Chapter Text
It’s early, probably too early in your opinion. Only your five year old kid would wake up at the asscrack of dawn to watch cartoons. That’s what wakes you up. You sleep out in the living room on the futon, an old rickety thing you rescued years ago that jangles like it’s full of loose change. You slowly crack your eyes open. Some light is filtering in through the blinds, and it’s the sort of natural yellow that tells you it’s at least after sunrise. You turn your head. There he is, curled up in his blanket covered in little black birds, a little nest in front of the TV. You can just barely see his white-blonde hair poking out among the sea of red comforter.
“Hey kid,” you say, slipping on your shades that are always on the floor next to the futon. “How’d you sleep little man?”
Dave turns towards you. The TV is quiet, and he’s sitting real close, but it is bright and it halos his head from behind.
“‘Slept good,” he says. He’s missing one of his front teeth. Not for the first time you wonder if he could get any cuter. He’s wearing his shades, an old pair of yours to be honest, and they’re almost falling off his face. Damn you need to get him some that actually fit. “Can we go to the library today?”
You sit up and yawn, scratching the back of your head. You think that’s not a bad idea. You need to see if there’s any bites on your job offer. And you probably need to pick up some food from the store anyway.
“Sounds good,” you say, “How do you feel about cereal for breakfast?”
He nods, going back to the TV. You stand up and go to the kitchen. It’s like a hallway, barely fenced in on two sides like an elbow. You still need to fix one of the cabinets. The door is long gone, and the mac and cheese trove inside is threatening to make an escape into the apartment proper. The counters are always covered in crumbs, the sink full of dishes. No matter how hard you try it never seems to get any cleaner. You resolve to do the dishes after you get Dave fed and dressed. The fridge is almost empty when you open it. There’s really only enough milk for one bowl of cereal. You think that’s fine. You’ve eaten worse than dry cereal. And Dave probably won’t finish his milk anyway. You grab the bag of honey cheerios out of the cabinet and unfasten it, dipping a bowl in. It reminds you weirdly of disemboweling an animal. Which is a totally normal comparison to think about. You grab another bowl of cereal, in a cup this time because that pile of dishes has four out of your five bowls in it, and head back to the living room.
You and Dave eat in slow silence. The show on is some educational program. Dave loves the segments with words. Whenever they start rhyming the little guy goes apeshit. You can tell when he grows up he’ll be a rapper. Or a poet. Either way the kid has a way with sick rhymes.
You drop your bowl in the sink and grab Dave, lifting him over one shoulder and carrying him back to the bedroom to fish out some clean clothes. He’s laughing. Kids love being picked up. It’s just a fact. Dave’s room is small, but it works for a kid. The walls are a dull white, but they’re covered in random shit from magazine clippings to hand drawings. The dresser is covered in his collection of mostly trash and feathers from outside that Dave insisted were important. You toss him gently down on the bed and go search for some stuff to wear.
You really only have one polo left. That’s fine. You can do laundry tomorrow. You let Dave pick out his own clothes. He’s insisting he’s old enough to do everything, and though you doubt it this is one thing you’re okay trusting him with.
“These!” he declares triumphantly. He’s holding up a shirt that you got at a goodwill. It’s mostly red with white stripes but when you look in the breast pocket there’s a tiny print of Waldo saying “you found me!” in a tacky font. The other thing is a pair of child-sized (okay maybe a bit big for him) grey cargo pants.
“You sure you want to go with Waldo?” you ask him, crossing your arms but letting the edge of your mouth quirk up, “What if I lose you and can’t find you because you’re too well hidden.”
“Come on Bro!” Dave says, rolling his eyes. You can tell even behind his shades.“It doesn't matter if you can’t find me, I can find you!”
“Is that true?” you ask, raising an eyebrow.
“It’s your hat,” Dave says, as if all this should be obvious, “You’re tall and it sticks up over everyone!”
“Guess you got me little man,” you concede, “What would I do without you.”
Dave beams. You help him into his Waldo shirt and cargo pants. Then you send him out to the other room while you change. You come out and he’s freestyling. It’s mostly nonsense, but you catch some beats about dinosaurs. It’s cute as hell. You smile a bit as you make your way into the kitchen, doing your best to demolish the pile of dishes in the sink. You watch the water spin into the drain. You might have to skip the grocery store and head for the food bank. Things are tight right now. Hopefully summer will get you a couple more jobs.
