“Joe!” Alan yelled. “Come on.”
He grabbed Joe’s hand and led him towards the stairs.
Down in the hall, Alan guided his son towards the bathroom door. Joe was blushing again. He looked straight down at the floor.
“Just put your clothes in the hamper and jump in the shower. I’ll bring you fresh clothes,” Alan said. He closed the door behind Joe and listened. He heard the hamper lid and the belt buckle hit.
I should have given him a bag for the pants. Fuck it.
A few seconds later, he heard the shower.
Alan stripped the gloves from his hands and went to his son’s bedroom.
“Hello?” Liz asked.
“Oh, hey,” Alan said. She was at the bottom of the stairs, looking up.
“I’ve been calling—where were you?” Liz asked. “You look like a zombie.”
“Come on up,” Alan said. “I’ll tell you.”
He gave Liz the short version while he picked through clothes in Joe’s room. He handed her fresh socks, jeans, and an t-shirt.
“He had an accident? Really?”
Alan nodded and bit his lower lip. He shook his head as he spoke. “I don’t know. I don’t know what happened. It was the strangest goddamn thing I’ve ever seen. See if he’ll talk to you.”
“Where is he?”
“Our bathroom.”
Alan walked Liz back through the master bedroom. They heard the shower shut off on the other side of the closed door.
“Joe,” Liz called. “I’m coming in.”
“No, Mom!” Joe yelled. “Give me a second.”
“Okay.”
Liz looked at Alan and rolled her eyes.
“I’ve seen it all before, Joe,” Liz said.
“Just give me a second,” Joe yelled.
Alan retreated and sat on the edge of the bed. He heard Liz open the door and then swing it shut behind her. Liz was mumbling. He couldn’t hear Joe’s response.
“Oh my god,” Liz said.
Alan stood up and then sat back down. The rope was still hanging outside the window. A little gust of wind spun the straightedge. It tapped against the glass. Alan walked back to the closet. Joe was saying something to Liz, but Alan couldn’t make out the words. It was painful to lower himself to the floor—his ass ached and his head throbbed. Now that he was coming down from red alert, many systems were declaring injuries. Alan climbed the narrow steps slowly and locked his eyes on the rocker. He walked up to it and stood next to the curved back. The wood was dark with age. It looked like the varnish had worn off about fifty years ago and nobody had bothered to refresh it. The bottoms of the rockers were nearly flat with wear.
Alan grabbed the back and spun the rocker around. He turned and dragged it back to the center of the attic.
“Move again,” he told the rocker, pointing at it. “Move again and you’ll be fucking firewood.”
A cool breeze came in through the open window. Alan walked to it and leaned out. He glanced over his shoulder at the open sash.
Fall on me. I dare you. I’ll burn this whole fucking place to the ground.
Alan hoisted the straightedge carefully. It really wasn’t any problem to keep it from banging against the side of the house. He shouldn’t have worried. He pulled the straightedge through and then coiled the rope. Alan slammed the window shut and shook his head. As he walked to the open bale of insulation, he kept his eyes on the chair. As he passed it, he jabbed a pointed finger at it.
“Just try it,” he said as he snapped on his gloves.
Alan measured the gap twice and then stretched out the insulation. He marked the batt and laid his straightedge down the length. Putting all his weight on his knee and hand, Alan pressed the insulation to the attic floor with the straightedge so he could run his utility knife down the length and cut through the pink material. It worked well. He didn’t even scar the floor with his blade. Alan pushed his way to his feet and glared at the chair again. It was still in the same spot—of course it was—but he shook his finger at it anyway.
“Alan? What are our dinner plans?” Liz yelled up from below.
“Leftovers,” Alan called back. He walked over to the top of the stairs. “Joe and I are having lasagna. You’re eating twigs and sand, remember?” He turned and wagged his finger at the chair again.
“You want to go out?”
“Okay, sure,” Alan said.
“Let’s go now. We’ll beat the rush.”
“Can I go to the bathroom?” Joe asked.
“Of course,” Liz said. She patted Joe on the back as he rose.
When he was away from the table, Liz leaned to Alan.
“So what happened?” she asked.
“He got stuck in the window and then he pissed himself. I don’t know why,” Alan said.
“He said that someone took down his pants,” Liz said.
“It was the window,” Alan said. “His pants were caught in the window and when he was wiggling around they got pulled down I guess. The whole thing was strange. I came up the stairs and found him thrashing around.”
“He’s got scrapes on his thighs. I hope his gym shorts cover them up. I can’t even imagine what a teacher would think if they saw his legs the way they are now.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Alan said. “Nobody will see his thighs. First, he doesn’t even have gym class right now, they only have after-school sports. Second, the kids all wear sweatpants outside; it’s too cold for shorts. And third, no coach would admit to seeing a kid’s thighs these days. They’d lock them up before they finished the sentence.”
Liz smiled.
“He said he had to go to the bathroom, I just didn’t know it was such an emergency,” Alan said. “I couldn’t believe it when he wet his pants.”
Liz shrugged. “And now he’s going again. Maybe he has an infection or something. I had to pee every five minutes when I had that bladder infection.”
“Do boys get that?”
“I don’t know. You tell me.”
“I never have,” Alan said. “I peed a lot when I was on Prednisone, but never because of an infection.”
Alan trailed off as Joe approached. His son looked normal. He made eye contact. He was wiping his hands on his pants—that was either a good sign because he’d washed them, or a bad one because they were wet anyway. Alan chose to believe that Joe’s hands were clean.
“Everything come out okay?” Alan asked.
Joe laughed.
“What’s good here?” Liz asked. “I don’t see much vegetarian.”
“You picked this place,” Alan said.
Liz pointed a finger at Joe.
“I like the salsa,” Joe said. To illustrate his point, he took another chip and scooped a bunch of the sweet goop. They were already working on their second basket of chips. At this rate, Joe wouldn’t be able to eat any of his entrée.
“Slow down, Joe,” Alan said. “Save some room for dinner.”
“If they don’t take our order,” Liz said to her menu, “then we won’t have to worry about dinner.”
“Darling, they’re not going to come take our order while you’re still studying the menu.”
“Fine,” Liz said. She smiled and shut her menu.
The waiter appeared. Liz asked for a salad. Joe and Alan both settled on the fish tacos.
“This is a nice change of pace,” Alan said. “I’m glad you suggested it, Joe.”
Joe nodded. “You remember we came here right when we moved up? You couldn’t figure out how to work the oven.”
“I knew how to work it,” Alan said with a smile. “I just didn’t think it was reaching the right temperature. I didn’t want to give everyone food poisoning or something. You know how terrible that is.”