WHOOOSH!

Week 1.

“What do you think of your mother’s re-marriage?” asked dad, resisting the temptation to tuck me into bed. His bed. Wednesday night is his night, which means I get his bed. In his house. On his side of town. He claims not to mind sleeping on the couch, and I have a funny feeling he actually is okay with it – having slept on the couch just about every night when he and mom were still together. Oh, they’d both pretend dad was still sleeping in the bedroom, with mom – but I could tell it wasn’t true … that big dent in the couch said it all; as did the bottle of seltzer he almost always left on the coffee table.

“I don’t know, Dad … what do you think?” I bounced the question back at the Dad-Man, totally not wanting to level with him. If he knew what I really think, he’d worry, and I don’t want that. First of all, there’s nothing he can do about it; it’s not like he’s a master of personality transplants; he can’t wish a better personality onto Tim (my mom’s fiancé) and make it happen. Second of all, if I tell him, it’s like the last straw, the thing that says to me that this whole thing is real. That mom is marrying that big dufus and ditching dad for good.

“Honestly?” Dad looked at me with fish-eyes: a cold, hard stare that hides the tears because it’s underwater. Maybe he wasn’t on the verge of crying, but I wanted to think he was. As always, I was getting mad for dad. If only he’d screamed back at mom, maybe they could’ve made it. Seems to me she likes a good fight; I have a better shot at getting my way with her when I give her a hard time than when I roll over. Except, of course, in the current matter.

“No dad, lie to me.” Dad smiled – a real deal smile. Not the kind of smile that shows up when he thinks he should smile, the kind that just happens.

“Honestly, I think it sucks.” His smile was gone before I’d even begun to dig on it, little crinkly creases straightening it out before it had a chance to breathe.

Leave it to dad to wait till something’s in your face before he deals with it. Mom and Tim’s wedding was just six weeks away, and while I kept thinking something would get in the way – something like my dad – it suddenly became clear to me, clear as the high-def TV Timmy talked my mother into buying. Like okay, it’s cool and all, but here she’s always ragging on dad for not giving her enough money for me, and then she goes out and scores a high def

Definitely not cool.

Anyway, it was clear as clear could be. Dad wasn’t going to do anything about mom and Timmy. “She actually invited me to the wedding,” said dad, swallowing the last few words. “You’re not going, are you?” My turn to pull a fish. “Not that I don’t want you, but—”

“—I wouldn’t come within a hundred miles,” exclaimed dad, eyes now flashing, maybe even angry.

Did you ever notice how loud silence can be? Dad’s room suddenly screamed the big empties. I couldn’t help but noticing – like I had every week for three years – that dad still had a picture of mom by the bed. The two of them, at a happier time: sunset, overlooking some mountain path. Mom with flowers in her hair, dad with no white hairs in his. Real deal smiles all around. I guess I don’t have to tell you that mom has no such picture by her bed, and it isn’t because of Timmy. The pictures were long gone before The Timster showed up, him and his bad breath and his super baggy pants. I swear, if I see his butt-crack one more time, I’m going to shove a lamp up it.

Maybe not.

Point is, mom has so checked out on dad that she doesn’t even like talking to him anymore. Inviting him to the wedding -?- bethcha that was Timmy’s bright idea. Had to be, no question. Mom scarcely knows dad exists anymore.

That doesn’t work for me.

So I’ve got six weeks to come up with something, six weeks to get them back together.

Any ideas?

Week 2.

“Dad, have you thought about getting your hair cut?” I knew what he’d say, but I had to put it out there anyway. Mom had become waaaaay tired of dad’s leftover rock& roller image; something about wanting him to look more business-y. I can’t stand how she considers him such a failure; what has Timmy ever done to rate? Far as I can tell – not much – except re-heat pizza. Another thing: dad loves his hair; even though long white strands are a little bit on the warlock side, I’ve got to say – I’m a fan, too. Still, if it gets mom to take another look at dad, maybe a haircut isn’t such a bad idea.

“Edward, I know what you’re doing.” Check that – it’s a terrible idea.

