The Vacation House Ch. 01

I'm 18, home only two weeks from my freshman year at the University of Rhode Island. I'm lucky enough to have been offered a part time job doing some landscaping at my local ice rink. You see, I've played hockey my entire life, well as long as I can remember at least. No longer playing league hockey now that I am at University cause they do not have a league organized team. I still play on a local league team but my studies finally become more important. Too many concussions over the years and the wear and tear on my body has taken its toll.

My parents and sister have always been important to me but it seems as if I am an outsider to them. My Mom works full time as a Nurses Aid in a retirement home, my sister is involved with being on the cheer-leading squad, soccer and being on the high school swim team.

My Dad is a builder, does not own the company he works for but he been with the same building firm forever.

Physically, Dad is not the most handsome guy but he is one of those Italian lookers that seem to not age. A very modest man with a bit of a hot head temper when provoked. He is Italian by decent and is about 5'8" tall, his sun darkened skin from the year round working outdoors.

His hair beginning to thin a bit on top, it is black with just hints of white by his temples. Only his whiskers that come in later in the day give away a hint of his age. His whiskers come in course and heavy, a bit more white and silver than the rest of his hair. Dad is all Italian in more ways than one, he is pretty hairy, almost everywhere.

Seeing my dad walking around the house in his boxers is something that I am accustomed to. When dad comes home he shucks off the heavy fabric tan work overalls, the hard toed work boots, the only thing he leaves on are his T-Shirt and his boxers. In the shower he goes.

When Dad gets out of the shower his hair wet, combed back slick, he sits at the end of the table in his regular spot. It is his place at the table and no one questions it.

Robert, this, Robert that is what we hear from Mom throughout dinner. Dad just goes on eating, seemingly oblivious to her constant pointing out what was not working or what needed immediate fixing in our home. Nagging, there is really no other way to put it, nagging 101.

Our house is not large nor really much of anything special but it is ours and it was clean. Mom's adamant about the way she keeps everything spotless, she got us to help her with the upkeep.

You see, Mom works a good 40 hour week and overtime on Saturday mornings whenever she can get her boss to offer it. Dad is out of the house by 6:30 am every morning and back home by 5:30 every evening, Monday thru Saturday. Sunday is his one day off, he is always working himself to the bone with all the home repairs.

By the time that I was in my Sophomore year in High School, my parents had finally set aside a small amount of money in order to buy a small piece of property in Vermont. They had always wished to build a vacation home the family could use for summer vacations and for winter ski weekends. Mom skied as a child having grown up in Canada being of northern French ancestry.

I take after my mom in some ways, you see my love of winter sports, the fact that I am more fair compared to Dad and my sister. They're more compact in stature, very dark with dark eyes and could tan just by walking past a light bulb. I'm sandy blond like my Mom. By the time I had finished growing in my mid teens, I topped 6'2, slim toned body from my years of being on the ice day playing hockey.

During the summers, Dad and I hop into his pick up truck, drive from Rhode Island to the Vermont property working Saturday and Sunday then return home early Monday morning. This is our regular working trip on the vacation house, it's when I really appreciate as it was as the only time that I get to spend with Dad.

Back to my second week home from URI; I had found that my parents have been having some relationship issues. Seems Dad has gotten to the point he was finding it difficult ignoring the nagging Mom throws at him as soon as he gets to the dinner table.

Dad's temper began to get out of control, arguments occurring with greater frequency.

My sister has been filling me in on what is going on but I didn't realize the extent of the problems until I saw it for myself.

It's not uncommon for Dad to be sleeping in the downstairs den which had now become his personal room these days. His cloths moved into a dresser that was brought down from my bedroom. His favorite recliner and a television that had also been in my room were now taking up residence in the converted room.

My sister is still at High School for a few more weeks and my part time landscaping job allows me time at home alone before my parents arrive like clockwork each evening. My sister is out until 9 pm with all of her practices, clubs and friends. It seems as if she has decided to keep out of the way of arguments by throwing herself into her activities.

