Blackbird

Tate |Chapter 3

"WHAT ARE THE GODDAMN ODDS?" Flock said, and it made me smile. He stuffed stack after stack of pancakes into his mouth. His fingers pried apart the kitchen blind where a congregation of people was beginning to picket on the front lawn. "How many Parkers in Epinosa, and they find your house by 8 am."

'Help the Aged' were boycotting my father. Hanging Hills was a quiet retirement community on prime real estate soon to be torn down to make way for five high-rises. My father was no builder, but it was no secret that he was aiding the bankroll so he could be the first realtor to sell.

"The attention will die once Dad demolishes the old folks' home. Plus, as soon as we head over to Hanging Hills for the junket, they'll follow, I expect."

Sweat beaded on my forehead. It was hotter than six hells. The City Council had declared a Level 1 Water Shortage Watch in response to extreme drought conditions. Yet, the message failed to reach Dean Parker, who was currently irrigating the back lawn.

The house was ten degrees cooler than the searing sun outside, but the arctic chill prevented me from sweating through my suit jacket. Last week, it was headshots for the open-house pamphlet—my father was rebranding; apparently, his clientèle was getting on and starting a forthcoming baby boom, and he wanted to switch tactics to appear the wholesome family man. That's what he said anyway, but I knew better.

We were shaking the image of his former pot-smoking accountant. But any family picture taken in the last year only highlighted the absent. The way he put it, I would appear beside him for pamphlets that would be left at any open house event. My buy-in had come with a reluctance which had morphed into persuasion when he dropped an offer for the deposit on my first car.

Today, it was suits and dress pants for a press junket at Hanging Hills ahead of a Ramada Inn press conference in a day's time. As Dad always said, show them the plans, then tell them what you just told them—officially. All I needed to do was show up, plaster a smile for the reporters, and generally stay out of the way. It was too politically sensitive to do anything else.

I was all thumbs when it came to my tie. With dads media campaign heating up, I thought about Alex. There would be little place for him to seek seclusion from my family after this, and I from them. I was at a loss after last night. Alex was clearly as unhappy with our parents' situation as I was.

But what was to be done about it? His father had suffered severe reputational damage, and his employment opportunities had dried up. How did I help with that? I didn't see a way back for him.

The more he'd talked, the more I'd smiled. It should have been as simple as that. But it wasn't.

"Why do you have a silly grin on your face? You have nothing to smile about that I'm aware of," Flock asked, picking some leftover board wax off of his shirt.

Flock was a California surfer who'd never set foot in the Pacific or any other ocean because he once watched Jaws but remained committed to the image of a surf bum, letting off an air of confidence he did not possess. Girls would find it sexy. Deep tanned skin complemented his light brown hair that was sun-bleached on the tips, falling just under his jawline. He was constantly waxing his board in front of his house. For the most part, it worked. Girls did flock to Flock, and it was in their ignorance that he flourished.

He'd smile, dimples popping, and talk about what the waves were doing that day—that he'd never rode, the hazards of rip tides—that he'd never seen, and the last big wave he apparently shredded. What he didn't say was that he was painfully anxious, so the mere thought of doing anything dangerous was laughable.

He took vitamins to avoid cancer, wore a special prescription brand of factor eighty sun cream, and would never cut his hair on a leap year—I had no idea why he held that bizarre tradition. What I did know was whatever combination of supplements he took from the local health-food store always gave him massive trucker shits. He would often clog up the toilet and need help plunging it back into action.