“What –?—what am I doing?” Playing dumb was my only possible defense; I’ve got to say, it came to me a little bit too easily. So, okay, I’m no genius; I’ve still got a job to do. I mean, here we are – five weeks away from The Big Disaster, and I’m getting nowhere. Fast. Hence, the haircut idea.

“You’re trying to make me more attractive to your mother.”

“Dad, if she doesn’t like you the way you are, then what do you need her for?” Hey – who’s a better ally than me?

“That’s kind of what I thought,” said dad, manning his bedside perch. I dug further into his bed.

“This isn’t easy for you, is it?” Dad – love you – but sometimes, you’re no genius, either.

“I love my Wednesday nights, Dad.”

“—You know what I mean, Edward – is it Timothy?”

“No.” Much as I rag on him (behind his back), it really isn’t Timmy – “Timothy,” as dad calls him. I can’t explain it. It’s this feeling that like my dad is a balloon, that the wind will – WHOOSH -- just take him away from me. I’ll be watching as he gets smaller and smaller, disappearing into a cloud of twice-a-week get togethers and alternating summer vacations.

Okay, so I’m a little bit on the dramatic side. You try being a divorced kid. It does stuff to you. Even though dad makes a point of picking me up at school at least twice a week, of coming to all my soccer games, of talking to me on the phone every day we’re not together, it’s still not the same.

Makes me miss those wild arguments with mom.

Well, not quite.

I remember walking into dad’s apartment when this was all new; dad says to me: “Make yourself at home.” Then he checks himself. “—You are home, Edward,” he follows with. Cute, huh? Can you blame me for trying to hang onto that balloon?

“So, what is it?” said dad.

“You don’t understand, Dad.”

“—Not unless you tell me.” Like I said, the man’s no genius.

“I just wish—”

“—Uh, oh – this is going to be good.”

“If you want to skip it…” My toes dug into his freshly-changed sheets. Dad’s place may be home, but sometimes it feels like a hotel. Dude even hits me up with chocolate before I go to bed, though he doesn’t leave it on his pillow. And he doesn’t exactly encourage pillow fights.

“—No, I don’t want to skip it.” The man on the edge of the bed looked positively menacing. Yeah, right. Dad couldn’t hurt a fly, wouldn’t.

“Okay,” I said, toes digging in even deeper. “—But this might hurt a little bit.”

“If you don’t think I can handle it by now…” Once again, dad swallowed the end of his sentence. I wondered if I should eat my words, eat them before spitting them out.

“Dad, I think you should go back to being a dentist.”

Silence again. The big empties.

“I wonder if you understand, Edward.” Ouch. That one hurt. Me.

“—I know you hated it, Dad—”

“—Do you?”

“—It’s just that, well, it’s just that…” Like father, like son. I couldn’t finish my thought, didn’t dare.

“—If you think your mother will take me back because I’ve got a regular nine-to-five…”

“I’m sorry, Dad.” And I was. Really sorry. Sorry to have opened my big mouth, sorry to be in this stupid situation. “I shouldn’t have said anything. I’m sure the writing thing will work out.” After you’re dead. After mom and Timmy have made it official. After my life turns to complete and total crapola.

“I don’t know that it will, Son.” I know something’s up when he calls me, “Son.” Upset, angry – something’s always up with, “Son.” “I might just fall on my big, fat ugly face,” says dad, not batting an eyelash.

“You’re not afraid?”

“I’m afraid not to try.” Okay, that sounds good and all – a real Dad-ism (“Mom-ism,” if it comes from her mouth) – but what does it mean?

“It has been a while, Dad.” Jeez, guy, why don’t you just sock dad right in the face?

“You’re right, Edward,” said dad, unleashing a sigh. “And it could be a while longer. Meanwhile, I don’t think you’ve missed too many meals.” Double-ouch – and not because I’m Mr. Super-Size. If anything, I could use a few pounds. At least that’s what my gym teacher is always saying.

“Whatever makes you happy, Dad…”

“Believe it or not, Ed – making you happy is what makes me happy.

“Know what, Dad?”

“What?”

“I’m kind of tired.”

“Yeah,” said dad, rolling off the bed. “—Me, too.” He leaned over to tuck me in, caught himself. “—Ooops. Sorry.”

