Man of the House

I still vividly remember when all of the trouble started with my son, Anthony, Jr. I remember it, in part, because it was my son's 12th birthday.

No, I didn't start sleeping with him when he was 12, you perverts! Yes, I have slept with my son, but that was years later when he was 22 and...look, we are getting ahead of ourselves here. Let me go back.

It was my son's 12th birthday when my husband, we called him Big Anthony, left. I was a relatively young mother for someone with a 12-year-old, only 32. My husband was older, 45. I guess I had always known that Big Anthony was sort of resentful about Anthony Jr. He wasn't planned. This whole marriage wasn't planned. Big Anthony worked part-time for my dad at his garage when I was a teen. I started sleeping with him right after my 18th birthday. I got pregnant quick and he, a divorced father of three already, married me to keep my dad from killing him. There was no planning any of this. Neither of us would have chosen that life, but there we were.

In the years that followed, I had sort of deluded myself into believing that we had come together as a family. I had gone to night school and gotten an associates degree. I had convinced Big Anthony to quit the job at the garage to get a CDL, and he had a good full-time job driving a truck. And little Anthony was born, and I just adored him. He was such a cute little thing, and he adored me right back. Big Anthony never took much interest, but I always sort of chalked that up to babies being the woman's domain. That justification got thinner and thinner as Anthony Jr. got older, but I never really reevaluated it.

But anyway, the 12th birthday. Anthony Jr. had asked to have all of his friends over for a big party. It was the summer time, so he wanted to do a sort of sleepover. I had agreed, but his father said it wasn't possible. I was okay with that. I gave way to Big Anthony whenever he put his foot down. In my house, growing up, what the man said goes. My parents seemed happy, I didn't have any reason to second-guess their methods. I told Anthony Jr. we'd just order a pizza in, me and him and Big Anthony. A family celebration. My son was disappointed. But he was obedient too.

So the night came. I ordered two pizzas, one that was Big Anthony's favorite and one that was Anthony Jr.'s. I had made a cake and bought Anthony Jr. some new video game that went with the system his grandparents had bought him at Christmas.

"Mom, can we eat now?" Anthony Jr. asked at around 6:30. The pizzas has been sitting on the table for half an hour already, growing cold. Big Anthony wasn't home yet.

"Just wait, your father will be home soon," I responded, looking out the kitchen window towards the driveway. No lights on the road. He wasn't home yet. I bit my lip. Big Anthony was usually home right before 6:00. I wasn't worried, mind you. Just...a little upset.

"Where have you been?" I asked in a harsh whisper right at the front door when Big Anthony strolled in around 7:15. I had let Anthony Jr. start to eat 20 minutes earlier, but we had to wait on the cake and the presents.

"Christ, Beverley, I just stepped in the fuckin' door!" Big Anthony said, his voice martyred and smelling slightly like cheap beer.

"It's your son's birthday!" I hissed. Big Anthony sort of screwed up his eyes and then shrugged.

"I will call him tomorrow," Big Anthony said and my cheeks grew red.

"Not Kent!" I said, referring to his son from his first marriage. Kent had been born in January, "Anthony Jr.! We were having pizza and cake and giving him presents tonight," I reminded him. Big Anthony didn't even have the decency to feign forgetfulness. He just shrugged.

"Okay, well I assume he ate," he said, "I am going to change and head back out with Russ and the guys. We can do the cake and presents on my way out." My hands clenched into fists.

"Your son is waiting for you to celebrate his birthday," I growled, "Not for you to do a drive by! And you have work in the morning, you can't go out drinking." Big Anthony's eyes grew wide.

"You are telling me what I can and can't do?" He said, quickly matching and then overcoming my anger. I took a step back, shaking my head.

"No, its just..."

"If you hadn't fuckin' realized, I just got off of work Bev," he said.

"You already said that," I said. But Big Anthony was still talking

"I go to work everyday for 10 goddamned hours and then you want me to come back here and work some more?" Big Anthony asked

"Not work, I want you to see your son on his..." I stammered.

"This is fuckin' work for me Bev! All of this shit," he said, waving his hand around the room, "I get an earful all day from Jenkins. And now, I have to come home and be given fuckin' order from my fuckin' wife," the veins on Big Anthony's neck were sticking out.

