Our New Dad - Part 2

That Week Only Got Stranger

If you missed part 1, you can catch up on the first half of this true story here.

Closing the front door on a long day’s teaching, something was off. All the colours in our house seemed sharper than normal.

Jeff Frame appeared from a spotless kitchen in a pinstriped apron, “Dinners on the table, boys!”

The dinner, the chores, the “boys”: our new old roommate was getting further fartherly by the hour. Marginally more hungry than afraid, we ate quickly and quietly. While Jeff Frame asked us about our day at school, and we offered back monosyllabic answers.

That night, me and my pal met by lamplight:

“I think he thinks we’re his sons,” I whispered.
“Yep, we’re his sons now,” he whispered back.

Jeff Frame was our dad, all agreed.

Weirded out of bounds, my illegitimate bro distanced himself from pops. As much as you can distance yourself from a self-appointed guardian who lives across the landing.

Sensing a change in his wayward son, our concerned parent probed gently around the subject, “What’s up with him, recently, huh?”

Myself, I couldn’t give the old man the cold shoulder. The poor guy just painfully missed his two biological sons. Somehow, all that loneliness and hurt had given rise to the forced adoption of his two adult colleagues. It was hard not to feel sorry for him.

Plus, struggling mentally a bit myself, a strong male role model around the house was kind of nice. As the eldest, I was always his favourite anyway. Me and Dad would still throw a ball around in the garden, shoot the shit. 

Later that week, our stay-at-home dad cranked up his fatherliness to an extra parental degree.

After another dinner, Dad politely requested that I kiss him on the cheek. 

The intimacy of this week-long relationship was moving at a pace that would unsettle even Craig David. 

Papa had spent much of his twenties in Latin America, where a kiss goodbye, a kiss hello, is part of life. While I, of course, have the utmost respect for Argentinian customs, smooching a mentally unstable old man at the dinner table was more culture than I was comfortable with. 

Behind well-closed doors, my brother and I made a pact: no more treats from father. Enough was enough.

My first test came the very next day. I woke from a denser couch-nap than intended - and there was dinner staring up at me. 

“I picked you up a kebab, son.”

My favourite. The bastard. All that greasy goodness was making small translucent blots in the paper wrapping. 

“Those are the ones you like, huh?”

Though dazed, I refused. 

Then he popped the cap on an ice-cold Corona.

Groggy and ashamed, I demolished the lot. Dad watched on satisfied, proud almost. 

As I headed upstairs that night, my sole provider placed a finger on his left cheek, indicating he expected a goodnight kiss, “Son. Aren’t you forgetting something?”

Indebted for the kebab and the beer, the apparent price of my word, and my body, I’m not proud of it, but:

“I kissed dad on the cheek.”           
“What?! I mean, what the fuck man?”
“But he got me a kebab” I whined.
“I don’t give a fuck what he had. We said no more treats from dad.”
“And a beer…”

To this day, I can still feel his bristles on my lips.

We avoided Dad how you might avoid an over-friendly father figure who offered out snacks and beers in exchange for kisses. We didn’t know what else to do. Neither of us had any much experience in this situation, thankfully. 

A few days later, we got wind Dad was moving out.

I owed him a farewell at least, and a kiss at absolute most. But not if I could help it. 

Dad was packing his life up into a suitcase: his clothes, his favourite pinny, our tennis ball.

Seeing me, Dad’s expression charged. All the warmth left his face. 

Father started slowly pulling down his trousers. 

An agreeable sort of chap, I was completely resigned to the fact that this was, of course, how the tale ends. “Typical,” I thought, “Dad’s a nonce. Dad’s noncing me.” 

Never breaking eye contact, Dad revealed a large black swelling on the back of one calf. A rush of insensitive relief washed over me, as I stopped performing rape-maths: my heft vs his Dad strength.

“Hurts like hell. I’m going to the hospital…” sighed Dad, with a note of fear in his voice.

The weight of family obligation hung in the air. As far back as I could remember, about a week, Dad had always taken care of me. I was the man of the house now. It was my turn to take care of him. I should accompany the old man to the hospital. That was the only decent thing to do.

But I just couldn’t. I couldn’t deal with sitting by Dad’s bedside, sharing Dad’s grapes, drying Dad’s brow, kissing Dad on the cheek as recompense for grapes.

So I just let it hang there, and it hung and hung and hung - until it dropped.

This bizarre surrogacy had gone far enough. I had to break up with dad. It was the right thing to do, trousers or not. 

“Right, um, I’ll see you around then hey, Jeff.”
“OK… See ya around, son.”

And that was the last either of us saw of our dear old dad. I hope he’s alright.