Friday evening comes and Dad approached me and asks if I am still up for going to the Vermont house and work with him. Not even thinking twice, I nod yes! I anticipated and expected that we are just going up as usual.

With my small bag of clean cloths, a small cooler chest filled with some food, several pony sized Miller beers for Dad after his long hours of labor, several bottles of iced tea for me put together by the front door.

As soon as I hear Dad's pick up pull into the driveway, I gather up the items as well as a small paper bag of cloths that Dad had put together earlier in the morning before leaving for work.

Out the front door I sprint and then a sudden reversal, I had forgotten to give Mom a kiss goodbye... Then off again to the waiting truck.

I place my bundles on the floor of the pick up, which is pretty much a disaster area. The most expensive of his power tools are kept in the cab of the truck while the rest of his work items are in the cap covered back. As soon as I hop up and get in, closing the door tightly next to me, Dad say's "Buckle Up". He always says buckle up, no matter how old I am. He's a stickler about this and will not budge one inch until everyone in any vehicle he is in is securely belted in.

Unrolling the passenger window is an instant must. It is hot in the truck, hot as all get out. Dad seems to be immune to the stifling heat, the heavy smell of old cigar smoke that filled his pick-up. He never smokes at home or on his job sites he considers it to not be a good example or acceptable behavior to be seen doing. But as soon as he gets into his truck he reaches to the dash board, locates a box of White Owl cigars and lights one up. I guess it is his guilty pleasure, something that is for him and him alone.

We drive north, the surroundings becoming more wooded. The radio station starts to become filled with static. There are stations programmed into the push buttons that we knew would pick up in different areas. I press the second button from the left, on would came a station with some Frank Sinatra, Dad loves Sinatra. I have become a lover of this type of music too, having been exposed to it over the many years of long Saturday night trips to Vermont.

The scenery becomes greener, pines line the parkway become darker. The sun fading, it becomes more dim. The headlights are turned on and I know in a short while we will arrive at the familiar road side rest station. It looks like a great log type building, inside are the rest rooms that are such a welcome a sight after having been in the vehicle for such a long time. Dad parks in pretty much the same spot every time. I run in before him and he follows me, having dug out his thermos bottle which had earlier in the day contained his coffee. He takes off the top and empties the remains out onto the grass, then walks in behind me.. Over to the stall he goes, I would hear the familiar unbuckling of his belt and the fabric against his sturdy thighs being lowered.

I walk over to the sink, Dad had placed the empty thermos on the counter for me to wash out and to fill with cold water. The plumbing was not completely finished yet so we make due with some of the things that we bring with us. The only water available at the house is a large container on the roof that captures rain water. The Wells that had been dug so far had not yielded any potable water. Too much iron caused it to be rusty in color and a foul smell.

Sunday morning, Dad gets up at the crack of dawn, allowing me to continue to sleep in on the one king sized mattress we share in the master bedroom. He jumps into the truck and drives a few miles into town to get a large bottle of water, food and a few donuts from the local shop.

I'm awakened by the alarm clock, get up and about, getting things together for our breakfast, then getting into working on the water heater and pipes.

Dad put the bags of food stuffs on the counter. He grabs the thermos from a bag and sits at the end of the long scrubbed wooden table. Dad and I had built the table the first year we had outside walls up and the roof on.

I bring his favorite mug and another one for myself. I dig out the donuts and place them on paper towels. There was no sense in using dishes, forks or utensils. Our hands work just fine and the water is so limited that it's practical, they are easily thrown into the fireplace, burned before we leave. No trash to take home this way! We have this system down to a science, it works very well for us.

Sitting at the table, with the local newspaper opened up in front of him, Dad reaches forward, take a bite out of his donuts and then a big slurp of the black coffee without ever loosing his place in the paper or having to come out from behind it to look at what he was reaching for.

I sit quietly, still a little groggy, sip my coffee. I usually drink a cup of coffee before diving into the jelly filled pillow of sugary dough.

