David Blome
Sonny’s Errands
“Dad, what’s a bitch?”
“A what?”
“A bitch.”
“Where did you hear that?”
“You say it when you fight with Mom.”
“It’s just how we talk, Sonny.”
“What’s it mean?”
“It’s not a nice word.”
“Like what Mom calls you?”
“What does she call me?”
“An asshole.”
“Listen, can we go outside? Your bike’s ready.”
My ninth birthday present. We were going to the park so I could learn how to ride it. Dad gave me some pointers at the top of a downhill. I put my butt on the seat and looked up at him. “Can we try tomorrow?” I said.
He smiled and said, “Nope.”
“But I’m not ready.”
“You don’t know that. Now put your feet on the pedals, I’ll give you a push.”
“Okay.”
“Go.”
I started pedaling. And fell. “See?” I said, standing up.
“See what?” He picked up the bike.
“I told you I’d fall.”
“No, you told me you weren’t ready.”
I looked away, my chin quivering.
“Hey,” he said, “take the bike, we’ll try again. I’ll hold on longer this time.”
“Promise?”
He said, “Yeah,” then ran beside me all afternoon until I got the hang of riding.
That evening Mom came home late. When the garage opened, Dad and I were eating at the kitchen table. I ran to the door and stood in front of her as she kicked off her shoes.
“I rode my bike today.”
“Let me get in the house, hon.”
“Dad taught me.”
She took off her coat, looking me up and down. “Why are you so dirty? And did you rip your pants?”
“I fell.”
“Hon, please be careful.” She hung up her coat. “Did you eat?”
I followed her into the kitchen. “We started to.”
“You did? Mike, you couldn’t wait?”
“You couldn’t call?” Dad said, leaning back in his chair. “Sonny was hungry. We had a big day.”
“I heard. Is this still warm?” Mom pointed at her plate of chicken and broccoli.
Dad crossed his forearms. “If not I can heat it up for you.”
“Don’t worry about it.” She picked up a fork and started eating. I sat next to her. Dad watched her eat, his posture and expression unchanged. After a minute he leaned forward and said, “Sonny, eat.” I looked at him. He winked. When I finished eating I stacked my plate on top of Mom’s, picked up her silverware, and carried everything to the sink.
“Thanks, hon,” she said. I came back to the table for Dad’s but he held up a hand, saying, “I got it.”
“Let him help,” Mom said.
“He helps enough.”
Mom shook her head and left the table. Dad carried his plate to the sink and started washing the dishes. I grabbed a towel and stood next to him. He handed me the clean dishes to dry and put away. While I waited for the silverware I stared at the circular scars on his leg. He called them his war souvenirs.
Later that evening I sat between Mom and Dad while they watched TV. When the show ended Dad shut off the TV and said, “Sonny, let’s get ready for bed.”
“But I want to sit here with you.”
“When are you gonna start working on the beach house?” Mom said to Dad.
Dad let about five seconds pass before he said, “Tomorrow.” My eyes widened.
“When were you gonna tell me that?” Mom said.
“I just did. Why does it matter?”
“What if I need to call you?”
Dad looked at Mom. “When was the last time that happened?”
Mom sat up and crossed her arms. “Okay, what if you need to call me? Your phone doesn’t always get service out there.”
“Well, I guess you’d never know then.”
“Mike, you’ll have Sonny with you.”
“Jesus, I thought you’d be happy. Guess not.”
“What are we doing first?” I said, placing a hand on Dad’s forearm.
Dad looked at my hand. In a low voice he said, “Sonny, if you wanna help tomorrow, you better go get ready for bed right now.”
I jumped to my feet and ran out of the room.
The next morning I walked my bike out of the garage and leaned it against Dad’s pickup. Dad strapped a ladder to the roof then slung his toolbox into the truck bed. I climbed into the back and tried to push the toolbox against the cab. It didn’t move.
“Heavy, isn’t it?” Dad said.
“How do you lift it?” I said, looking at my hands.
Dad handed me my bike. “How do you lift it, you mean? That’s gonna take some time.”
As we backed out of the driveway I said, “Should we close the garage?”
“Mom can get it. She’ll be leaving soon.”
I looked at the house, hoping to see Mom before we left. “Why doesn’t Mom want to help?”
“She helps, bud. Just in her own way.”
I had never seen her help with anything. “By working?”
“Pretty much.”
“Why don’t you work?”