"You need to be quiet," I said, looking over my shoulder towards the kitchen, wondering if Anthony Jr. could hear.

"I can talk how I want in the home I fuckin' pay for Bev," Big Anthony shot back, "Not that I want this goddamned house or any of this stupid shit in it." Big Anthony said. My husband complained a lot about...everything in his life. I was somewhat used to that. But he seemed more worked up, more quickly than usual. And his reference to the house and the this being "work" was strange.

"What does that mean?" I asked.

"Nothing," he said and he started to walk passed me, heading through the living room, instead of into the kitchen. I rushed in front of him.

"Not nothing, what are you talking about? We need to do the birthday song, so get out with it and let's go in there," I said, tilting my head towards the kitchen. There was a cut out in the wall between the kitchen and the living room. From the corner of my eye, I could see Anthony Jr. watching.

"You don't want to hear about it," Big Anthony said. I rolled my eyes at his martyr act.

"I can decide what I want to hear, spill it," I ordered. Big Anthony's eyes dropped and he sighed.

"I never wanted any of this Bev," he said, "I had a good thing going. Part time at the garage was enough to pay the rent and buy beer down at the bar. That's all I wanted. And to chase a little pussy when I got bored. And that was you. And somehow that turned into all this bullshit," Big Anthony said, looking around the room. Looking over at Anthony Jr.

"I don't understand," I said, it felt like the floor was shaking under my feet.

"And you know what happened today?" Big Anthony asked, "Today, Jenkins told me they are taking me off the road. They are going to put me in an office. Make me management. Give me a salary," he said. My eyes brightened.

"That's great!" I said. We could use more money. And the company Big Anthony worked for was profitable, there was no telling how high he'd go.

"I quit!" Big Anthony said, "I told him to take his necktie job and shove it up his ass."

"You what?" I said, my mouth dropping open.

"I quit!" he said.

"Why didn't you just tell him you didn't want the promotion?" I asked, shocked, "You can just stay a driver."

"I don't want that job either," Big Anthony said, "I don't want this life."

"It's..."

"No, look," Big Anthony said, "I tried this husband and father thing before and I fuckin' hated it. Being old and doing it again, it is worse than last time. I don't want to work 7 to 5. I don't want to do fucking bullshit kids birthday parties. I want to get drunk and be fucking happy for some goddamn portion of my life."

"I am sorry you aren't happy," I shot back. I mean I cannot, even now, pretend like any of this came out of nowhere. I might not have realized that day how close to the surface all of this was. How close to disaster. But I knew my husband didn't like the life we had. I knew he complained about his responsibilities and his duties all the time. I guess I just convinced myself it was just talk. That he was really happy, just a complainer. "But," I said, "You made a commitment. You made choices. You have to be here for me. For your son..."

"I might have put that boy into you, but he ain't mine. He is yours. All yours," Big Anthony said. I looked quickly over my shoulder. Anthony Jr. was there. Watching. I turned back to my husband. Enraged.

"You son of a bitch..." I started.

"Save it," Big Anthony interrupted, putting up his hands, "I am leaving." He turned and started back for the door.

"Where the fuck do you think you're going?" I asked.

"I didn't plan this out or anything," Anthony said, walking with his back towards me and not leaving, "I was just coming home to get changed. But I have had enough of ALL of the bullshit in my life. Might as well just get it all over with now," he said. And then he was out the door.

I walked out after him, quickly. By the time I got to the driveway, he was already sitting in his truck. The windows were down.

"This doesn't make any sense, you can't leave us! Have you lost your goddamned mind?" I asked. He kept looking straight ahead. I grew angrier with each passing moment as he ignored me. I thought about all of the sacrifices I made for the family. All of the things I did to please my husband. And here was just...

"You aren't a man," I spat at him, "You are a child." The words poured like hot lava from my lips. But Big Anthony just sort of shrugged.

"I never wanted to be anything else," he said. And then he slipped the car into gear and pulled away.

He came back a week later to pick up his clothes, but I'd already burned everything. And that was basically it. I haven't even seen him in five years.