"Robbie," I hear Dad's voice come from behind his newspaper. He then begins to lower it and fold it into quarters. He lays the paper on the table next, drops his gaze downward toward his cup of coffee.

I immediately reach for the thermos and pour more of the dark brew into his mug.

His voice comes again, for some reason it sends a little shiver up my spine. "Robbie?" It is almost as if it were a question. I sit straight backed and face directly toward him.

"Yes?"

I did not know what else to say cause I can count on one hand how many times Dad would say anything until after we had finished breakfast, actually begun working. Normally his instructions to what he wished to tackle that day would be the first thing we would talk about.

I waited a while and then it came, "Robbie, I know that you have been cleaning my room for me, I appreciate that but I also know that you found my stash of magazines."

The fear set in as quickly as if a bolt of Lightning strikes out of the blue.

It is true, in my down time between getting home from my landscaping job and my parents arrival home from work, I found myself going into the den and looking through the stack of adult magazines I had found under Dad's recliner. I had thought I had been careful, placed them back exactly as I had found them. I was so sure that I would not be found out for having invaded Dad's privacy or that I had found a secret magazine on the bottom of the stack of Penthouse, Playboy, Hustler magazines.

There was one magazine that was devoted entirely to images of naked men, something that I just found so stimulating but I was so confused why Dad would have it. I convinced myself that Dad had either bought it by mistake. Maybe just see how he measured up against other guys, heck we all did that all the time in the locker rooms after hockey practice. It's really no big deal.

I did know for some time that I was attracted to some of the guys in the locker room but I kept this all to myself and I found I could keep myself under control. That is until I was home and alone and able to take things into my own hands. But no one knew about this and I do have a regular dating history, one that is what I considered to be normal and a good cover for any thoughts that I might wish to hide from everyone else around me.

"Robbie, I know that you have been going through those magazines and I really can not tolerate your snooping through my private things. It is one thing that your mother and I can barely look at each other without getting into an argument and the fact that I have lost pretty much everything in my own home, to be relegated to the den as my only place. I work my ass off to keep the bills paid, your sister and you in new cloths and schooling that costs more than all of our other bills combined. I don't care one iota what your educations cost because I want both of you to have the life that your mother and I will never be able to have. But if you think that I am going to just sit back and let you go through the very few personal things in the only place that I can call my own anymore, you sure as hell have another thing coming to you."

I sit rigid backed. I was stunned, I feel tears filling up in my eyes. I gnash my teeth together and hope that he would not notice that I was shaking. The tears begin to run down my face, burning on my red hot cheeks. I feel my ears burning and the pit of my stomach drops to the floor. Sick that I become a light headed and ringing starts in my ears.

"So, what do you have to say for yourself?" It was short, simple but it was a demand for an answer, not a simple question. I don't know what to say, I wish to get up and run out the front door and go hide in the truck. It's a foolish thought that passes quickly as my body begins to feel as if it were made of rubber.

He looks directly at me, his eyes burn into mine. I can sense that he knows my fears had been revealed, that he is not going to give up, that he's going to get an answer one way or the other.

"I, I, I, don't know dad. You're right, I'm so sorry but I don't know what to say. It's up to you, I'm sorry, really sorry."

The feeling of fear washes over me and then I feel compassion from Dad. He breaks his stare and looks down at his coffee.

"You know, you are not a little kid anymore Robbie. You are an adult and you should know better by now. Right from wrong is not that hard a thing to figure out. You see, had you still been little, this whole thing would have been easy, spanking you would have given you what you deserved but like I said, you are no longer a little kid."

I just sat there stunned. I see the hurt in Dad's face. This is worse than anything that I could have anticipated. I see all the tension that had been going on between him and Mom and now this. His son, the one person that he continuously gave to and trusted in over the years. I was his right hand and helped him build this house we're sitting in at this very moment.

Then I blurt out the very first thing that comes to me, it just fell out of my mouth without thinking but boy it came out none the less.

"Well Dad, I guess I acted like a sneaky little kid so maybe you should treat me like a bad little kid, pull down my pants and give me a spanking if it makes you feel better." I had not even realized that I was going to say it but I regretted what came out the second I finished the proposal, I swallow hard.

