, because I can’t hear a damn thing. I can be oblivious to everything but when Mommy is needed, Mommy is there. Firemen don’t have this kind of reaction time.

        “Paul!” Hanna swats my shoulder.

        I wince. “Right. Ollie.”

        Totally oblivious.

         I try to sit up but sometime through the night Hanna has rooted across my side of the bed and pushed me against the edge. I slip off the bed and to the floor. The side of my head kisses the corner of the nightstand and the world goes white. “Fuck Mcfuck!” It’s a pretty impressive string of shitfuckgoddamnits that I tie together. I put my hand to my head just above the ear. It feels hot.

        “Daddy! Mommy!”

        “Dammit, Paul!” That tone. My stomach drops a little as Hanna’s out the door. I can hear her stomping across the upstairs, shouting, “I’m coming, baby. Mommy’s coming.”

        “I’ll be-“ I try to say something encouraging but I’ve got cobwebs to shake out first. “You got this one, right, Hun?” 

        I pull my hand away and blood comes with it. Even in the cold moonlight of our bedroom, I can see the dark smears across my fingertips. I pull myself up and stagger across the Lego minefield my three year old has been building the last couple days. I make it to Ollie’s room and Hanna’s sitting on the edge of my son’s bed beneath the soft, yellow glow of the rocket ship lamp beside them. The little guys’ eyes brim with tears.

        “It was a monster, Daddy.”

        Hanna pulls him to her chest and rubs the thick blonde hair off his forehead. I open my mouth, I think I’m going to say something funny, something to cheer him up, but any move I make only sparks the already burning throb in my busted head. Right now it’s all I can do just to swallow the pain. “There’s no monsters in here, big guy.”

        “Outside,” he says, cheeks blotchy and trembling. He points out the window.

        Hanna squeezes him even closer, like she’s trying to protect him from the monsters, or me, not even I’m sure. She rocks him gently back and forth while Ollie looks out the window and I follow his stare. Both of us see the same thing. Nothing. Whatever was out there, even in the sugar-fueled dreams of a three year old, is gone now. Hanna looks at me from across the room. Her face knots up in a little grimace that was cute ten years ago. Now it’s frightening. She’s a sniper and I’m in her crosshairs.

        “What?”

        I figure if I start the fight maybe I won’t be taken by surprise.

         “You put too much sugar in his hot chocolate. Didn’t I tell you that you put too much sugar in the hot chocolate? I told you this would happen.”

        “You told me he’d get a tummy ache.”

        “I didn’t get a tummy ache, Mommy. I promise.”

        “See?”

        “You didn’t listen and he drank too much and now he’s got bad dreams.”

        “I drank the same hot chocolate he did and I didn’t have- well, actually, yeah I guess I did. Ollie, did the monster look like a possum?”

        He stares at me like I’m the dumbest daddy on Earth.

“Alright,” I throw my hands up. “You win.”

        Sometimes whatever just comes easier. And, really? It’s just hot chocolate. It isn’t worth fighting over at one in the morning. But whatever, if my giving up puts the brakes on her mood even just a little, it’s worth it. A little, tiny grin moves across Hanna’s face and I’m like, Thank God.

        And she says, “Possum?”

        “I’ll tell you in the morning.”

        I try to smile at Ollie and the pain shoots lasers through my face and into my teeth. My teeth, my freaking teeth are hurting, I got hit so hard. “Ollie, good night, big boy.”

        “Got somewhere to be?” Hanna asks. It’s playful. It’s cool. Usually we will read Ollie a story and he’ll be out in a second. Then we’ll go back to bed and chat for a while, in the dark, beneath the covers like kids at a sleep over. Like we’re trying not to get caught. Sometimes we’ll make love. Sometimes we’ll cuddle. Sometimes I’ll fall asleep and she’ll read for half an hour. But not tonight and not any of the other nights lately. I’ve been grouchy and she doesn’t know why and that’s not going to change tonight. I lean against the doorjamb and blink hard against the shadows. I’m trying to keep some focus, trying to be nice.

        “I’m sorry, Hun. But I’ve got to, uh, patch myself up.”

        “What’s wrong?”

        I turned my head and lean into the light.

        Hanna leans forward.

        “Oh, my God.”

        “Daddy, you’re bleeding.”

Hanna, 12:52 a.m.