In a lot of ways, it was very easy to get over Big Anthony. He'd never been much of a husband. He was worse as a father. He was constantly distant, sometimes casually cruel, and a very selfish lover. I think my devotion to him stemmed entirely from the fact that I was a small town girl who'd lost her virginity and gotten knocked up. I was dedicated to the idea of playing house and making it work. I coasted on that for 12 years. But when it was gone, the whole idea of it unraveled quickly. The money he made was the only thing that was hard to replace, I quickly learned.

But, in that moment, while Big Anthony was peeling out of our driveway, I didn't yet have that perspective. About half of my life had been abruptly ripped away. He was cruel. Cruel to me and to my son, and my heart was aching. And I was embarrassed, embarrassed at myself for being unable to be the wife that, evidently, my husband needed. And sad. Desperately sad because the whole situation just seemed so...tragic. My mind was moving a thousand directions at the same time and none of those places made a bit of sense. I was completely unmoored.

I think that's why I did what I did next. At the time, I didn't know what else to do. For years I would regret it. But, at the time, I just dropped my arms to the side, and walked back into the house. Numb, expressionless. I walked into the kitchen and saw that Anthony Jr. was no longer there. I also noticed that tears were streaming down my face and that my throat ached from holding in a wail. I kept moving, finding the stairs and walking up. The door to Anthony Jr.'s room was closed, but I walked in. There was no lock.

Anthony Jr. was lying on his bed, his face to the wall and his back to me. I thought that maybe his shoulders were shuddering, but I couldn't be totally sure. I walked across the room, the tears falling faster now. A stifled, choking moan escaped me. I saw Anthony Jr. turn slightly, looking over his shoulder. But before he could roll, I had climbed in behind him on the bed. I sort of scooped him up, wrapping my arms around his chest, pulling my legs up behind his. Crying louder now.

"He is gone," I hear myself saying. I could not tell if Anthony Jr. spoke. I just kept talking, "Your father is gone and he isn't going to come back. I chased him away. I pushed him and he didn't want to be pushed and now he is gone." I cried. I shook my head, tears spraying onto the pillow.

"But we don't need him," I said, "We don't need him because he isn't a man. You and me are all this family needs," I didn't even know if I believed that when I said it, "You are the man of the house now, Anthony Jr. You are all I need. You will take care of your mother. Because you love me." I said. I poured out all of this into Anthony Jr.'s ear. Saying these...heavy, heavy things that he couldn't possibly comprehend all at once. I said so much more than that, but basically just the same message with different words. I don't know how long I spoke. We fell asleep like that though, in Anthony Jr.s' bed.

* * * * *

"I swear ever since that night, it was like Anthony Jr. just stopped growing up," I was saying to my neighbor, Joanne, sitting on the front porch of my home. It was the same home I had lived in when my husband had walked out. But it was ten years later now and I was making the payments on the house.

"I grew up pretty quick after that. I know I was 32, but I wasn't...I'd never been responsible for anything really before. After that, I just... I knew that I needed to do what was necessary to take care of my son. I got a job and I went back to school and finished getting my bachelor's. I realized, when I was doing everything myself, just how little Big Anthony had been doing in the first place. And, you know, the resources I had in myself that I hadn't even realized I had," I said. Joanne nodded along as I spoke. I wasn't bragging or anything. It wasn't like we lived in a mansion or that I was making six figures. But I had, rather quickly, gotten my life in order.

"You could stand to do a little bit more yard work," Joanne said, smiling gently and looking over her shoulder to where leaves were blowing through my fence and into her yard. But I was too annoyed to joke. I took a sip of my coffee and shook my head.

"I asked Anthony Jr. to rake the leaves," I said sourly, "But I knew he wasn't going to do it. I will rake them this weekend, I am sorry." Joanne lifted her hands in front of her chest and shook her head.

"I was only teasing hun..." Joanne said placatingly. I waved my hands.

"I know, I know," I said, "It is just...look, I know that I shouldn't have done that. Gone into his room like that when he was little and laid all that heavy stuff on him. I know he was afraid and hurting because of what his father said and I just made it worse. That was a mistake I accept. I apologized for it the next day! I apologized for it on his 18th birthday. I get it, that was wrong. I am not minimizing it

"Well are you really sure that is the cause of Anthony Jr.'s...problems?" Joanne asked. There was a lot of stuff packed into that little word that Joanne tacked onto the end of her sentence.

