Page 11 of Right Up His Alley

I shake my head, roll my eyes, and give in to her banter, letting out a small laugh. Mom and I are close, but we’ll never be that close.

Suddenly, the creak of the front door draws my attention, and my dad walks in, confident and self-assured. He calls out, “Rachel! I’m home! I saw the Mustang in the garage. Is Truett here?” His heavy footsteps echo through the hallway toward the kitchen. With each step, he leaves behind a dirty footprint on the hardwood floor.

“Honey, I’ve asked you numerous times to take your shoes off before you come into my house.” My mom reaches for the paper towels.

“Good thing I paid for these floors.”

Mom rolls her eyes and gives it back to him. “And I picked out the most expensive kind, didn’t I? Watch your tone with me, or I’ll use your credit card to get them redone.”

“You’re right, hon. Hand me the paper towels. I’ll clean it up.”

It’s not the first time, but it always confuses me to see how soft he gets with her. I begin to greet him, but he’s quicker. “It’s good to see you, son. Missed you around here. Excited to talk about all the upcoming tournaments. Did you meet the USBC boys today?”

I clench my jaw. “Hey, Dad. It’s good to be home. Yeah, they came to Spare Time today. They definitely caught the owner off guard.”

He furrows his brows.

“It was nice, though, being back in the lane where I got my start.”

“Your start? You practiced there, but I wouldn’t say you got your start at Spare Time,” he grunts. “You developed the skills when I took you on the road with me.”

“That helped too.”

He scoffs, a corner of his mouth twitching. “Anyway, my buddy said the USBC is also checking out Dallas. How about me and you take a drive tomorrow to see what that alley has to offer? One key to winning is knowing the atmosphere and location like the back of your hand. If other competitors aren’t familiar with the landscape, their accuracy reduces, and more mistakes can happen.”

“Sorry, Dad. I have plans tomorrow.” With a curt response, I let his words linger in the air like a narcissistic cloud threatening to suffocate the room.

“Plans?”

“Yes. At Spare Time.” I reach over and give my mom a kiss on her cheek. Before leaving the kitchen, I turn and give my dad a nod. “Good night. I’m going to hit the hay.”

For the first time in two years, I’m going to sleep in my own comfortable bed and dream of what will hopefully welcome me back home.

“Mijo, dinner is ready. Fresh tortillas are in the tortillero,” my mother greets me when I step through the front door. The house smells of cumin and garlic, making my stomach rumble. Besides a few bites of a pizza slice, I haven’t had much to eat today. In truth, the visit from the USBC guys threw me, especially the letter my father left.

I’ve brought the application home with the intention of showing my mother and confronting her about her part in this, but when I step into the kitchen and see my mother’s small frame hunched over the stove, mandil covered in flour, my need to interrogate her vanishes. My body sags, tired in a way I haven’t been for a while.

“How was—” My mother turns toward me, cutting herself off when she sees my expression. Worry creases her brow. That’s the thing about mothers: it doesn't matter your age; they are going to know if something is wrong. It used to bother me when I was a teenager holding on to teenage angst, but now? I appreciate it more, knowing I’m lucky to still have a mother and one concerned about my well-being.

“What’s wrong?” She rests her spoon in the holder, then places her hands on her hips and fixes her attention on me.

I don’t want to hurt her by dredging up memories of my father, especially out of the blue, but my curiosity gets the best of me. I hand over the application—now crumpled and grease-stained—for her to see.

“What’s this? You know my eyesight isn’t good. You need to tell me what it says.” She squints, trying to make out the tiny writing.

“Did you know Dad applied to be a host for the next USBC tournament?”

My mom’s head snaps up, eyes wide. Heat rushes to her cheeks as she shakes her head. “He did what?”

I don’t take her confusion as proof she was unaware of what my father did. As she’s gotten older—especially after his death—her memory hasn’t been the same. She’s far more forgetful now, missing appointments and losing track of plans in a way she never used to.

“He filled out this application and wrote a note explaining why Spare Time would be a good fit. I had members of the USBC in the alley today, looking around and casting judgment. You didn’t know anything about this?” I watch her face for any guilt or remorse, but I only get more confusion.

“I… I had no idea,” she says softly, voice thick with emotion. A stray tear rolls down her cheek.

I move without thinking, closing the distance between us and pulling her into my arms. She falls against me, holding me like I’m her one anchor left in this world.

Maybe I am. She’s definitely mine.