I stopped my dad in the kitchen. I moved a wicker chair in front of him.
"Stop," I said.
"Is mom going crazy?" I said.
"Where's mom going?" I said.
Her life was in boxes when we had left to go see baseball.
"She's leaving you," he said.
"Why?" I said.
"She wants a son who will treat her right," he said. He squeezed the meat of my thigh in his hand.
At baseball I almost caught a foul ball. Dad swatted it out of my hand.
"No," he said.
Dad came in and started ringing his fingers in my long hair.
"What're you doing?" he said.
"Drawing," I said.
"Cool," he said.
He kissed the back of my head and smoothed my arms in his hands. He found my hands and twisted them around my back. He clasped them with one hand, and with the other he bent my head forward. His fingers got wandering in my mouth. He accused me of bad breath.
"Fucking stop crying," he said.
He said mom's name repeatedly. He slipped into bed. He stopped before anything really happened, and fell asleep.
"Chips," I said, feeling around bags. "Where's the chips?" My hands are like tentacles when it comes to groceries.
"Look harder," she said. She hugged around my head.
There weren't any chips.
"What happened there?" dad said at dinner.
"Nothing," mom said. "Accident."
A few weeks later dad did the same deal to his finger. He roamed around the house waving the stiff stub in room after room.
"For love!" he said. "Fuck all of you!"
Mom quickly finished the job, sealed the deal. She cut out parts of him in his sleep. I didn't tell anyone. I guess I might've helped.
She bent into the microphone, grinned like it was her birthday.
"Fuck all of you!" she said.
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