Page 78 of Malaise
TWENTY-THREE
The upholstered sofais worn through to the bare fabric in places, the stitched pattern rubbed raw. I stay cemented in place, alone on one of the two armchairs at the insistence of Jon, and turn the empty glass slowly in my hands.
Two hours we’ve been here in his presence. Two hours I’ve sat still as a statue and watched the disintegration of what had to have once been a happy family, judging by the pictures on the wall.
A young Carver smiles down from the embrace of his much less tattooed, but by no means smaller, father in the largest of the selection. Given the age of the three kids in the picture—Carver, Tanya, and a baby boy—the photo has to be at least ten years old, if not more. Sponge effect blue over white covers the backdrop in the image, reminiscent of so many cheap photo packages on offer around that time. Every home has one of these portraits displayed proudly, but I’m pretty damn sure that most families still match the effigies that hang over their head.
Who’s the baby?
“Anyone thirsty?” Deb calls out as she gathers her empty wine glass and heads for the kitchen.
She arrived home a quarter hour after first introductions in the kitchen. A whirlwind of leather and leopard print, the woman left a cloud of cheap perfume in her wake as she swept the length of the hallway, only to promptly backtrack and check out the “new girl,” as she’s so kindly dubbed me. Before I could come up with an excuse on why Carver and I needed to head back to the motel right there and then, she’d ushered us through to the living room and set about instigating “family time.”
As it so turns out, Deb is in fact Jon’s on-again off-again girlfriend. Although what the real reason is for the arrangement, I haven’t figured out yet. It sure as shit isn’t out of love or a need to be with each other.
“How’s the job hunting going, Dad?” Carver sits to my right, his arms spread wide over the back of the sofa he shares with Tanya.
Jon dismisses the question with a raised palm.
The tinny gunshots echoing out of the TV fill the awkward void left by the lack of conversation. Tanya catches my eye and smiles. I can’t even force one in return. Get me the fuck out of here. I give what I hope is my best pleading eye, hoping she’ll elbow Carver for me.
The TV cuts off abruptly; the lack of noise leaves a distinct ringing in my ears.
“Tell me,” Jon booms, swivelling in his armchair to face us all. “How did you two meet, then?”
“What does it matter, Dad?” Carver grits out through a clenched jaw.
“Oh, it doesn’t matter shit, really.” He leans forward, heavy-set arm braced on his equally thick knee. “I was just wondering what a lovely girl like her is doing around a fucking idiot like you?”
“Dad,” Tanya softly pleads.
“No, love. You stay out of this. It’s between me and the boy.”
“If you’ve got nothing better to talk about—” Carver starts.
Deb’s nasally voice slices straight through his. “You boys aren’t at it again are you?” She sets herself down on the empty sofa and gulps at least half her glass of wine, leaving me to wonder how much of the bottle she polished off before she decided to re-join us.
Jon’s eyes rove the length of me as I still the glass in my hands and squeeze it hard to keep from crying out. He looks between a visibly irate Carver and me, clear confusion pulling his features inward.
“Tell me, Meg. How old are you again?”
Shit. What’s he getting at? I know Carver’s a lot older than me, but is there a limit for his father? Do I need to lie about my age? Every pair of eyes in the room is on me, with vastly varying expressions to match. Tanya looks worried, Carver like he could murder his father, and Deb… as though she’s daring me to tell the truth?
“I’m seventeen.”
“Pardon, love? Didn’t quite catch that.” The thug cups a hand to his ear.
I look across to Carver as he shifts to the front of his seat, preparing to stand. Tanya places a gentle hand on his leg to still him, and he swallows thickly before giving the slightest nod to tell me to continue.
“Seventeen,” I say louder and clearer.
Deb bursts into a fit of giggles.
Heat flames my face.
And his disgusting father licks his chapped lips. “That so?”
Kill me now. Why the hell has Carver done this to me tonight? What the hell was he trying to achieve by bringing me here while everyone’s two parts pissed? The answer strikes me as hard as his father’s next words do.