“It’s alright, Dad.” And it was. So it’s a little retarded for a twelve year old. I felt like I needed it. Dad tucked me in, grinned the goofy grin of someone who was putting one over on me.

Haircut, my butt. Why would I want to make dad over, anyway?

Week 3.

Another week. No progress to report. How do you bring together two people who really don’t want to be together? Is it incredibly selfish of me to be pushing for this? Dad seems to be getting on, and mom – well, mom has her Timster. I can knock him all I want – and I do – but the Momster is smiling more than she was when she was with dad.

Still, the thought of doing the Divorced Shuffle forever and a day is enough to make my mouth go dry, give me cotton-brain.

“You feeling okay?”

Dad gives me the customary bedtime stare, feels my forehead with his palm. “No temperature,” he says, hand plopping into his lap. That one always gets me. Technically, I do have a temperature, should be around ninety nine big degrees.

I merely shrug, my latest strategy coming into play.

“You want something to drink?”

Another shrug.

“One last chocolate before lights out?’ Man, you’d think the guy had never been a dentist. Or maybe this is just his revenge for all the years of foul-breathed fillings and drillings.

Another shrug.

“Oh, I get it,” says dad. At least somebody does. “You want to be inducted into the Fart-Face Hall of Fame?” Dad can’t think I’m going to fall for that one; a strategy is a strategy. I shrug again.

“ The Silent Treatment, Edward? How old is that?”

Shrug.

I can see the muscles in dad’s arm – the few that he has, not exactly being a pumping iron type – relax. The creases in his brow go flat. He taps his fingers, looks away. Shrugs. Shrugs again.

I shrug back at him.

Great, this week’s breakthrough: a Shrug-off.

Dad takes it one step further, sprawls across his bed, opposite me: his feet where my head is, my feet where – well, approaching, anyway – where his head is.

No way am I going to tell him what I’ve been through this past week: shopping for the wedding, dragged to some horrible store just so I can “look nice” for mom’s Big Day. I don’t mind the tie & jacket that much; maybe there’s a touch of the Spifster in me, but I sure hate the shoes. Stiff, black; they feel like they’re ten thousand pounds each, like they’re sucking my whole body in. I don’t understand the whole deal behind dress-up – though on the plus side, it should stop Timmy from flashing his butt for at least a couple hours.

“Why did the chicken cross the road?”

I shrug.

“—The rhino?”

Shrug.

“—The saber-tooth tiger?” Yeah, dad – that’ll work; kids always respond to dino-like creatures. With a shrug.

I wonder what dad will do on the day of The Big Disaster. Write? Tube-out? Laundry? Shrug? Will he think about mom—?—mom, and what’s to come? Or will he flash back to when he was still with her, we were all still together? Knowing dad, he’ll think forwards and backwards – then not at all. Shut down. Shut in. System failure. Maybe he’ll storm the gates, protest? “Does anybody here know of any reason why these two should not be joined in holy matrimony?” When the priest asks, maybe dad’ll pop out of an aisle seat, object to Tim’s chromosomal structure, or his collection of Alice Cooper records. Even a diehard rock guy like my dad knows that A. Cooper is like nowhere, that things have come a long way since the days of mascara music.

“Why did I cross the road?” That one is at least tempting. To avoid mom? To get back with mom? To watch one of my soccer games? Translation: shrug.

“—Because I couldn’t cross my T’s…” Now, that is hurt. Lowblow, Dad. I manage not to groan, not easy.

“Not even a groan?” Dad’s eyes narrow, disappointed. Doesn’t he realize what’s at stake here? Doesn’t he see, see that he’s been traded in for this year’s model?

I can’t wait for mom and Timmy to start arguing, Door-slamming. Throwing things at each other. At least they’re too old to have more kids.

I think.

I hope.

I pray.

That would be like the totally last straw. Timmy Jr. Or Tammy. Or the Timmy and Tammy twins. Dad and I would have even more in common: mom wouldn’t know either of us existed.

I’ve really got to get working on this.

“Not even a little whimper?” says dad. “That was a terrible joke.”

I shrug.

