The Reunion(4)

“Did you put it on the coffee table?”

He thinks about it and then chuckles. “You know, maybe it was on the floor.”

Jesus.

Christ.

“Dad, go back to your coloring book.”

“Aww, do you want me to color you a swear word? From the expression on your face, it looks like you have a few building up in your head right now.” He taps his chin. “You want a ‘Fuck you’ page, don’t you?”

Sighing heavily while staring down at the directions, I count to five and then say, “Sure, Dad, color me a picture that says ‘Fuck you.’ I’ll hang it on my fridge when I get home.”

He wags his finger at me. “Don’t tease me, son. I expect a picture of my art on your fridge.” He takes a seat in his recliner, a black dress sock pulled high over his calf while a white ankle sock dangles off his other foot.

A total nightmare of fashion, that’s what he is. Not that I care about fashion, but for fuck’s sake, the man is wearing twenty-year-old cotton shorts with a hole in the crotch.

“How’s it going in here?” Mom says, carrying a plate of butterscotch cookies. “Oh, would you look at that, you already have two sides attached. Look at you go.” She gives me a jolly fist pump. “Excellent work, Cooper.”

Yeah, and it’s only taken me half an hour, thanks to Dad’s constant jabbering.

“And did I hear you’re coloring a ‘Fuck you’ page for Cooper?”

Dad nods as he carefully lays his colored pencils out on the TV stand he uses when coloring. “Since I’ve been denied the ability to help our son, I’m going to use my fade technique. Cooper has a work of art coming his way.” It’s not that I don’t want his help—it’s just that he’s having a stiff day. I can see it in his movements, the bending of his limbs. I’m not about to ask him to join me on the floor. I think he knows it too, or else he wouldn’t have asked me to come over.

“Have you seen the fade-in technique?” Mom asks and then thumbs toward Dad. “A modern-day Bob Ross, if you ask me. But instead of happy trees, he dabbles in happy swear words. Did you see the picture I hung in the bathroom?”

Yes.

Unfortunately.

Let’s just say when I stood to take a leak, staring at a framed picture of the word “Pussy” wasn’t exactly what I expected in my seventy-plus-year-old parents’ house.

“Loved the touch of pink,” I say, sarcasm heavy in my voice, but neither of my parents appears to read it that way.

“Thank you, I thought it was clever,” Dad says.

Mom holds the plate of cookies in front of me. “Cookie?”

The last thing I want to do is prolong this project, but it looks like I’ll be here all night anyway. So, I take a cookie and lean back against the coffee table.

“Thanks, Mom.”

“The least I can do, since you’re making your dad’s Home Edit project come to fruition. All he’s talked about the last week while he waited for that shelf to be shipped is how excited he is to organize his books.”

“I already planned on asking Alexa to play some Glenn Miller while I delight myself in color coordination.” Dad has a cookie in one hand, a colored pencil in the other, and his head tilted down so I can see the bald spot on the top of his head.

I’m not sure if it’s because I’m constantly over here fixing things for them, but man, it seems like my parents have aged drastically over the last year. I try to ignore the pang in my gut at this thought.

“Sounds like a winning night,” I say, finishing off my cookies.

“Oh, did I tell you Ellen over at the flower shop received your email invitation?”

“You didn’t, but let me guess: she had something to say about it.”

“She had no idea it was a joke invite, and when she got the real one in the mail, boy did she stick her foot in her mouth.”

“Wow, so embarrassing for Ellen,” I say, turning back toward the directions and trying to understand the pictures.

“Oh, you could tell she was thoroughly embarrassed at bunko the other night. I told her some people just don’t get your sense of humor.”

“Yup, I’m a strange one,” I mutter.

“Which reminds me: I ran into Henrietta yesterday, and she asked if you planned on using Cake It Bakery for the anniversary cake. I assumed you already put in the order with Nora, but she informed me Nora said you never came in to see her. Is that true?”

Practicing patience and trying not to grow irritated at the mention of Nora, I say, “Haven’t gotten around to it yet.”

“Well, you might want to go in soon to talk to her. She’s getting booked up with weddings.”

“Maybe we don’t have a cake; maybe we do something like . . . doughnuts. I can pick some up from Top Pot and make some sort of doughnut wall.”

“Don’t you even think about an insane thing like that,” Dad says. “Those doughnuts belong in mouths, not on walls.”

Mom pats Dad’s arm. “I think what your father is trying to say is that although we love Top Pot, we would prefer a cake from Nora. She’s a family friend, and we’ve had one of their cakes at every event since I can remember. It would feel wrong to have anything else. Please go see her tomorrow. It would mean so much to us.”