I don't move for about thirty minutes.  I feel like one of those hapless characters in a comedy who steps on one of those rake things.  You know, how the long wooden handle pops up and hits them in the face.  

 

I glance up to check the time.  The clock is a cheap round one, Ford is written in fancy letters.  Dougie left it.  His mistake.

 

The stunned feeling is starting to burn off like the morning fog.  And now, I'm getting pissed.  I look around for something long enough to knock it off the nail it's hanging on.  It clatters to the floor.  There is a part of me that wants to see it broken on the floor and then there's the part of me that wants to break it myself.

 

I reach down, pick it up and walk to the front door. 

 

"Dougie!  You forgot your stupid clock," I scream as I step out onto the porch. The satisfying sound of it shattering makes me smile.  

 

I look over to where Mrs. Fine sits on her porch.  She's the unofficial  neighborhood watch.  Her mouth drops open.

 

"Trouble in paradise?" she says once the shock wears off.

 

"Just seeing if time really does fly," I say.  

 

I'm not a fan of Mrs. Fine.  She's old so she doesn't have a filter.  I don't have much of one but common sense should tell you you don't comment on certain things.   And I can tell you that she damn well watched Dougie packing up his crap and then run out like a Baptist from a liquor store. She knows he split.  She just wants me to know that she knows.  

 

Having gotten that little bit of satisfaction from the clock episode, I need to concentrate on my next dilemma. How to tell a thirteen-year old boy that his dad left him.  And there is one person who just might have an answer for me.

 

I call my momma.  "Hey," I say as soon as she answers.   "What do you know about thirteen-year old boys?"

 

"Well, they usually smell bad, are acting like little boys one minute then pretending to be Sean Connery the next.  Why?"

 

"Oh, I'll explain later. "

 

"What's going on, Miranda?"

 

"Nothing.  Everything's good.   One more question.  If you had to break some bad news to a thirteen-year old boy, would you just cut to the chase or try to slip it into the middle of a conversation?"

 

"Miranda Jessup what is going on?"

 

Not sure if you're paying attention but she doesn't use my married last name when addressing me or referring to me.  My momma pretends that those ten years didn't even happen.  Gotta love her.

 

"I promise you, Momma.  I will come over and fill you in.  But right now I gotta deal with something."

 

The hundred dollar bill is on the table where Dougie put it.  I think tonight I'll take Waylon to the Pizza Oven down the road and gently tell him our new living arrangements.  What could go wrong?

 

 

 

Waylon stares at his plate.  He's not much when it comes to conversation.  And to be fair, I'm usually not around much with my schedule.

 

"How's school?"

 

"Okay."

 

"Got any friends?"

 

He cut his eyes at me.  Waylon isn't the kind of kid who has charisma.  He doesn't really have much personality.

 

"I got a couple."

 

I nod my approval and look around.  Just tell him.  Get it over with.  Why am I so scared to tell him that his dad left?  Is he gonna cry?  Do boys his age cry?  Damn, I'm in over my head.  

 

I lift the pilsner glass in front of me for some amber liquid courage.

 

"Where's my dad?" He watches me with those unwavering eyes.  I must be acting suspicious.  

 

"Well, Waylon, you want the good news or the bad news first?"

 

He straightens and leans back in his chair.  "Where's my dad?"

 

"On his way to Myrtle Beach."

 

Little frown lines knit his brow.  "When's he coming back?"

 

"So, I guess you want the bad news first."

 

"No. No.  He left me?"

 

"Shhh.  Calm down.  He said he would send for you.  As soon as he gets settled."

 

"You made him leave!  Didn't you?  You were always nagging him.  He left because of you."

 

You know how people say "don't shoot the messenger" when they deliver bad news?  I'll bet somewhere back in history, some poor shlep had to tell a king or some rich dude some bad news and I'll just bet that poor guy was led out back and shot.  All because he was the messenger.

 

"He said he got a new job."

 

"It was because of you.  He never got to do anything fun because of you.  This is your fault.  And I hate you."

 

He shoves his chair back and takes off towards the front door.

 

When I look up, every person in there is staring at me.

 

"He's fine.  Low blood sugar."

 

I look out the window to see him kicking the bumper of my car.  Maybe that little exercise in futility will take some of the edge off his anger.  

 

I know one thing.  I'm gonna finish this beer before I have to go out there and confront that little demon.

 

Yes, this could have gone better but it's only day one.  It's got to get better, right?

 

Right?  Please tell me it's gonna get better.