One More Step (3 page)

After dessert, Chris and I packed our bags for Dad's. Mom stood in the doorway like she always does.

“Got clean underwear? Toothbrushes? Gloves? Hats?”

You'd think after thirteen years she'd get used to us leaving every other weekend and Christmas Day. But no.

She has this way of looking all pathetic
and orphaned. Except this time Jean-Paul put his arm around her.

Dad came to the door. That was unusual for him.

“Merry Christmas, Molly,” he said to my mother. He wasn't looking at her though. He was giving Jean-Paul the once-over.

“Merry Christmas, Dan,” she replied. “Dan, Jean-Paul; Jean-Paul, Dan.”

They shook hands. My father's a big guy. I saw Jean-Paul wince from his grip.

“Pleased to meet you,” said my father. But he was looking at my mother then.

“The
playzhur
, it's all mine.” said Jean-Paul.

Chris and I high-tailed it to the jeep. I thought we'd die laughing.

“Next they'll start to butt heads,” gasped Chris.

“Bye, Ma! Love ya,” we shouted.

“Call me!”

“So what do you think of the frog?” I asked Dad the minute he got back inside the jeep.

“You're racist,” snapped Chris.

“Am not! He's a scuba diver, isn't he? So, he's a Frogman? Get it?”

“He's a nice guy, Dad,” said Chris. He batted the back of my head.

“Actually, he beat me three times, and I think he's a child molester, too.”

Dad roared. If Mom were here she'd be giving me a lecture. But she wasn't here so we laughed. Even Chris.

“So, Jules, how's it going?”

I cringed. I knew what would come next. Sure enough. Dad slapped his hand down on my thigh and squeezed. It's his way of showing affection. I know that. But jeez, does he have to pinch so hard?

“Good.” I pounded his leg. There, I thought, we have just hugged hello.

“Male bonding is beyond me,”
my mother would say with sarcasm.
“Men still need to learn how to express their more feminine sides.”

Just as I was hearing her voice, Chris farted. “Ahhh, that felt good,” he said. My father burped with his mouth open wide as
the Grand Canyon. I sat there and scratched my balls in comfort.

Good thing Mom wasn't in the jeep.

At Dad's place, the kids had already overdosed on candy canes.

“They're even more hyper than usual,” Erika said as we hung up our coats.

“That's a scary thought,” said Chris.

“Sure it's safe to come in?” I added.

“Ohh, you two! Merry Christmas,” she laughed. She had to stand on tiptoes to kiss our cheeks.

“I'll need a stepladder soon if you two keep growing so fast!”

I know I'm supposed to rag on about my stepmother. As in the wicked stepmother. Erika's wicked all right. As in she rocks! Not that I'd ever want to mess with her. She's Irish. She makes good stew beef and the best pumpkin pie I ever tasted. She makes cute kids, too. Even if they are all “yanging orangutans” as Dad calls them.

Here's the photo album of my stepfamily. These are my favorite pictures. I keep them in my head.

Snapshot Number One:

Hanna Melanie Hall. Born April 3, five years ago. She has white blonde hair that looks like cotton candy. Her eyes remind me of wet blueberries. She reads better than I can. Her favorite book of all time is
Go Dog Go
. I've read that to her a bazillion times. When she gets tired she rubs the tip of her nose with her ratty flannel blanket and twirls a piece of her hair. When she's cranky, you do not, I repeat, do not, want to go near her. In this picture she is blowing out candles on her third birthday cake. I'm the guy holding the balloons. Mom gave me that bunch for free.

Snapshot Number Two:

Luke Ferguson Hall. Born September 12, three years ago. Luke would be the runt of the litter if he were a puppy. If he were a puppy, he'd be a miniature poodle. He's got thick,
black curls all over this teeny little head. His head still looks too big for his body. His eyes are as enormous as those cartoon characters he's always watching. He drools when he sleeps and he drools when he's awake.

“Shut your mouth Lukie,” they're always telling him. So the spit won't run down his chin. Poor kid. No wonder he doesn't talk much.

“We're taking him to a speech therapist,” said Erika last month. “We're getting worried.”

In this picture Lukie's riding piggyback. I'm the horse.

Snapshot Number Three:

Maddie (Madison) Marie Hall. Born on my birthday, July 26th, this year. Hair sticking up like porcupine quills. Peeling skin with a scrunchy face from all that crying.