Dad laughed. “I’m retired. And I have to take care of you.”
“What’s retired?”
“It means I don’t have to work unless I want to. You excited about today?”
I nodded. “What’re we doing?”
“Well, first we’ll go through the house, make sure everything’s okay.”
“Can I go on the roof?”
Dad looked over at me. “You wore your sneakers, right?”
I held up my feet. “Yup.”
“Good.” He looked back at the road. “We’ll get you up there.”
“But Mom says I’m not allowed.”
Dad turned on the radio. “That’s not her call, bud.” He started singing. I turned to get a better look at the empty fields and abandoned buildings we were passing.
“Are we almost there?” I said.
“Almost.”
We arrived maybe an hour later. Dad stared at the house, a two-story bungalow on the corner of a dead end street.
“Might have to cut that grass,” he said, shutting off the engine. I climbed out of the cab. Dad unloaded the truck and leaned the ladder against the house. As he unlocked the front door, he turned to look at me and said, “Sonny, why don’t you ride your bike while I walk through the house?”
“You’re not gonna help me ride it?”
“You don’t need help. Just don’t go too far and listen for cars.” Dad stepped into the house, leaving the door open.
I walked my bike to the end of the driveway. It was different with no downhill but after a few minutes I managed to pedal on my own. Soon I was riding figure eights, feeling good. Dad stepped out of the house.
“Guess you got it,” he said.
I rode to the edge of the driveway and smiled. He pulled a wrench out of his back pocket and said, “Want me to raise the seat?”
I looked down. “No. It’s good.”
“You sure?” He leaned back. “Looks a little low. Let me see you ride it again. I couldn’t see too well from inside.”
I pushed off with my feet, rode a few more figure eights, then stopped in front of him.
“Knees feel okay?” he said.
“Yup.”
Dad put the wrench back in his pocket. “All right, let’s get on the roof.” I leaned my bike against the pickup and we walked to the house. Dad extended the ladder while I stood and watched.
“Sonny,” he said, “go in the toolbox and get my tape measure. Should be right on top.”
“Okay.” I ran to the pickup and climbed into the back.
“Got it?”
“Yup,” I said, climbing over the tailgate.
Dad had already started up the ladder. “Bring it here,” he said, extending his hand.
I handed him the tape measure and took a step back.
“You coming?” he said.
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t have to.”
“Can I think about it?”
“Sure.” He waited a moment then climbed the ladder and stepped onto the roof. I walked to the end of the driveway and sat down with my back to the house. I was throwing pebbles into the road when I heard a loud thump followed by a crash. Startled, I jumped to my feet, ran to the front of the house, and froze. The ladder had fallen and Dad was lying on the ground. I stared at him, afraid to move, until he groaned. I took a few steps closer.
Dad swallowed hard and strained to say, “Hey, gonna need your help.” Blood had started to pool beneath his head. His eyes were closed.
“Dad, you’re bleeding.”
He raised his head a little and opened his eyes. “I know.” He took a few breaths. “Listen, you wanna run an errand for me?”
I said, “Sure.” Dad cleared his throat. “Okay, go down the street here, ask for help. If no one’s home, come right back. Can you do that?”
“I can do that.”
“All right, be quick.” He closed his eyes and let his head drop to the concrete. I sprinted across the yard.
There were three other houses on the dead-end street, each about a football field from the other. None of them had garages. The closest house had a boat in the driveway. I rang the doorbell and looked through the front windows. Nothing. I ran to the next house but didn’t see anything in the driveway. I knocked on the door anyway, trying to catch my breath. The last house had a car in the driveway but no one answered when I rang the doorbell. I checked the front windows before running back to Dad.
He had not moved. I stood next to him, panting, and said, “Nobody’s home.” Dad lifted his head and winced. Through gritted teeth he said, “Get the phone out of my jeans.” He rolled toward the house and I pulled the phone out of his back pocket.
“Look in the top left corner. What’s it say?”
I pressed the home button and squatted next to his head. “No service.”
Dad said, “Sonny, take the phone and get on your bike. Ride down the road the way we came.” He took a few breaths. “Call Mom when you get service. Remember how to do that?”
“Yeah, go to contacts and call Caroline.”
“Right. Tell her what happened. She’ll take it from there.”
“Okay.”
Dad closed his eyes. “You’ll get service, bud, just don’t give up.”