Anthony Jr. had a lot of problems. A lot of problems that went back a long time. Anthony was 22 years old and he lived at home with me. That was fine, by the way. Lots of 22-year-olds, especially these days, lived at home. But he had quit school at 16, the earliest age he was allowed to. I didn't even bother to fight him on that, because he couldn't pull in the grades necessary to graduate anyway. And it wasn't as though he was distracted. He didn't have a lot of friends. He wasn't very good at sports. No, he was flat out bad at sports. Even before he dropped out, he spent most of his time at home on the internet or playing video games. Since he turned 18, I had been pushing him to take classes to get his GED, begging him to get a job, and asking him to help out around the house. But he didn't do any of that. He just sat around the house and asked me when dinner would be ready.

None of these problems were new, though. They hadn't cropped up when he quit school. Or even before that. They had been lurking for some time. I didn't even notice it at first, I guess because it wasn't the kind of thing you could notice. And the full scope of it only came on gradually. But the overarching problem, if I had to give it a name, was arrested development.

Anthony Jr. had simply stopped growing older when he was 12 years old. I know that doesn't make any sense, but it was true. He liked all the same things that he liked when he was 12, video games and cartoons and super heroes. And that would fine, it really would, if his interests had expanded beyond that. But he had never gotten interested in any of the things that growing boys got into. He didn't want to take up a sport or join a band or date a girl. He just wanted to play video games and watch cartoons. He was immature, he laughed at childish things, he was insensitive and self-centered. In short, he was 12 years old.

Hell, even physically, it seemed, that he was stunted. He didn't look exactly as he had looked at 12, of course. But he didn't seem to be fully growing into a man either. Big Anthony, for all his faults, looked the part of a man. He wasn't tall by any stretch, but he was broad shouldered, solidly built, and bearded. Anthony Jr. was scrawny, wispy, and was still shorter than me even though I was only 5'3. He had simply not advanced, in any meaningful way, since his father walked out. Since I had told him, too early, that he needed to be a man.

"What else could have caused those...problems?" I asked Joanne, "It started that night, when I went into his room and cried. And he just...stopped, right after that. Stopped everything. And there wasn't any other trauma in his life to explain it. I worked hard, I gave him a good life. He never lacked for anything but luxuries. I mean, you babysat him when I went to work, you know that nothing else can explain it." Joanne shrugged.

"It was probably more his father leaving, than anything you did," Joanne said. She had only recently stopped insisting to me that there was nothing wrong with Anthony Jr. So, I could not really trust her judgment here. I shook my head.

"If that is the case, that's my fault too," I said.

"You didn't chase Big Anthony away. He is a man-child. He ran away," Joanne said.

"Then I gave my son a child for a father, that's my fault too," I said, resigned. I felt a little bit better, just venting everything to Joanne. I don't know that she really qualified as a 'friend' but it was nice to talk to someone about...all of this. It had been festering as a worry in my mind for so long, it was almost a relief to say it in the starkest possible terms. We sat in silence for a minute, the problem sitting unsolved between us.

"I love my son," I said, honestly, after a pause, "And, in a lot of ways, I don't mind taking care of him. I would miss him if he left and he isn't terribly expensive. But, in the long term, I cannot watch over an adult-child for the rest of my life. Anthony Jr...he doesn't even really know how to take care of himself, and he doesn't seem to want to learn to take care of himself. What happens when I am 75 and he is 55? How can I take care of him then? He isn't...he doesn't have any mental deficiency besides laziness. It isn't like I can put him in a home or something. He just..."

"You are thinking way too far ahead!" Joanne said, interrupting me.

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"You sound like you're ready to give up already! You are planning what you are going to do in 30 years. Your son is only 22. He is hardly hopeless yet!"

"I don't think you realize how bad it is," I said, looking over my shoulder towards my sons room. I knew there were Pokemon posters on the wall in that room. Mountain Dew cans. The nest of a Peter Pan who refused to grow up.

"I mean look, you came to me, so you can't have just given up. You came to me for advice, right?" Joanne asked. I hadn't really known why I engaged Joanne that day, to be honest. I'd found a dirty pair of boxer shorts sitting on the living room floor and knew my son had just left another mess for me and I'd lost it. I didn't yell at him (why bother?), I had just marched over to Joanne, asked her to come over for coffee, and spilled it all.