Daughter

By D. W. Davis

The television was too loud again. Even from the kitchen in the back of the house, Paul could hear the roaring buffoonery of cartoon animal chaos. He found he even remembered some of the lines.

“Turn it down!” he shouted, as kindly as he could manage. Mel’s phone call had given him a headache, as they usually did.

The volume didn’t decrease. Paul started to holler again, but even the idea of it hurt his head, so he went back to the dishes.

He’d cooked tonight. Spaghetti and meatballs, Kelsey’s favorite. He hadn’t made the pasta himself—he’d stopped doing that after the divorce, when it was just him most nights—but he’d made the meatballs and sauce exactly the way she liked them, had spent a good part of the day on it. It’d been worth it. She was old enough to chide him for not making it all from scratch. Two out of three ain’t bad, he’d told her, like always, and she’d replied, Who says that, and when he’d shouted—no headache back then—Meat Loaf!, she’d gone into fits of hysterics, not at all hampered by a full stomach. Almost, just almost, like the old days.

And that had been good. He’d needed that. At least Mel had waited until after dinner to call.

Paul glanced at the table, where remnants of dinner for two still remained: placemats, napkins, a half-full glass of iced tea he’d thought Kelsey might come back for.

“Two out of three isn’t bad,” he muttered.

It was the truth, of course—if Mel had been present, his headache would’ve become a full-on migraine, perhaps a blackout one—but it still felt like an empty truth, even after a year. Bitter breakups leave a bitter aftertaste, even when the missing party isn’t exactly missed. Especially when said missing party insists on calling every couple of weeks to update you on the proceedings and demands, despite even her lawyer’s insistence she leave such talk to the professionals. Paul rarely said anything. Maybe he could use these calls in custody negotiations.

You see, your honor, my ex-wife is absolutely batshit fucking cuckoo crazy.

He loaded another dish into the dishwasher. Laughter from the living room—but from the TV, not his daughter. Probably too worn out. They’d spent the day at the state park, hiking the flat, well-kempt paths the park generously labeled “trails” so children felt accomplished walking them. Then they’d gone to Walmart and done some shopping, where Kelsey had about worn herself into a frenzy trying to decide which one and only one toy he would buy her. She wasn’t upset, just undecided. Indecision ran in the family. Indecision had led to the marriage in the first place. Well, we’re pregnant. Might as well, right?

Who’d said that? Him or her? Talk about an inauspicious beginning.

He needed Kelsey worn out. Mel was coming at eight in the morning to retrieve her. He’d already known, of course, but she’d brought it up five separate times during their forty-three (he’d counted) minute call. As if their daughter wasn’t always ready on time. As if Mel ever had even the slightest thing to complain about when it came to his parenting. At least not lately.

Paul hadn’t always been the greatest father. He knew that. Drank a little too much, didn’t go to every tee-ball game. But he’d changed. He never missed a weekend, didn’t over- or under-indulge his daughter. Took damn good care of her. He was proud of the progress he’d made. And Mel knew he wasn’t that man any more, but she still held it against him. Not that he had been the sole reason for their divorce. That had been a tricky, complicated minefield of emotions they should’ve seen coming. Seven years ago, they’d had just enough in common to decide to wed. And there were good years at first, too; it hadn’t been misery from the start. But looking back, Paul could see the proverbial snake in the grass. Snake? Try a whole den of them, rattlesnakes, poised to strike. Just the thought of it made him want to take a couple Tylenol and pull out the bottle of Maker’s Mark he kept for the occasional late-night pull.

Speaking of which…

He glanced over his shoulder, wary of little peepers, and grabbed the bottle from the shelf, along with the shot glass he kept beside it. Poured out a shot, took it. The whiskey burned. Painful, but good. He wanted another hit, but not enough to actually take it. He could control that now. Not once since the divorce had he been drunk around his daughter, and he wasn’t about to start now. She would go to bed and he would then have just enough to get a buzz going. All he had to do was wait another…

He glanced at the clock, one of those damned Felixes Kelsey had found in a resale shop and given to him for Christmas. How Mel must’ve suppressed a laugh at the thought of him opening it. He wanted to take it down, but knew his daughter loved it. She would be heartbroken to see it gone. She loved that clock almost as much as the Meat Loaf joke.

Paul blinked and rubbed his eyes. That was his first shot, yes? He must’ve lost himself, cleaning the dishes while thinking over Mel’s call.

“Bedtime!” he yelled. “Get to a stopping point, kiddo!”