You feel a tug on your pantleg. Dave is looking up at you. You’ll do whatever it takes. You decided that the first time you saw him. You’ll make it work. You scoop him up and flip him upside down, which he loves, howling with laughter. Yeah. You two got this.
***
“Do you want me to tie your shoes?” you ask.
You are standing in the foyer of your home, watching your daughter tug on her pink lace up shoes. She’s wearing a pink dress, simple fabric, with the tags cut off. Casey is staring at her shoes as if with the sheer power of will she can make them tie themselves. She’s holding her favorite stuffed animal, a komodo dragon named Koko, tight in her little arms. You wait for her answer. She’s weighing her options.
“We can do them together,” you offer, “I can make the bunny ears and you can tie the knot. How’s that?”
Casey nods. You tie one shoe and fold the laces into loops, which she takes and ties into a bow. You do the same with the other shoe. She hops up, satisfied, and reaches out for your hand with the one not currently holding Koko. You shift your bag of books to the other shoulder and take her hand.
“Okay Casey bear,” you say, opening the door, “We’re off to the land of books!”
Casey jumps down the few steps of your porch, feeling the reverberations of the wood bounce back as she does. You hold her hand all the way to your car, which is parked in the driveway. You sling your books into the passenger seat and then open the back of the minivan. Casey hops up into her booster seat. You smile at her determined expression. She approaches everything with the seriousness of a coroner. You help her buckle in and then make sure Koko is also buckled in on the seat next to her. Then you situate yourself in the front seat and adjust your glasses.
“Alright,” you say, looking at Casey in the rearview, “Captain Casey are we ready for takeoff?”
“Major General Casey,” she signs. It takes her a while because she has to finger spell everything except for her name.
“That’s a pretty big title,” you say seriously, “Are you ready for that level of responsibility?”
She nods. You smile back. “Okay. Major General Casey, are we ready for takeoff?”
She nods again, enthusiastic. She gives you the ASL sign for “takeoff”. You rev up the car and carefully back out of the sloped driveway. You ask Casey if she wants music and when she gives you the heads up you put on some piano music. Casey idly mimes with her hands as you drive, carving shapes in the air. It’s not a long way to the library, and you sit in the car while the song finishes.
You get out of the car and open the back seat, giving Casey a salute, “Major General Casey ma’am. We have safely landed.”
She giggles and you help her out of the car, making sure Koko gets out too. Then you grab your bag of books from the front seat and head inside. You can barely hold onto her once you’re in there. It’s like she’s magnetically attracted. You let her go with a caveat to stay quiet and out of other people’s way and then go over to the returns counter. You recognize the woman working there, Maude. She’s a sweet old lady who slips Casey a peppermint every now and then.
“Got more books to return Mister Egbert?” Maude asks when you drop the bag on the counter.
“Yep,” you say, “Casey eats books like air.”
“I remember when my kids were her age,” Maude says, shaking her head, “Kids are like sponges I tell you.”
“I know,” you chuckle, “I can barely read anything these days without getting burned out and Casey can read at least three in a day.”
“Is she reading chapter books?” Maude asks, pulling the books out of the bag and checking their titles.
“Oh a bit,” you say, rubbing your neck. “Mostly uh… fact books. And encyclopedias.”
“Goodness,” Maude says, “And she’s six?”
“Yep,” you say, a little proudly. “Going to be going into first grade in the fall.”
“Well we better get some more books,” Maude says, “We’ll run out before she hits fourteen at this rate.”
You smile. Casey is a voracious reader, and absorbs facts at an incredible rate. You know she’s going to be a hard kid to teach, but at the same time you know she can do it.
“Oh by the way, John,” Maude says, “There’s a dad that comes in here sometimes, real tall, orange baseball cap. I think he’s single.”
She winks at you and you go beet red.
“M-Maude!” you squeak.
“Just go invite him somewhere,” she says, “You two would get along like a house on fire.”
You stumble around your words for a minute more before Maude shuffles you off. You head over for the kids section. Casey isn’t there often these days but you know she likes the model train set they have over there. When you round the corner you find her next to the trains deep in conversation with… wow.