“—That’s it, I’ve had it!” dad says, jumping up, blowing out of my room. His room. Our room. “—I know this really good child psychologist…”

“No, Dad – no shrinks!” I jump up.

“He speaks!” Dad turns, eyeballs me. “I knew that one would work.”

“You don’t seem to realize what we’re up against here, Dad.” I eyeball him right back, not happy eyeballs.

“So, you don’t mind seeing a shrink?”

“I do mind. I live with a shrink six days a week – in case you don’t remember.”

Dad shrugs, this one innocent. “—I remember.” He laughs.

I laugh. Why not—?—the crapola’s just going to keep coming.

And I always have next week.

Week 4.

“That was not acceptable,” says Dad, glaring at me.

Guess I deserved it.

Not half an hour earlier, dad had plucked me from the rafters of the local electronics store, where I was sort of hiding out.

Well, not sort of. Definitely.

I saw him storm into the place, looking around like a crazy man. Didn’t know if I should come clean or morph into one of the nearby plasma screens.

I did neither. No action. Inaction. Bump on a log. Too scared to come forward, too scared to look for a better hiding spot.

If I learned anything this afternoon, it’s that running away from home (either home) may require some actual running.

Anyway, dad spots me, goes into fulltilt sprint. About ten feet away from me, he slows down, waaaaay down, and like saunters up to me.

“See anything you like?” he says, real wise-ass. “Maybe a new TV?” I freak, thinking that maybe he knows about the high-def at mom’s. But outwardly, nothing. I just kind of look around, give him some wise-ass back. “I was looking for the frozen foods section,” I say.

“Pistachio?” Dad plays along with me. “Or should I just cream you?” For the moment. He makes a fist, airboxes my ears, a little too close for comfort.

What does he know about comfort, anyway – as in, my comfort…If he really cared about me, wouldn’t he just work it out with mom?

Or is that just a kid-ism?

Whatever. I am a kid, am entitled to a few stupid sayings, thinkings – even if I don’t say, think them out loud.

“You want a little something?” says dad, indicating the rows full of tekkie toys. “Maybe a new video game?”

Guess I should run away more often.

“I can?”

“You can.” Dad shakes his head. “—Not that you deserve it, but…” I don’t wait for him to change his mind, jump on the nearest game.

“—Break-out?” Dad looks it over, sees the picture of some maximum security monsters borrowing out from underground. “Couldn’t we go with something… something more.?.” He looks at me, sees me in all my bright-eyed splendor. “ ‘Break-out’,” it is,” he sighs, nudging me towards the checkout line.

“Can we get some pistachio, too?”

“Don’t push your luck,” says dad, giving me a real dad look. I stand in line alongside dad, pretty much happy as can be, my whole dilemma momentarily forgotten.

As always, happiness doesn’t hang around for me – though it looks like it could – and for dad. For there, in line, scooching in right behind us, is this really cute girl.

Check that, Woman.

Not that I’m an expert on women – don’t want to be – but this one, this one is A-okay: long dark hair, tall, the kind of face that looks like it knows how to smile, maybe because it is smiling.

At me.

“What’s your name?” says the smile.

“Edward,” I yelp, yelp like a stupid little puppy dog.

“I’m thinking you’re about fourteen.?.” Man, she’s getting cuter by the second.

“Twelve, actually,” I say, more like screech. Between you, me and everybody in the store, I’ve never had a girlfriend. Girls are just so, so … girl-y.

“My cousin’s turning twelve,” she dips into her shopping cart, pulls out a CD-ROM. “Think he’d like this?”

My turn to be the balloon, all the air WHOOOSHING out of me. Only I stay firmly on the ground. All of a sudden, I have a great idea. Worldclass. And it’s not to suggest a different CD.

“Daaaad, what do you think?” I turn to The Man, give him his nudge back.

“How would I know?” The Man is clueless.

“Your son is very cute.” Great – she’s running with it – but does she have to call me, “cute?”

“You want our place in line?” I’m like the Knight In White Shining Armor.

Anything to get dad thinking about women again. Maybe mom will get super-jealous, drop Tim like a hot potato. Okay, it’s a stretch, but once again, I plead The Kid, a kid with a real situation on his hands.

