Ablaze

Chapter 15 (1 of 2)

It's barely eight in the morning on Sunday, but he's a shift worker and his dad is a disabled man who doesn't keep a schedule. The wheelchair is parked by the window with a coffee mug inserted in its cup holder. There's no steam rising from it.

"Morning," Harris says.

Dad turns the chair a little to get a good look at him and chuckles. "You look positively disreputable."

He catches a glance of himself in a hallway mirror. His curls are disheveled, two top buttons are unfastened at the collar of the white dress shirt. At least he'd tacked it into the slacks. It's still crisp in some spots, but mostly it's crumpled and softened with wear. Tie's stuffed into the jacket's pocket and the jacket is under his arm. But the most tell-tale signs are the dark shadows circling his gleaming eyes and the deeply etched line by his mouth.

"It was this kind of a night," he agrees.

His dad salutes him with his mug. "Coffee?"

"Thanks, but no. Shower." He showered already, but it's not the same at Desiree's place. His own bathroom would make him feel better.

Just before he reaches the landing of the second storey, his dad calls out again. "The buzz is that she flew to Singapore with this interloper."

Tell him something he doesn't know! Harris' lips twist like he'd bitten into one of the lemons his dad has out on the kitchen counter. "Dad, I am the interloper. She's been dating Oliver for a year or whatever. Her family is crazy about him. Not to mention, they're engaged."

Sarkisian Senior moves to the base of the staircase with agility that surprises Harris. He cranes his neck to peer into Harris's face.

"You came alive last week. I was starting to forget how you look when you're happy. It's worth fighting for, Harris."

It was an intoxicating week, alright. But the time has come to sober up. He hides another grimace by turning away. "Dad, I... I want to finish with the wall before it rains again. I... I'll go take that shower."

His dad clears his throat. "You do that."

Shower isn't as cathartic as he's hoped, but it helps. By the time Harris is scrubbed, clad in an old T-shirt and worn-out jeans, the TV starts at low volume in the kitchen. It's set to the local news. It's probably the slowest Sunday in his life. And his phone is completely silent.

The rhythmic pounding announces his Dad's occupation over the TV's rambling. A smile pushes onto Harris' face as he bounds down the steps. "You're killing it, Dad!"

At the sight of him, Sarkisian Senior lowers his trusty tenderizing hammer. "It's dead, Son. But it will live a second, more beautiful life thanks to my magic touch."

"Indubitably!"

"Do you think Desiree—"

"No," Harris replies curtly, guessing what his dad's going to ask. The mood fizzles out. Even if he calls Desire at a 'sane' hour, she isn't the kind of girl to pop in for supper. Plus, he'd have to explain about his dad. Weirdly, he's never gotten around to his living arrangements and Dad's accident with Desiree. Ablaze must be really good at getting people to talk, because he waxed poetic to her. He's told her everything. Yeah, weird.

"Whatever you say." His dad pinches his lips and brings a few sprigs of freshly clipped tarragon to his nose. "Perhaps with fennel and fenugreek..."

Harris examines the stains from grease, dirt and paint that never wash off any more from his weekend jeans. "I'll leave you to your marinade."

"Wait! breakfast!"

"I'll save my appetite." Because the glimmer in his Dad's eyes indicates that the conversation during the breakfast would revolve around either Ablaze or Desiree. And he really wants to get that wall done. For that reason, Harris leaves his phone on the coffee table by the window, before exiting to the backyard. He'd hate to clean his hands every five minutes to check the messages.

***

If his body was sore after his nocturnal gymnastics, a few hours of digging and dumping soil reaches into his every muscle. Then it twinges it. It hurts to crouch, stand, bend, lift or lower his arms. His t-shirt is soaked, and so is the back of his boxers. The two-liter soda bottle refilled with water has been empty for an hour or two. Worst of all, his stomach glues itself to his spine and is practically screaming for food. Yet, he stubbornly replied with a terse 'later', every time his Dad popped his head out of the window to ask when he wanted to eat.

Finally, Sarkisian Senior leaves the window open a crack, suffusing the backyard with the smell of lemon and travail infused chicken juices. Harris's stomach whimpers piteously. Who knew Dad was so devious?

He stretches himself on the grass between the vegetable boxes—they need weeding, by the way—and puts a soothing palm over his belly. He's tired. The mound of dirt on a tarp at the opposite corner of the yard is sizable. He's done enough for one day and earned his dinner.

Yet, he lets a cloud drag its way across the sky before he sits up. It's not every day a guy sees a cloud shaped as a dolphin! But the fluffy mammal is gone, so he's out of reasons to dally. No, wait! He puts away the wheelbarrow. Then he kicks sticking clumps off the shovel and his boots. Once everything shines, he puts the shovel away too.

Now, he's truly done, so he trudges inside.

The aroma of food intensifies three-fold indoors. His Dad ignores the sound of the door. After all, the TV is retelling Dahmer's killings! One of the top ten digestion-stimulating choices, for sure!

Harris kicks his boots off and pulls on an ingratiating smile. "Ah... It smells good."

"It would have been fresh two hours ago. Now you'll have to reheat it. It'll still be passable, but not nearly the same."

Harris scoffs at himself. Like, what has he proven? That he could work himself to exhaustion? He knows that already. That hard work numbs the emotions, but not nearly enough? Also not a news-flash. Dammit!

 A quick glance down his front reveals that he's as dirty as can be expected after shoveling dirt all day. 'So sue me!' he thinks and troops to the table as is. Some days are like that.

Lifting the lid of the Dutch oven reveals the chicken pieces are caramelized, covered by sprinkles of herbs. They emit lemony and licorice-but-more-complex aroma, because fennel and tarragon play nicely together. His Dad was a drama queen! The sauce barely needs a shot of microwaving to breathe liveliness back into the dish. No way it would dry out the chicken, not even the breast!

As the microwave spins, it refills the ground floor with sweet-and-sharp smell of tarragon. It's almost incense quality, so thick and good. Harris gobbles gourmet cuisine like chicken nuggets. They could probably hear in Detroit as he wolfs down his food. It sure is loud enough to summon Sarkisian Senior, who shuts off the TV and wheels over to the table. The clutching of his heart, aghast at Harris' table manners is incoming in three... two...

"That's a keeper!" Harris enthuses, pointing at his plate. "Great recipe!"

"Uh-huh." Dad waves his phone enticingly and real enthusiasm lights his brown eyes. "Speaking of the keepers! A vocal minority still ships you with Ablaze."