Not that she needed one. She had the damn thing memorized by now. She probably had a copy at Mel’s too. It gave him a small amount of pleasure, picturing Mel’s new boyfriend being subjected to this torture on top of dating Mel. What was the schmuck’s name again? Clive? Yeah, like that British actor. Except Clive was an air-conditioning repairman. Why had she even bothered to tell him that?

Paul started back to go into the living room, then stopped. He turned back to the cabinet and thought, what the hell, and did another half shot. Just half. The first hadn’t kicked in yet, and his head still throbbed. This would help that. Maybe suppress the anger, too. He could hope.

He left the kitchen, down the short hall—big enough for a storage closet—and into the living room. The room was dark; the only light came from a nightlight by the door and the television, bathing the room in various subdued blues and browns and oranges. Kelsey sat on the couch, the back of her head just barely visible above the top of the cushions. In the ever-changing lights, he couldn’t make out her dirty blond hair; it kept shifting with whatever colors were onscreen.

It was the movie with the overly-sexualized rabbit. Paul remembered the first time his daughter had rented it, that’s how long it’d been and how many times she’d watched it. She’d been alone on a different couch that time, a better couch, and he’d stood at the end of a much longer hallway watching for a few minutes. Then he’d turned to his then-wife and said, Is this supposed to be cute or hot?

You are so fucked up, she’d said, without any trace of humor or sarcasm. This was two years before the shit hit the fan, but he probably should’ve suspected something even then.

“It’s bedtime,” Paul said now, his tone perhaps a bit too harsh. “And I told you to turn that down.”

She didn’t acknowledge him.

“Jesus,” he said, too low for her to hear above the din. She could be obstinate on occasion. That, too, ran in both sides of the family.

Cartoon violence on-screen. Maybe not as violent as what he’d watched growing up—thanks to marketing and toy deals, he’d seen his share of PG-13 and R-rated movies at an age he couldn’t imagine now as a parent—but surprisingly detailed. Some of the animals appeared to be in genuine pain. Was that better than blood?

Maybe she’d fallen asleep. Kids could do that, even with the volume cranked up so high. Paul took a step forward. He’d found an affordable rental, with two bedrooms in a neighborhood that hadn’t completely succumbed to drugs and economic uncertainty, but it wasn’t without its problems that his landlord wasn’t paid enough to address. Occasionally faulty wiring. A window A/C that rattled; Clive can look at that for you, Mel had said on one visit, and Paul somehow managed a smile. And, of course, creaky floorboards, scattered throughout the house in an ever-shifting minefield. One of which Paul’s foot found as he approached the couch.

Kelsey’s head twitched. Not much, but enough to react to the sound, to turn her ear partially in his direction.       

“You’re awake, then,” he said. Stern, fatherly voice. “Look, kiddo, you know what time it is.”

She turned back to the movie.

“I said—” He stopped as the world swooned with his next step. That last half-shot catching up with him. Probably the first as well. And being this close to the cranked-up animals wasn’t doing his head any good.

“Get to a stopping point,” he said, holding his temple. “I’m grabbing some Tylenol. When I come back down, we’re pausing that and you’re going to bed. If you get up early enough, you can finish in the morning.” He started towards the stairs. “And turn the volume down, please. Daddy has a headache.”

No sympathy from the couch. Definitely obstinate.

He went up the stairs, most squeaking beneath him. He knew he was lucky to have this place. His job paid well enough, but most of that money was going to his attorney. And maybe, eventually, to Mel’s as well. His own parents’ divorce had been smooth; they’d even remained friends afterwards. Had dinner once a month. Paul would rather take a cheese grater to the soles of his feet.

Upstairs, he went down the hall to the bathroom. Passing Kelsey’s room, something struck him as odd, but a shout from the TV sent another bark of pain through his head, which rattled his vision again. Maybe he should switch to beer.

In the bathroom, he grabbed the Tylenol from the shelf behind the mirror and swallowed two pills dry. He leaned against the wall a moment, willing the medicine to take hold. After a couple minutes, he forced himself to accept it didn’t work like that. So he flipped the light off and shut the door behind him.

The television had not been turned down. It was muted up here but still loud. He swore. He did not like acting angry with Kelsey, but he knew he sometimes had to. He just hoped this was anger at her disobedience, and not from the call with Mel. He’d sworn to never let that interfere with his parenting. It was perhaps the only thing he and Mel agreed on anymore.