“She's colicky,” says Dad. “Hasn't slept a night through since she was born. Should have stopped while we were ahead, I guess.”
Poor Maddie, I suppose she'll grow up hearing that over and over and over again. His line for me goes something like, “I think we had Julian to try and save our marriage. Our last hope.” More like hopeless, I guess.

In this picture Maddie's looking into the camera and smiling like a little pumpkin. I'm the one taking her picture. I'm the one who can always make her laugh.

Snapshot Number Four:

Dad. The man I learned to call Dad. He's not my father. I mean, he's my blood father, but it's complicated. I see him with Lukie and the other kids. I watch him with Chris. It's different with me and we both know it. Does he love me? Sure. Do I love him? I guess. Love's not the issue here. But do we like each other?

I think he's a goof. Always spouting off without thinking. He drinks. This pisses me off. “He's a harmless drunk who holds down a good paying job,” says Chris. This is true. He's a foreman at the lumberyard. And he
doesn't smash the furniture or push Erika around. Still. When I see him drooling like Lukie at the end of the kitchen table, his eyes little slits in his head as he staggers up to bed, I hate him. I hate him for being that… weak. Big Strong Dan Hall. Not.

Anyhow, in this picture he is wearing a brown checkered shirt. He's asleep on a striped blue sofa. He has sideburns. There's a baby tucked in his arms, fast asleep. The baby is me. This picture is the only proof I have that once upon a time we lived under the same roof. So much for happily ever after.

The house is a zoo at the best of times. Smells like it too with all those diapers soaking in the bathroom. We bought the baby a box of disposable diapers for Christmas. It's a hint. Yep, there's racket and whining all the time; toys in the middle of every room. Christmas only means more chaos. Even sitting can be dangerous.

“Lego Man just bit me in the butt,” Chris said as we settled onto the sofa.

“DID YOU SAY EGGS IN A BOAT WITH A HORSE?”

We both jumped.

“Grammy Hall, sorry! Didn't see you there.” She was sitting in a chair in the corner. Hanna had piled a bunch of stuffed toys on top of her. Chris got up and gave her a peck on the cheek.

“Merry Christmas, Grammy.”

“SPEAK UP YOUNG MAN! I'M HARD OF HEARING.” Actually, she's almost deaf. Also, loopy.

“MERRY CHRISTMAS, GRAMMY!”

“MERRY CHRISTMAS YOURSELF, ALBERT. ARE YOU GOING TO GO TO BINGO TONIGHT?”

“Who's Albert?” I asked Dad as he brought in some potato chips and Coke. I knew his was spiked with rum.

“Who knows?” he shrugged. “Time to open your presents, guys.”

Who says having two families is so bad?

“Holy Cow!” said Chris. He had just opened his “big” present. We always got tons
of little ones from “Santa” and one big one.

“Look at this, would ya?” It was a 35-millimeter camera. “Cool, cool.”

“Julian, open yours now!” Hanna wiggled in beside me. “I helped wrap it!”

“Awesome,” I said. It was a camcorder.

“Figured we'd take lots of pictures this week. And we need some of us in action, too.” Dad was grinning from ear to ear.

“They costed the very same, too,” piped in Hanna. “Mommy told Daddy.”

After another turkey dinner and another helping of squash which I ate just to be polite, we settled in to watch the basketball game. Dad had taped it for us earlier.

After the game everything came unglued.

“Dan!” shouted Erika from the kitchen. “Could you keep Lukie in there with you? I need an extra set of hands in here!”

“Jules, get Lukie!” ordered Dad. That voice. The one that makes me want to say,
no frickin' way. But it was Christmas. I had a camcorder. I went into the kitchen just as Erika popped her breast out of her shirt to feed Maddie.

“Oh, Jesus!” I covered my eyes. “Sorry, Erika. Lukie, come on.”

When I went back to the living room, Grammy Hall was pointing out the window.

“LIGHTS ARE OUT! LIGHTS ARE OUT! CAN'T PLAY BINGO WITH NO LIGHTS!”

“Relax, Mom,” said Dad. But it was true. Half the Christmas tree lights on the tree outside had blown. He couldn't have cared less. It was all he could do to keep his eyes open by that point.