The guy is well built and you can tell he’s tall, even scrunched down in a kids chair. He’s got an orange baseball cap on, with just some wisps of almost white blonde hair spilling out around his face. And damn it looks like he’s about bursting out of that white polo. He’s got these pointy shades on that keep you from seeing a lot of his face too. He’s listening to Casey, mostly just letting her talk, which is honestly surprising. She doesn’t talk to people very often, let alone strangers.
“Casey?” you call, heading over to them. The guy looks up at you.
“Oh is this your kid?” he asks, “She was just schooling me about lizards. Did you know the komodo dragon can smell blood from miles away?”
“Carrion,” Casey corrects.
“Right, sorry kid,” he chuckles goodnaturedly.
“I’m sorry if she’s been bothering you,” you say.
“Oh not at all,” he says, “She’s great. We’re havin a stellar time.”
You are a bit nervous about seeing this huge man in the children's section, and then you remember what Maude said.
“My name’s John,” you say, holding out your hand.
***
The ride to the library is uneventful. Or as uneventful as a bus ride with a 6 year old can be. Dave is fiddling with your phone. It’s old and basically bricked at this point, but there’s a bunch of tunes still on it that you’ve been amassing for years. He’s got on his beat up headphones, they’re too big for him, but they sound good. He traces the home button with one thumb idly, shaking his leg. You lean back against the window and tip down your hat a bit.
Once you’re at the library Dave heads for the kids section. You go over to the computers. After logging in you pull up your page to see if there’s any takers. Nothing. You sigh. You’ll have to hit the food bank after this for sure. You start looking at schools next. Dave’s a smart kid and he got to skip kindergarten, which is good since you really don’t have the cash for it. There’s nothing in town, which isn't surprising. Dave would have to go to one of the elementaries in the suburbs. You do the math quickly on one of the scrap sheets provided by the library. It would be a half hour ride by public bus to the nearest stop that picks up kids for school. And you can’t escort him every day. You really don’t want him riding the public bus alone. You take off your cap and run your hand through your hair. You’ll figure it out. You always do.
You log off the computer and head back over to the kids section, looking for Dave. You don’t see him, so you just sit down in one of these comically undersized chairs. It’s not long before some kid approaches you. Huh. You wonder where her parents are. She’s wearing a pink dress, a simple affair with no frills or bows, and pink sneakers. Her hair is a mess, barely brushed and falling around her face in mousy brown strands. She’s clutching a komodo dragon plushie that’s about the same size as her.
“Sup kid,” you say, lifting your chin a bit, “Sick stuffed animal.”
She lights up and starts telling you all about lizards. It’s adorable. She’s so animated. It reminds you of Dave honestly. When he gets talking about birds or dinos he never stops. She looks up as someone calls her name, who is confirmed to be her dad fairly quick. He’s cute. He has light brown skin, like river clay. His hair is dark brown, only confirmed to not be black by the scattered gold where the light catches it. He has thick coke bottle glasses that make him look a bit bug eyed, but it’s sweet. He’s wearing a button down shirt with a tie covered in… molecules? Jeez this guy is a nerd. It’s endearing. He asks for your name and you debate what to tell him.
“Ambrose,” you finally offer, taking his hand with one of your gloved ones. He’s got a good grip. “But most folks call me Bro.”
Casey goes off to play with the trains and he sits in one of the small chairs next to you.
“Do you have a kid?” John asks.
“Yeah. He’s over somewhere in the kids section I think. Waitin for him to be done,” you reply.
John nods, “Thank you for talking to Casey.”
“Of course,” you say, “She’s a sweet kid.”
John laughs, and his face goes so soft as he looks at her. You know that look. It’s how you look at Dave sometimes. You decide you really like John. You talk for a while, mostly about your kids. You find out that Casey can’t stand crusts on her sandwiches and wants to be a herpetologist. You tell him about Dave and his sick rhymes. You don’t tell him about your situation. You don’t want him to pity you. It feels nice though. It’s been a long time since you’ve talked to anyone. It’s mostly just you and Dave. And John is easy to talk to.
“I was wondering,” John fiddles with his tie a bit, “If you’d like to come to this support group for single dads.”
You almost say no instantly. You don’t want to be a charity case, that’s what you were afraid of. But this guy. He’s sweet. And you… really don’t know what you’re doing. You’ve had Dave for three years but you really still don’t know what to do. Maybe going to see other dads would be good for you. And you really want to see more of this guy.
“Sure. Just give me a time and a location."