        Paul thinks I’m mad at him. He’s got this poor me look on his face. And I’m not mad at him. I just wish he would listen to me about the sugar. He gives Oliver so much of the stuff that the kid’s going to be a diabetic I just know it. Paul’s mother raised her sons on a steady diet of Pepsi and fried chicken so to Paul anything that’s not carbonated is considered healthy. What? It’s Kool-Aid. Kool-Aid isn’t bad. In goes a cup of sugar. What? He’s three now. My Grandma made me coffee when I was three. This is what I have to deal with. I guess it’s in the culture down here. I was at Wal-Mart, don’t even get me started on having to shop at Wal-Mart, but I was at Wal-Mart and this fat mom gave her fat baby an orange soda. Sweet Jesus. I’ve got Oliver with me and we’re passing through the soda aisle and this baby is standing and screaming in the cart. He’s got a death-grip on the cart and he’s shaking the shit out of it with all the strength those fat rolls on his arms can muster. The mom yells at him to shut up for a second and she takes his bottle. Literally pulls a 16 oz. Sunkist out of its ring on the shelf, pours the stuff into this baby’s bottle and gives it to him. So not only is this one and a half year old drinking soda, it’s a stolen soda.

        This is what I have to deal with.

And it should be about Oliver, but it’s not. It’s rarely about Oliver and that does upset me sometimes because Oliver is everything. He’s my everything. But it always seems to be about something else. Paul wants to give Oliver ice cream for lunch and I don’t and it stops being about Oliver’s health but about Paul’s junk food habits. Oliver screams in the night about a monster outside of his window and it stops being about my scared baby boy and about grown man’s head wound.

Though, I have to admit, it is a head wound.

I grab both of my boys and march them into our bedroom. Oliver doesn’t mind a bit. He climbs up our bed and digs into the pile of blankets. Only his eyes and spray of hair peak out the top.

        “Sit down, tough guy.”

        I swat Paul’s boo-hind and wink. Are those the same boxers from yesterday? Gross.

        “What are you doing?”

        “Getting peroxide.”

        I grab the peroxide from under the bathroom sink and rummage through the drawers for the cotton balls.

        “If you’re looking for the cotton balls, I’m pretty sure I saw them downstairs under the coffee table.”

Yup. Last night I painted my toenails. Sometimes it’s like life is just taking all the air out of me. It’s cold and it’s dark and I feel deflated under the crushing weight, of going downstairs, not about life. I just don’t want to brave it. I know. Oh, poor me, right? I have to go all the way down my big house to the living room and trek all the way back upstairs to our huge master bedroom and my cute husband and stunning little boy. It’s rough. As Paul would say, these are white people problems.

I look through the doorway to Paul hoping for maybe a little help.

He grimaces and points to his boo-boo. “I’m feeling a little woozy here.” And then he stares at me with these big doughy eyes and after a second he says, “You get it?”

“Yeah, I get it.”

I am so tired right now.

“What’s it from?”

“Scream, Paul.”

“And that’s why I married you.”

He stretches out across the bed all satisfied with himself and with me. He grabs the lump where Oliver’s feet should be and wiggles them. Oliver squeals and laughs and I go downstairs. It’s freezing when I come off the last step. Even in October it’s not that cool around here. Usually still tee shirt weather. It’s so cold that my feet hurt on the entry tile and I tip toe across to the carpet. The blinds in the living room are open and I can look out them but I don’t see anything except the trees past beyond fence line. There’s a stream that runs just beyond the property. Moonlight shines through the knotty branches and all I can think about is a giant mouth with gnarled teeth. A cold giant with one moony eye. It wants to eat me. Holy shit, that’s freaky. My palm finds the light switch and the light drives all the weirdness back. I have to get on my hands and knees to look around but, yup, the cotton balls are under the table. I don’t like being down here and I don’t waste time turning off the lights on my way back to the bedroom.

Paul is sitting up. He’s got a hand towel pressed against the wound. Oliver is beside him, his tiny feet swirling little circles in the air.

        “What’s that?” Oliver asks, pointing to the bottle.

        “Medicine,” Paul answers for me.

        I spread everything out beside him. Three years of cuts and scrapes. I went into being a mom not knowing how to use Neosporin, now I’m practically a field medic. I brush some of the blood-smeared hair back. Paul sucks in air and tries not to pull away.

        “Sorry,” I tell him and rub his back. I dab the peroxide to the cotton and gently rub the cut. “I think we should take you to the hospital.”

        “No,” Paul says. No discussion. There’s no debate. He just cuts me right the hell off and I start to wonder what I’m even bothering for. “It’s just a bump.” He sounds dead.

