How to Misbehave (Short Story) (14 page)

“All that furniture’s going to appreciate in value,” Martin said.

“All that furniture’s trash, and it’s going to the dump.”

“Over my dead body.”

Carson had never much liked poker—all that speculating about what the opponent was going to do, figuring out bets and odds when he just wanted to act and be done with it. But what could he do but play the game? Even if he cleaned up the house, forced his father to eat vegetables and shower and take his vitamins, there was a damn good possibility that once he finished and left, he would get called back six weeks or six months from now to effect another rescue.

If he folded now, laid down his cards, and walked out of the house … well, then he was an asshole.

He didn’t want to be an asshole. He just didn’t want to be
here
. And his father knew it.

Stymied, Carson wiped his hand over his mouth and muttered, “Jesus Christ.”

“Keep taking the Lord’s name in vain, and you won’t have a roof over your head.”

“I barely have a roof over my head now, Dad. I’m sleeping on the goddamn couch.”

“Last warning.”

He raised his hands in a gesture of peacemaking.

His father made a gravelly noise in his throat and took another sip of coffee, setting the mug back onto the table with a defiant thump that matched the pure stubbornness in his eyes.

The toast popped.

There was no point to the argument. It was just a symptom of a problem that wasn’t ever going away—he and his father couldn’t find any ease with each other. Mom had made their relationship work, and without her around, they fell into the same old ruts and wore them deeper.

Part of him wanted to confront his father with the truth.
You brought me back here on purpose because you want me to move home. I’m not going to do that. We don’t even like each other. I know you’re lonely, and I’m sorry you’re depressed, but I can’t help you. You have to get on with it
.

But Martin Vance wasn’t the kind of guy you said that to. He was a stiff, principled man who’d been a curmudgeon even before he got old. If Carson said those words, he and his father would have it out, then they’d never speak to each other again.

He couldn’t bring himself to do it.

The second hand swept around the bird clock. He slathered margarine on his toast and set to eating it.

Martin worked out a possibility in the margin of his puzzle book. He dropped the pen and looked out the window with an abstracted expression. “I’m sure Julie’s got a room at the inn.”

The statement hung in the air, suspended. Its subtext swelled and filled the space between them.

I’ll see your ten and raise you fifty
.

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