The last time my father left the house was for a trip with us to Kmart one sunny day when I was eight: Dad shopped for household items, and my older brother and I walked the aisles, looking at the toys and games. Then, never again. He came home for good.
There was no announcement, no explanation. We were busy with school and boy things and didn’t immediately notice. When we did, the rut was already deep. Then, more than ever, we wished Mom was still alive.
Dad spent most of the time in his bedroom with the curtains drawn, the door closed. We sometimes heard the radio, but nothing else. We imagined him lying in bed. When we got a rare peek inside, it seemed warm, dark, womblike. Some evenings, he’d venture out of his room and peer out a window at the neighborhood, or stand at the back door, squinting into the yard, looking at the space. But there was no suggestion of turning the handle, opening the door.
The grocery store delivered, my brother had to pick up the rest. Grandpa dropped off a check every month to supplement Dad’s unemployment. “Until he gets back on his feet,” he said cheerily.
Thanksgiving had to be at our house. No one tried to sway things. Cousin Jeff joked, “This is weird,” but was stared down. After dinner, Grandpa and Dad went into the kitchen, presumably to talk, but when they came back, Dad retreated to his room, and the radio.
Eventually Dad’s unemployment checks stopped coming. Grandpa came by, smiled at us, said, “Your dad and I need to have a pow-wow,” then disappeared into Dad’s darkened room. But again, his cheery upbeatism didn’t do the trick. Dad spent even more time with his radio.
We played outside more, as though light were a cure, even when it was too cold, even when we really preferred to be playing video games. We didn’t talk much about it. Grownup problems seemed mysterious: some people kept at it, like Grandpa; others gave in.
Dad still gave us a weak smile now and then if we came home and caught him out of his room, or when we all sat down to another Domino’s pizza. He’d ask about school as if it were his job. I’d tell him as much as I could, hoping he’d feel like he’d done something.
At school, Mr. Bevins took me aside, asked if everything was okay. I said things were fine. What else could I say? It didn’t seem like a problem Mr. Bevins could fix.
Spring came. My brother and I lived almost exclusively outside. On an empty lot, we made a little fort out of construction debris in which we started and put out tiny fires. Once, my brother lay on his cardboard box mattress and said, “Let’s live out here.” Of course, I realized, he’s sick of it all: shopping, doing dishes, answering the phone.
I lay on my mattress and seriously considered whether the fort could sustain us. I began to make a list: canned food, propane stove, pot, spoons. Then I remembered the winter. February 3rd, it was negative-12 degrees. We had no choice but to return home.
Then one day, Grandpa came with his truck and had us pack up our things to move the six blocks to their place. “Your grandma’s made a casserole,” he said as we rolled up our posters and slotted our records into milk crates. Dad stayed in his room through it all. It felt prearranged.
In the car, Grandpa shook his head. “I’m not as spry as I used to be,” he said, “but I damn sure can take you boys outside and toss the ball around once in a while. I can do that little thing.” It was a rare negative remark from him, and we took note.
And that was it. We did not return to our house, except for occasional scheduled visits. Scheduled presumably so that Dad could get himself together and be sitting on the couch when we arrived. We had our traditional Domino’s and talked about school, I suppose because they were two things Dad knew how to do.
Thanksgiving that year was at our new home, and Dad never came. Cousin Jeff behaved and didn’t bring it up. I didn’t take it personally; I understood Dad just wasn’t capable of it. Maybe, I even thought, it’s the world that’s the problem, not Dad.
Because listen: sometimes, when I’d go to leave for school in the morning, turn the doorknob, I’d wonder what would happen if I didn’t. I’d think about my girlfriend, the kids at school: would they even care if I stopped showing up? They’d have thought it was strange maybe, but I believe they would’ve gone right on without me, just like we did Dad.
I turned the doorknob mostly because I felt like I had to. But if you’d asked me what I preferred to do, I’m not sure I would have known.
K. A. Polzin’s stories have appeared or are forthcoming in Subtropics, Gulf Coast, Wigleaf, and elsewhere, and have been anthologized in Best Small Fictions 2023 and the Fractured Lit Anthology 3. Polzin’s short humor has appeared in McSweeney’s Internet Tendency.