As he headed to go back downstairs, he stopped outside Kelsey’s room, and realized what had bothered him earlier. He turned towards her door, partly ajar, the inside of her room dark except for a Garfield nightlight. Kelsey and cats. They’d had one; Mel had kept it, Paul never being overly fond of them himself. Not that she would’ve let him keep it if he had been.

He stared at the partially open doorway. That wasn’t unusual for this time of night. This time of night being twenty minutes past her bedtime, when she kept the door open a crack to let lingering light from the hallway nightlight seep in. When she wasn’t in bed and she wasn’t at play inside, the door was wide open, flush with the inside wall, as was his. As it had been in their old house. As it had always been.

Paul stepped forward and put a finger against the door, pushing it open. The hinges groaned. He peered into the murky darkness. Her bed lay perpendicular with the left wall. The sheets were pulled up, slightly messy; she was not one to be tucked in. And there, on her pillow, was the small round shape of her head. Again, he could not make out the color of her hair, this time due to the shadows. But there was she was, in bed, back to him, still.

“Kelsey?”

She didn’t move.

Normally, he would pause to listen for her breathing. He’d done that since she was an infant. It had always reassured him, comforted him, soothed his fears. But he couldn’t hear so soft a noise beyond the din from downstairs, so he stepped into the room.

“You left the—”

A floorboard squealed in protest, and her head turned. Again, not much. Just an inch. Just a twitch. An acknowledgment. Exactly as she had downstairs.

But now, Paul didn’t think of obstinance. He thought of avoidance. He thought she did not want him to see her face.

He shook his head. Definitely the bourbon. He’d pour the bottle out and switch to beer. Beer didn’t do this to you, it just made you fat. He could live with fat, rather than whatever the hell this was.

He opened his mouth to say something else, but the head turned back away from him. No other movement in the bed. And he realized he didn’t want to say anything else. He did not want to talk to his daughter at that exact moment. He was afraid to.

He backed out of the room. Okay. He couldn’t remember upsetting her but maybe he had. Except he’d never seen her like this. And why had she left the TV on? And why hadn’t she brushed her teeth or used the toilet like she always did?

Paul turned toward the stairs and descended. He’d deal with it in the morning. If he could. He wasn’t sure what this was. Maybe it would come to him. Probably not, because despite his thoughts from moments ago, he was already picturing the bottle in the cabinet. He was already anticipating passing out in bed, maybe fully clothed, fuck that, it had been a hell of a night. He’d be sore in the morning but that would probably have happened anyways, if Mel had anything to say about it.

He reached the bottom of the stairs and started towards the couch to grab the remote and turn off that damn racket. Switch over and see if he could find a ballgame, or some old movie, maybe Bogart, maybe Welles, maybe a goddamn infomercial, something he could stare at and take in and not have to think about this.

But he stopped. He stopped after two steps and stared into the living room and thought, What.

The little bob of a head on the couch. Unmoved. Staring straight at the television.

His hand shook. That was all. A small tremble, like an early-onset arthritic. He barely even noticed.

A barrage of colors splashed across that dingy blond head. Orange and blue and red and yellow and green. Paul stared, seeing but not comprehending, comprehending but not accepting. Part of him wanted to run back upstairs to make sure. Part of him wanted to run out the front door. It didn’t matter, because for a few seconds, he couldn’t move. Just his hand, twitching.

His weight shifted. A floorboard squeaked beneath him. The head turned in acknowledgement.

I know you’re there.

After a few moments, some part of his body remembered to breathe. It came out slowly. Went back in slowly. He did not have the strength to take a deep breath. He opened his mouth to say her name, but something instinctive within him shut that down. Could he even speak? And what would he say? A name. Hers?

Instead, he headed towards the kitchen. Bumped into the table. Hard enough it should’ve hurt. Hard enough to knock over his daughter’s half-finished glass of ice tea that was probably mostly water with a slight tea flavor by now. It didn’t stop him. He went to the cabinet, grabbed the bottle and shot glass, and sat down in the chair he’d occupied not that long ago, sharing a pleasant evening with his child.

Now, however, he poured himself the first of many shots. The bottle trembled in his hands. So did the glass. Eventually, the bourbon went to work. By the time he felt a small hand on his shoulder, and a voice speak—Daddy—he was too numb to scream.

THE END

Author Bio: D.W. Davis is a native of rural Illinois. His work has appeared in various online and print journals. You can find him at Facebook.com/DanielDavis05, or @dan_davis86 on Twitter.

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