“No, I’m good.” I swear, she’s smiling at dad. More like beaming. C’mon, Big Guy – you can do it: ask her her name, or suggest some other CD-ROM – make it up if you have to.

Dad smiles, super-polite, says nothing. Do I have to do all the work around here?

“We’re just doing a little shopping,” I say, back to the shrug. “Food’s next, maybe some ice cream.” Who’s smoother than me? “Mom used to do the shopping, but now my mom and dad are divorced.”

What follows is maybe the loudest silence in the history of silence.

“You have to excuse my son,” says dad, totally not excusing me. “He has some very definite opinions about my social life.”

“Like I said,” says the woman, bouncing her hair very girly-ish. “He’s very cute.” She shrugs. “—And you’re not bad, either.” Is it my imagination, or does she wink at dad?

“I’m flattered,” says dad. “—But I’m kind of in a holding pattern right now.”

Why do I even try?

Week 5.

We’re really cutting it close here. A week and a half till The Big Disaster.

You’d never know it from checking out my dad.

“Nathan hopped from wisp to wisp, trying to find a toehold…” Dad’s idea of a bedtime story hadn’t changed in like forever. Problem with writer-types, they think everything that comes out of their mouths is so incredibly genius. While dad’s stories aren’t like the worst thing in the world, they aren’t necessarily the best, either.

“The Cloud People” was one of my least faves; not that I’ve ever told dad, but if there’s one thing that’s sure to put me to sleep, it’s this dad tale.

“If you’ve ever tried climbing a cloud, you know how few and far between toeholds are,” said dad. Where’s your toehold, Dad? What are you going to do once you really realize that mom is gone? Once I realize it? Does the concept of too late mean anything to you? “The Cloud People” wasn’t going to put me to sleep this night. I couldn’t afford to sleep.

“—Dad?”

He gave me a look, a look that said something like, “How dare you interrupt Mr. Shakespeare.”

“—Yes?” Oh, joy. Dagger Eyes.

“I was wondering…”

“—Yes?” Really sharp Dagger Eyes.

“I was wondering if maybe I could tell a story?”

“Now?” Amazingly, the Dagger Eyes weren’t so sharp anymore.

“—Yeah, now.”

“—As long as it’s not better than my story…”

“We won’t know till we hear it…”

“I’m all ears…” Dad kicked back, made a gesture like, “bring it on.”

I brought it on.

“Once upon a time—”

“Oh, that’s really original.” I gave dad my version of Dagger Eyes, pushed on.

“—Once upon a time, there was this father and this son.”

“—Oh, no…”

“Do you think you could not interrupt for like five minutes?”

“Sorry.”

“Anyway, this father and this son were really tight. This father knew all this son’s likes and dislikes—”

“—Likes—” dad chimed in. Suddenly, we were telling this story together.

“Chocolate, video games, tropical fish.” I couldn’t help but nod. “Dislikes: Carrots, homework, shoelace-tieing.” Another nod. My turn.

“—And this son knew all this father’s likes and dislikes.” The story-telling dance was a little cutesy, but between you, me – and you and me – I was kind of digging on it. “Likes—” I gave dad the once over, just sort of let it fly. “—Coffee, The Classics, going barefoot.” Say hello to dad’s goofy grin. “Dislikes: Plaque, ‘Best Of’ Albums, backtalk.” Dad’s turn to nod. Did we know each other, or what?

“Anyway, they were really tight, there was a really good thing between this father and this son,” I said, scrambling to change the course of history – history that hadn’t happened – yet. “—Only this father and this son were missing a little something.”

Dad groaned. “I wonder what that could be,” he said. “I can’t imagine you mean a trampoline in the living room.”

“No,” I managed something like a smile, maybe 50% real deal. “—Though that wouldn’t suck.”

“—Edward.” Oops. Another of dad’s dislikes? Swear words – when I swear them. “How’s it going with the wedding, anyway?” End of that story. I had a few more swear words in mind, but held off. Barely.

“Okay, I guess.”

“Your mother called last night.”

Whoa. Pinch me, people. Could this be a real breakthrough? Was mom reaching out to dad? Was there a shot she was coming to her senses? “She wanted to know if I was coming.” No shot.

