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You get a little drunk, that night he doesn’t come back. There’s a host of explanations, none of them good. He got pulled over with a suspended license, maybe. That’s actually one of the better explanations, because it doesn’t involve Dad.
Nah. He’d have called you for help, because he doesn’t have anyone else. Dad doesn’t count—is never going to count.
You tell yourself this, taking another swig of a beer that also isn’t counted because you’ve lost track, and you—
Are scared shitless. That’s the truth.
That’s the only explanation, when all roads lead to Dad.
Tim refuses to see things your way. Refuses to place blame on anybody but you. Yes, the same Tim who used to sit between his bed and the wall with his hands over his ears, when glass and worse things were breaking. Somehow, he hasn’t used the benefit of hindsight to recall those times and say, yeah, Dad was a bastard and a loser and I’m glad he’s never coming back.
No. Not Tim. Tim lasers in on legal guardian and doing things by the book for once, and skates off to Corpus Christi.
You want to go sit between your bed and the wall with your hands over your ears, but that’s not a responsible adult way to deal with shit, and you’re stuck being the responsible adult. You haven’t done a bang-up job, necessarily, but that’s not for Dad to know.
Walt. You should start thinking of him as Walt. Totally disown him, even if Tim won’t.
The house is quiet with Tim gone. Almost doesn’t make sense, because Tim's quiet—except when he’s pissed off enough to roar his brains out at you (bad), or you’re both shouting at the Cowboys on TV (good).
Maybe the house is quieter because you have nobody to talk to. You’re supposed to have a kid brother to—impart wisdom to, or something.
It’s rough, sometimes, having Tim as that younger brother. He doesn’t like his wisdom imparted—he’d rather cultivate it in his own head, with mixed results. He’s only pushing seventeen, and Rigginses aren’t known for being…what’s the word?
Precocious.
Tyra said it once. She has a surprising grasp of big words, for being straight out of Maxim.
You’re a little drunk, the night he comes back. Nervous as hell, too, and beer takes the edge off. Four or five beers take it off more forcefully.
Tim comes in and he’s quiet. Hair in his face. Could be nothing, but you know every line of him, happy or tired, sullen or broken. You’re afraid of what Walt Riggins can accomplish in thirty-six hours. Things tend to break so fast.
He’s here, Dad’s here, and you’re actually doing it, asking a favor for Dad’s sake, asking for a ticket—a way in.
Through the fence, he’s the same as he ever was, and Tim is in between, same as he ever was.
You’re scared shitless.
(Tim tends to break so fast.)