        I tell him, “Whatever. It’s your head. But I’m the one collecting the life insurance.” I guess it’s not that bad. It can’t be that bad even if it wants to be. I throw everything on the floor. I’ll clean up tomorrow.

        Oliver pats his little hand on Paul’s leg. “All better?” he asks. His blue eyes are wide with curiosity. This is the most exciting thing he’s ever been through. Well, almost.

        When I see him like that I think about what the world looks like through those eyes. I think about the wonder and mystery of life, where even a stick isn’t just a stick but a magic sword to fight dragons. Where even in the night, after the world has gone to sleep, he can still find adventure.

        Paul gives me a kiss on the cheek and smiles. “Sleep is all I need.”

        “Sounds great,” I tell him and I mean it. We tuck Oliver in between us and crawl down beside him.

        I turn off my lamp and lay quiet in the stillness and after a few minutes goes by Paul says, “What if he really did see a monster?”

        I think he was joking.

        I like to think so.        

Oliver, 12:31 a.m.

        It hurts! Owie! It hurts down there! Wee-wee! Wee-wee!

Oliver’s eyes flung open. Baby! What a baby! He rolled out of bed and streaked across his bedroom floor, past the Mickey Mouse night light, and into the game room. Daddy had left the lights in the bathroom on for him. “Just in case,” Daddy said before a kiss on the head. “Don’t want you banging a knee on the table.”

        Oh, wow, he had to hurry.

        Into the hallway. His footed pajamas pat-patted across the carpet. Oliver felt a trickle down there. He grabbed his junk. Mommy called it wee-wee. Junk was funnier. He grabbed it with both hands now. If he pee-peeed himself, no more big boy underwear at night. If he pee-peed, it was right back to baby diapers. And Ollie didn’t want baby diapers. He was a big boy. He had earned the underwear. All different kinds. They had Green Lantern and Thor and Buzz Lightyear on them. They were way cool. And the baby ones, they had flowers and smiley faces. Super lame.

        He turned into the bathroom, slid across the linoleum, and raised the toilet lid. Panting, he pulled down the long zipper all the way to his knees and tore the pajama off. “Ugh,” he said aloud as the pee-pee hit the bowl and went down. That was a close one. Mommy had told him two hot chocolates before bed would give him a tummy ache. She was kind of right. He’d almost rather have the tummy ache. At least then he wouldn’t have to get out from under the covers. It was cold out. The wind blew in through the window over his bed. It was neat to look outside at the moon but the cold air…that just sucked.

        “Sucked,” he said with no one around to catch him and he giggled. “Suck McSuck.”        

The pee-pee ran out.

        He tried to remember what Daddy taught him, all of the steps that a man had to live by. Shake. Pull up your underwear. Pull up your pj’s. Wash hands. All done. He was a good boy. A big boy. Pee-peed all by himself and didn’t wet a single thing. He was done with those stupid baby diapers forever. A yawn jumped out of his mouth before he could even leave the bathroom. He rubbed his eyes, walking back to his room, and crawled back into bed. He pulled the blanket up to his chest, yawned again, and rolled over. That’s when he saw, through the backyard’s iron fence, between the black rods, the burning red eyes of the monster.

        Oliver opened his mouth.

        Oliver wanted to scream.

        He wanted to cry.

        But he couldn’t do anything. Frozen, with the blankets draped around him, he locked eyes with the monster through the fence. Two red eyes, so still. Maybe it wasn’t a monster. Maybe it was something else. Monsters were stupid and Oliver was a big boy, the underwear said so. If he went crying now like a little baby, Mommy would come in and hug him and kiss all over his head. Yuck. Be brave. Big boys are always brave.

        Then the eyes moved.

        Oliver yelped and threw the blanket over his head. He tucked himself into a small, warm ball beneath the blanket. Warm like Mommy’s lap. He had to be brave. He had to be quiet. Too much hot chocolate, that’s what Mommy would say and then Daddy wouldn’t make him anymore. And hot chocolate was good. Be quiet. Be brave. Count to ten, Daddy had told him. The monster’s have to leave. But he wasn’t sure when he was supposed to start counting. He couldn’t be sure how long he had stayed under there. It might have been ten already. The air was getting a little yucky and small beads of sweat formed along his hairline and behind his ears.

        No monsters.

        Be brave.

        He poked his head out from the cocoon and gasped in wide-eyed horror.

        The monster was at the window.

        Red, red eyes. So red. Glowing. Almost pretty.

        And when the monster smiled, Ollie screamed into the night.

        Even the biggest of guys were smaller than something.