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He hiccups and meets me stare for stare, a little of his old self shining through. “I said that I don’t see we should fix it up.”
“What?” I bite the word out.
My father grumbles under his breath. “I’m gonna sell it.”
If I say anything now, I’m going to lose my shit.
“I think I might sell it,” Dad corrects himself. “I’m not sure yet.”
“You can’t sell it, Dad. This was your place with Mom. This is our place. Our family’s place.”
“Think I don’t know that?” Dad asks. “I built this place with my own two fucking hands when you were still in your diapers.” He tries to stand but flops back down. “But it’s too much, Cash.” His tone softens. “It’s too much after everything that happened.”
“You can’t do this.”
“I can do whatever I want. It’s my business,” he says.
“Mom would not want you to sell it.”
“Your mother is dead.”
The words ring in the silence, in the sawdust and the smell of sweat, and I stare at him with a hatred that reminds me of being a teenager again. It’s an irrational anger, and I struggle to keep the beast under control.
“I don’t know if I want this bar anymore,” Dad says.
“How can you know what you want when you can’t even walk straight?”
“Don’t you talk to me like that, boy,” he replies. “I am your father.”
“Then fucking act like it,” I roar.
My father doesn’t flinch but considers me through those weary eyes. Weary, unfocused. Arguing with him like this is pointless. The best I can do is give him a fucking ride home and leave him at Ganny’s to sober up. Not that it will make a damn difference.
We’ve tried getting rid of all the booze in the house, even tried talking to the owners of the local bars, but he always finds a way, and I am sick of it.
It’s a disease, but I am at the end of my rope.
“If I wanna sell it, I’ll sell it. And there ain’t a damn thing you or any of your siblings can do about it,” Dad says. “It’s my business.” He glares up at me for a moment, and then the fire seeps from his eyes. He lets out a sigh and rests his head on his forearms on the table.
He looks old and worn, but I’m still furious.
I take him by the arm and help him up. “Come on, Dad.”
“Where?”
“I’m taking you back to Ganny’s. You can’t work.”
“Take me to Longhorn’s.”
“Longhorn’s is closed,” I say.
My father grumbles under his breath but doesn’t fight me as I guide him out of Chuckles and to my pickup. I feed him into the passenger seat and clip him into his seatbelt. This is bullshit. This whole thing is bullshit. I stayed. I tried. Why can’t he?
I couldn’t do this to my child. So how can he do this to us?
We drive to Ganny’s in silence, mostly because Dad has fallen asleep, snoring with his head resting against the window. I carry him inside and sit him down in the living room, then fix him a cup of coffee.
Dad doesn’t acknowledge it.