Well, Grammy Hall was
not
a happy camper. She sprang out of her chair like some sort of jack-in-the-box. With her mouth puckered up like an elastic waistband, she shuffled on over to him. Then she biffed him on the ear with a rolled up newspaper. Chris and I almost lost it.

“FIX THE LIGHTS, ALBERT!”

Okay, okay, Ma,” he said and stood up. Well, wobbled up is more like it.

“Jules, you stay here with Lukie. Chris, come help me with the damn lights, okay?”

Right. Leave me inside with the crazy woman and the kids.

We watched from the window. I got out the camcorder. It was quite a show.

Dad stumbled around in the snow and almost banged Chris on the head with the ladder. I could see they were arguing about who would go up the ladder and figure out which bulb was burnt out. Dad won.

Chris looked in at me and shook his head.

Big Dan Hall made it up all right. And back down again, too.

The toe of his boot caught the top rung of the ladder.

The ladder caught in the tree.

The tree crashed on Dad.

Dad landed on Chris. With the tree and the ladder.

“Daddy go boom boom,” said Lukie, the silent one.

“BINGO!” shouted Grammy Ross.

“DADDY” screamed Hanna and burst into tears.

“ERIKA!” I hollered.

Dad was laughing when I got out to see if they were okay. I thought Chris was too. Until he tried to stand up.

“My knee!” he screamed. Tears were streaming down his face.

We spent the rest of the night in the emergency room. Chris had a cast on up to his waist.

The ski trip? It was pretty much down the toilet.

“Harmless drunk, huh?” I said when we finally got to bed.

I waited for him to try and put a positive spin on this.

“Chris?”

“He's an idiot, okay? Just leave me alone.”

Then he turned his back to me. And cried like a little boy. I couldn't handle it.

“Chris? I got it all on videotape. Maybe
we could send it in to that show? You know, funny home videos? I mean it was pretty funny to watch.”

“Yeah. Real hilarious. Ho, ho, ho.”

“Guess what, Mom?”

I phoned her first thing next morning. I think she was still in bed. With Jean-Paul.

I'm not sure why I phoned. To make her miserable, I guess.

She didn't say anything when I told her the story. “So now, I have to stick around Lego Land for a week. Chris wants us to go anyway but no way, I'm not going without him.”

“Let me to talk to Chris,” she said. I handed over the phone.

“I'm fine, really, Mom. Fine. Yeah. Yeah. Yeah, he was.”

I could hear Mom's voice from where I was standing. Chris winced and held the receiver away from his ear.

“No, Mom. Not a good idea. No. Dad probably wouldn't want to talk to you right now. Mom! No, I won't tell him to eat mud. Calm down.” Long pause. “Gee, thanks Mom, but I'll stick around here. Becca's coming to visit today. She'll be a good nurse. Sure, I'll put him back on.”

As he handed me the phone back he said, “Hell hath no fury like our mother pissed at our father!”

“Julian?” Her voice was hoarse. “Want to go to Quebec City with us today?”

I stared at Chris.

“Go!” he mouthed. I shrugged.

“I dunno,” I said.

“Well, if you did know, what would your answer be?”

“I guess.”

“Terrific! We're leaving in an hour. Be ready.”

“It's better than sticking around Lego Land,” said Chris.

“But you're not coming?”

“Hello!” He pointed to his cast. “A long car trip? No, thanks!”

Telling Dad I was taking off was nasty.

“You're leaving? Just like that?” His face was twisted with anger.

“I'll be bored out of my head if I stay.” I didn't look at him.

“We can still go snowmobiling, Jules.” He sounded hopeful.

“Every day? I don't think so. Look, Dad, I gotta pack up, okay?” Why didn't he just let it go? Why not take the hint?

“No. It's not okay. You're not going.” He used the voice.

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me. I said no.”

“You can't tell me what to do!”

“Oh yes I can—I'm your father!”

“Since when?” It slipped out.

“Look at me!” he yelled. I didn't.

“Julian, I said look at me.” No way would I.

His fist found the wall. He punched a hole right through.

“Way to go,” I muttered under my breath.

The house was suddenly stone still.

“This is my week, not your mother's.”

“Well, maybe you should have thought of that last night.”

“Shit happens, Julian.”

“Tell me about it.”