“You’re not, right?”

“Right.”

“Wouldn’t come within a thousand miles, right, Dad?”

“I think it was, ‘a hundred’.”

“Whatever.”

On the bedside table, I caught the picture of my mom and dad and the mountain path. Why couldn’t things still be like that?

Why?

One thing was for sure. Dad could stay his hundred miles away from the wedding. I would go for a thousand.

Week 6.

“Worldclass, huh?” Dad spooned up the last of his pistachio scream, the spoon scraping against the side of the bowl with an annoying “TRRRR.”

Maybe I was a little sensitive; can you blame me? Here I am, a few days away from the worst possible thing that could happen to me – not counting mom and dad’s divorce – and the Dad-Man’s eating ice cream like it’s just another day. Lying in bed next to me, in fact – staring up at the ceiling. I wonder what he sees there: the future? A cockroach? More cockroaches in his future?

“It’s okay,” I said, my spoon quietly smooshing through scream. Normally, I would’ve been onto seconds by now, but for reasons you can probably guess, I wasn’t that hungry. Even the cookie crumble on top of my scoop wasn’t revving up my appetite.

Six weeks earlier, I had set out on a mission.

Six weeks later, I had failed miserably.

Dad and mom would not be getting back together – no way, no how. I couldn’t put Humpty Dumpty together again. Crapola ruled. Pathetic: that I was doomed to have a stepfather with the intelligence of a fruit roll-up. That I would be doing the Divorced Shuffle forever and a day. That I actually thought I could pull it off, be like the magic healing dude that brings people together.

Yeah, right.

Perched on my chest, a little green swimming pool invited me in for a dip, but my spoon wasn’t going anywhere.

And neither was my brain.

My butt, on the other hand, was doomed to show up at St. Bartholomew’s that coming Sunday. Totally dressed up. The ten thousand pound shoes. The hair combed. The ears cleaned. Tie and jacket.

I put my ice cream down, rolled over on my side. Away from dad. Why couldn’t he fight this thing? Did he not care what I wanted? Was he like so totally oblivious?

I felt him get up, heard his feet hit the floor.

“Goodnight,” I said, just wanting to get the whole thing over with. All of a sudden, I was like so totally tired. Eyelids felt heavier than my fancy shoes.

“—Before you knock off, there’s something I should probably show you,” said dad. I heard the creak of the closet door. What was dad going to drag out, was he up to his usual too-little, too-late strategy? You bring it on, Dad, break out the crazy corpse that’s been hanging around in there since you moved in. Was it there when you got here, or did you bury it?

“Here, check it out.” I was tempted to fake sleep, but opted out. How often did dad reach out to me like that? Okay, so granted – he’s no stranger to sharing stuff with me, but still, there was something about his voice, something that said, “Son.”

I rolled back the other way to see what was up…

Funny how you don’t realize how great somebody is when they’re kind of around, part of your life. My dad. Maybe a hundred miles from mom, but right in my face.

“You should probably learn how to do this.” Dad twirled the ends of a tie that was looped around his neck, a blue tie, blue with red and yellow stripes.

“—That?” I was more than a little surprised, and not just because my dad’s like the last person to wear a tie.

“—For this weekend, Edward.” Right you are, Dad. That would be the weekend in question.

“—I know which weekend it is, Dad.” He plopped the tie around my neck, started fiddling.

“—I’ll cut you some slack with the shoelaces, Ed – but the tie, the tie has to be tied.”

Even though I really didn’t want to, I sat up. Something about the voice kept talking to me … this father, this son, this has got to be heard.

“Then you flop this end over this end.” Dad did some more fiddling, a crossover, a pull-through … presto chango, I was The Spifster, weekend-ready, a vision of ridiculousness in my pj’s and a tie.

“Beautiful.” Dad admired his handiwork.

Of course, I would never remember how to pull off the tie thing by Sunday, but that was beside the point. The point was that I was all of a sudden okay with the marriage thing. Not like happy overjoyed okay. But okay.

If dad could learn how to deal, I realized I could, too.

Timmy would become my mother’s husband. But he wasn’t becoming my dad.

I already had one.

And I wasn’t letting go.

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