I walked my bike to the edge of the driveway, stepped over the top tube, and paused. With the phone in my hand I couldn’t grip the handlebar. My pants didn’t have pockets so I tucked the phone under my chin and started pedaling. After a few minutes I settled into a rhythm but now my neck was hurting. Still pedaling, I took the phone from under my chin and pressed the home button. When I looked down, my front wheel slipped and I fell. Hard. The phone skidded into the road. I kicked the bike away, crawled to the phone, and snatched it from the asphalt. It wasn’t broken, just no service. I sat there a moment, my elbow bleeding. Then I limped back to my bike wondering how much farther I needed to go.
In the distance I saw a speed-limit sign. That gave me an idea. I tucked the phone under my chin, put my feet on the pedals, and started counting in my head. At a hundred I coasted to a stop and pressed the home button. No service. At two hundred I took a break. My elbow was burning and my legs were sore. At five hundred two bars appeared on the screen. I dialed Caroline. The phone rang twice then went to voicemail. I called again. This time she answered.
“What do you want?” she said.
“Mom?”
“Sonny?” A pause. “Are you okay?”
I started to cry.
“Sonny, are you okay!”
“I’m okay.”
“Are you with your father?”
“No.”
“Where are you?”
“I don’t know.”
“What d’you mean you don’t know?” She was yelling.
“Sonny, you better tell me what happened right now.”
Between sobs I said, “Dad fell.”
*
Three days later I was sitting with Mom in the hospital waiting area. I had not seen Dad since the accident and I was excited to talk to him. While we waited Mom flipped through a few magazines, looking angry, then sat back and crossed her arms.
“Remember to stay off the bed,” she said. “He’s still recovering.”
“You already told me that.”
“Well, I know how you two are.”
“Is Dad better?”
Mom huffed. “It’s gonna be a while before Dad’s better.”
“How long is a while?”
“I don’t know. No one does.”
Just then a nurse stepped into the waiting room and told us we could see Dad. Mom motioned for me to go. I walked with the nurse down the corridor to an open door. We stepped inside the room and I froze. Dad looked like he was sleeping. His head was bandaged, his leg was in a cast.
“Over here, sweetie,” the nurse said, guiding me to the bed.
“Thanks, Darlene,” Dad said, his voice a bit raspy.
Darlene smiled and left. Dad turned his head toward me, half opened his eyes, and grinned. “How are you, bud?”
I had to smile. “I’m good.”
“You sure?”
“Mm-hmm.”
He closed his eyes then opened them again. I waited. “Listen, bud,” he said, “I don’t know how long I’m gonna be here. Might be a week or two. They have to do more tests, make sure I’m getting better. Everything okay with Mom?”
I nodded. Then Mom walked in. I turned to look at her. She was holding a thick envelope, shaking her head.
“You goddamn idiot,” she said.
“Hey,” Dad said, “no new cuss words, eh?”
Mom leaned forward, waving the envelope. “New cuss words? I have a few new words for you.”
Dad sighed. “Sonny, bud, can you give us a minute?”
“Okay,” I said and backed away. Darlene met me in the hallway. They took longer than a minute. Mom found us at the nurses’ station and said we had to go.
“Can I say goodbye to Dad?”
She shook her head. “You’ll see him soon.”
On the drive home Mom said nothing until we parked in front of a building that looked like the dentist’s office. The sign read, “Family Law Attorney.” Mom turned to me, lifted the envelope from the center console, and said, “Sonny, you wanna run an errand for me?”
I sat there motionless until she touched my arm. I jumped.
“Sonny, what’s wrong?”
“What kind of errand?”
“What’s the matter with you? Just run this into the office and hand it to the lady there.”
I looked inside the building. Then at the envelope. Then at Mom. Then, somehow, I knew. Mom took her hand from my arm, saying, “Will you run it in for me or not?”
I turned toward her, rubbing the scab on my elbow, and said, “No, I won’t.”
“Excuse me?” she said, sitting back.
I sat up and looked her in the eye. “I said no. Do it yourself, asshole.”
“I wrote this story to explore the enduring struggles that afflict combat veterans and their families, especially their children.” —David Blome
David Blome is a combat veteran of the US Marine Corps who holds a PhD in ancient history from Cornell University. He began writing fiction in 2019 after publishing a book on the ancient Greeks. To date, his work has appeared in As You Were, The Penman Review, Proud to Be, The Wrath-Bearing Tree, and elsewhere. He lives in Philadelphia.