Dad looks up at me with the most stunned expression on his face. His mouth opened slightly as if he's prepared to say something, but nothing comes. He looks down at his newspaper, picks it up and unfolds it. It's as if he's making believe he had not heard what I had said or that the whole thing had turned around as quickly in a way that he hadn't expected.

The days work seems so much longer and more difficult than it normally does. We work pretty much in silence the entire day. The only time that dad speaks to me is when he needs a tool that was no where near his hands. We get an awful lot done though, the water heater installed, the pipes put in place and sweated. We stop for a quick lunch of pressed ham and mustard on hard rolls that Dad had gotten when he went into town.

We finish up working take a shower together, we always do this to conserve on the little bit of water that had been stored up on the roof. Cold showers did help me to keep things under control too. Being this close to Dad after such a horrific confrontation kept me from even looking at him while we both rush though our clean up and then into the bags of fresh cloths that I had brought. We sit down in the living room, a simple lamp plugged in on an overturned old milk crate. Two folding chairs and another crate for Dad to use as a foot stool.

He walks past me in his clean boxers, white T-shirt, he gives me a little nudge of his elbow. I know instantly that things are going to be all right. I look into his eyes, he nods toward the small Styrofoam cooler. As he walked into the living room and out of site, I quickly run over to the cooler and grab a pony beer for Dad, an iced tea for me.

The ice packs kept cool all day and it feels so good in my hand. I run my bottle of tea over my forehead, it cools off some of the heat that has built up in the non air conditioned house. All of the windows are open but there is not much of a breeze. I hand Dad his beer and I sit down on the floor by the side of his foot rest.

Dad puts his bare feet up on the box next to me, I feel his large rough hand tussle the top of my hair. I turn toward him and see a little smile, he finally said, "It's OK, we'll work this out." Then he takes a long draw on his small bottle of beer.

Getting him his second bottle asap, it is automatic, he does not have to ask me to do it, I know he is thirsty and that these were really only about half the size of a regular bottle of beer. Dad is not one to drink in excess, the fact that only a few bottles would be brought each time we come up here prove this.

The sound of carbonation being released from the bottle shortly after I hand it to him lets me know that what Dad had just assured me, was in fact real. I sit at the foot of his folding chair, he continues to relax, we both listen to some oldies on his old portable work radio.

Dad finishes his second beer followed by a large belch. Letting me know that he had to take a leak, will be in shortly to go to bed for a few hours before we set out again for home.

I turn off the radio and head to the bedroom, stripped down to my boxer-briefs, crawl under the single sheet. We have three pillows, I take just one and leave the other two for Dad. The small light bulb on the ceiling keeps the room aglow until he finally returns. The click of the switch, a suddenly darkened room affirms it is time to get some shut eye.

Moonlight floods the room and I make out Dad's outline, he crosses to his side of the mattress, takes off all of his cloths except for his boxers, lay's on his side of the mattress, soon sound asleep. Snoring lightly but constantly, Dad always snores but it is not one of those hard or disturbing snores. It is more like having white noise, it lulls me into a quick and deep sleep.

It is all too short a sleep when dad awakes me. I find all of our dirty cloths and stuff them back into the wrinkled paper bag. I collect the other items that we had brought with us, I tote them out to the truck, where I would soon find myself once again falling asleep. This time to someone talking in a low monotone voice along with the constant hum of the trucks engine.

Almost a week passes, Friday once again. Dad asks me the very same question that he has asked me for years. Sure enough Saturday comes and we are stopped once more at the familiar rest stop. I'm washing out the thermos and before I know it we're walking into the partially completed vacation house.

It's sweltering hot this weekend, stagnate. The sky is dark, you can smell rain in the air. We quickly unpack, set to getting some stacks of Sheet Rock that had been delivered earlier in the day, we have to get them into the garage. Impending rains cause us to work ourselves into a pair of massive sweaty and exhausted messes.