"Sorry, Crystal," Ron said, giving her a wan smile as she stood by the kitchen door into the front foyer, Kindle and small backpack under her arm, "Could you wait for me to get Troy's supper out before I take you home? Sorry I was late. Bad day at the office."
Troy grimaced when he saw Ron dump the broccoli heads in the steamer but perked up a bit when Ron took a can of Spaghetti-Os out of the cupboard. The older son—Amy's son by her second marriage—the one before Ron, was finishing wolfing down the meal he'd prepared for himself, having only recently appeared from his summer job at the Exxon station and having already declared, with a glare challenging opposition, that he'd be going out to play pool and would be home late.
Ron resisted the urge to ask Danny to take his elbows off the table and lift his face out of his plate, not because he wanted to retrain Danny—Army would come down on his head like a load of bricks if he tried anything like that with her precious pet—but because of the example Danny's behavior set for Troy. The younger son, eyes closely watching his idol, was already hunching over his own plate, elbows on table, even before he had anything to eat.
Can't wait for Danny to finish at the community college and shove on, Ron thought, not because Danny was such a bad guy—though he was spoiled rotten and had some rough edges that could land him in the slammer one of these days—but because he was the reason they needed a sitter during the day for Troy through the summer. Troy, ten and going on juvenile detention, was already developing into a discipline problem and one they couldn't trust to be home alone when he was awake.
"No problem," Crystal answered, her stance and the impatience of her looking from her Kindle to her cell phone and to her fluorescent violet fingernails belying her willingness to wait.
"Couldn't find a halter top smaller than that?" Danny suddenly spouted out, giving Crystal a sneery look.
"Fuck you, Cretan," Crystal shot back. "You're the one lookin'."
As Ron plopped the Spaghetti-O's out of the can and into a saucepan, his head snapped up. He just caught himself before admonishing Crystal for using the F word in front of Tony. But he did catch himself. Crystal wasn't his to discipline and he had enough of that needing done around his own house when Amy wasn't hovering over him and keeping him from trying. Besides, since Danny's vocabulary was heavy on the F word too, and Danny was still living here, there was no protecting Troy from that.
"Fuckin' slut, girl. You put it out there for all to see."
"Danny. Enough, please," Ron said without catching himself, as he stirred the sauce pan and turned the heat down because the contents looked like they were scorching rather than bubbling. It had ever been thus with Crystal and Danny, raised in the same neighborhood, but with different sets of friends, and now even going to the same community college. They'd always been scrapping and picking on each other. Ron had to admit, though, that the slip of a bright orange and purple halter top Crystal was barely wearing was rather sluttish. Sort of a turn on, too. There was little doubt that Crystal knew what she was doing—and who she was doing it for.
Danny snorted, but returned to his food. Crystal started to retort, but, as they all heard the garage door raise and all slipped in the tension of what they knew was coming, she slouched against the door frame and went into a pout.
Amy swept in from the garage. Thin to the point of anorexia, going with a near-Gothic everything black style today, tottering on platform shoes, and swathed in bags from the high-end women's store at the mall, the woman swung in and swept the room with her icy stare.
"Glop again for the boy's dinner, Ron? Really, I wish you make the effort. Crystal, you need to find some clothes, young lady. You have a good day at work today, hon?"
The latter comment obviously was directed at Danny rather than anyone else in the room. Troy looked like he was going to say something, but then looked crushed and shrank into his chair. Ron turned back to the stove, checked on the simmering broccoli, and started the count: one, two . . .
"You want me to fix you some dinner, Amy?" he asked, when, once again, the counting had helped. Hurray for Dr. Phil—or whoever he'd picked that up from.
"I've got a splitting migraine and am going straight to bed for an hour. Rotten time at work. Those women should learn just to close their legs if they aren't going to make the time to come in for the full prenatal workup because of all the brats they've tossed out. What are you fixing the real people for dinner?"
"There's ham left over and I'm steaming enough broccoli for both of us."
Amy marched over to the refrigerator, pulled out a carrot, and continued on to the door to the dining room. "Can you keep it quiet around here for an hour for a change? I want to get rid of this headache. Ladies' night out tonight."
The tension flowed out of the kitchen again in the wake of Amy's disappearance and clumping up the stairs to the bedroom level.
Ron stood at that stove for a minute, cooling down, and then turned and spooned half of the Spaghetti-Os into Troy's plate. He might as well have the rest of them himself for dinner. Another dinner alone.
"Sorry," he said, looking up at Crystal.
She gave him a sympathetic look. Maybe the first he'd had that day, he thought.
"Here's the glop, buddy," he said, looking down at Troy and passing the sympathetic look and a smile on. "The greens will be along in a minute."
Troy had smiled wanly back at Ron, but then his face scrunched up at the mention of the broccoli. "Fuck," he muttered.
"Troy," Ron admonished.
"I'm off," Danny broke in as he flounced up from the table and brushed past Crystal at the door to the foyer, pushing her a bit into the doorframe.
"Danny, your dishes. Can't you even . . .?" But communicating with Danny was useless. He already was gone.
"Well, shit!" The exclamation had come from overhead and Amy was clumping down the stairs and brushed Crystal into the doorframe again as she appeared beside the young woman.
"Where's my salmon-colored silk blouse? It should have been washed today."
"Sorry, Amy. I had to go into the office today. I didn't do a wash. Trouble at the office too. Harold's cancer—"
