Oh, fuck.Not tonight.
Everybody looks around, confused for a few moments, until Dad says: “Come with me, boy. I have something I want to show you,” and gestures for him to follow. Evan obliges, without objection.
We’re all going mad.
* * *
We sit at the table,our general embarrassment thick in the air: at least, that of me, Mum and Christine. Dad seems to have bonded right away with the boy sitting next to him, speaking to him as if he were his grandfather.
“What did you show Evan?” Mum asks discreetly.
“His father’s room. Photos, jerseys for the teams he’s played for, medals…”
I literally spit my dinner back onto my plate to avoid choking.
“Cool,” says Evan, as if he didn’t hear the first half of the sentence. “I didn’t know he was a rugby champion.”
“All of my boys are,” Dad proudly declares.
“Do you play rugby, Evan?” Mum asks.
“No, I actually don’t like sports.”
Christine kicks him under the table.
“Ow!” he complains. “What did I say?”
My father laughs. “He can always change his mind. At that age, Ryan didn’t know what he wanted to do with his life either. He decided later to follow in your uncles’ footsteps.”
This time, I spray half my beer across Mum’s linen tablecloth.
“My God, Ryan. Do you need a bib?”
This time, I don’t know whether my dad’s being serious or not. I’d rather not know.
“How’s school, Evan?”
The boy rolls his eyes, and I notice Christine sigh heavily.
“I put up with school, and the school puts up with me.”
What an answer. I don’t know who his father is, but the boy really is all his mother.
“What’s your favourite subject?” my mother asks, encouragingly.
Jesus, if I were Evan I’d have lost it by now.
“Let him eat in peace, Karen,” Dad intervenes.
“Of course, I didn’t mean to intrude.”
“You didn’t,” Christine defends her.
The conversation moves between topics. Neutral ones, thank God. The weather, plans for summer, Christine’s café. All things I can handle, where I just have to nod or grunt. All things considered, the evening isn’t going too badly.
When it’s time for coffee, Christine insists on helping clear the table. She stands up and smooths down her tight dress, which hugs the arse I compared to the back of my car.
Fuck, I really am an arsehole.
