Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Dad.” Clay’s knuckles are white; he holds the phone tightly, with sweaty, unsteady hands. Orel, from the opposite line, clears his throat and speaks, once again: “Dad, are you still there?”

“I am,” Clay speaks so softly. Orel is so…confused.

“Alrighty…what did you want to ask me?” Clay swirls the drink in his other hand, the sound of the ice against his glass clinks in sync with his racing heartbeat.

“So, um, your mother…” Orel strains to hear as his father’s voice trails off. Clay gives it another go. “So, I want to have you and Christina over for dinner.”

Orel takes a deep breath–quietly, so his father can’t hear it–and answers with much more volume and confidence than that of Clay’s proposition. “Okay. When do you want us over, Dad?”

Now it’s Clay’s turn to suck in a breath; its sharp and quick, but it doesn’t sound over the phone, either. Clay has to answer. The hard part is over, he thinks. But now there’s a lump in his throat. He downs the rest of his glass then promptly sets it on the table beside the couch. “Yup, so, let’s say this Friday, huh? Your mother will make butternut squash soup.” Clay nods while he speaks, satisfied now that he sounds considerably less awkward.

Orel has already picked up his planner and scribbles down the dinner date on Friday, the twenty-second. “Alrighty. We’ll be there around six o’clock.”

“Six o’clock?” Clay coughs and sniffles and leans back into the couch. The buzz of the highball he gulped down ushering in arrogance in place of his anxiety. “I don’t think so, Orel. Six o’clock is too late for your mother and I to have dinner. We have our own schedule, you know. The soup will be cold by the time you both get here. Then what? Do you expect me to eat cold soup?” Exactly! What right does Orel have to choose the time? After all, Clay was the one nice enough to invite him and his wife for dinner.

Orel closes his planner without changing what he wrote. “Let mom know what time we’ll be coming over. She’ll probably start the soup later so that we can all eat it while it’s hot. I’m excited to see you guys, it’s been a while.” Orel is surprised at how easily that last line came out. He didn’t plan on saying that exactly, just something standard and courteous; something that could pacify his father. He probably meant it, he thinks.

Of course it worked. Clay smirks against the phone. “Of course you do! You haven’t seen your old man in a couple of months.”

“I’ve really missed mom’s cooking, too.” That comment might miss the mark. But Orel doesn’t care. It’s the truth.

“Mhm. Yeah, so, I’ll have to show you the new car I bought. Yeah, there was a problem with the engine, can you believe it? I fixed it right up, though! Yup, I’ve always been a handyman, right?”

“Right.” Orel bites his lip. He knows he shouldn’t sour Clay’s moment by saying anything else. No opinions or grievances; he knows his father doesn’t want to hear his two cents right now. He knows that Clay would go on some long, drunken rant about how he’s always right at the end of the day, no matter what arguments Orel definitely has to refute him. Orel, unlike Clay, usually knows when speaking more actually makes things worse. Orel makes a mental note to thank Stephanie for that skill, and to thank God for giving him a friend like Stephanie in his prayers. He remembers Stephanie’s words.

“You’re way too smart to start trouble with your mouth, kid. Trust your gut when you’re deciding if it’s best to speak up or listen up.”

The simple instructions ring like some old, sweet song in Orel’s head. Now he’s just thinking about Stephanie. He and Christina are going to meet up with her next week for tea and board games. Orel feels warm again. He smiles.

“Okay, dad. I’ll see you Friday evening. God bless you. Bye now.”

“Yes sir, yes sir. I’ll be seeing you two at six o’clock and not a minute late! Hch!” Clay hiccups out, slurring his words only slightly. Orel allows his father to end the call.

Once the line goes silent, Orel rubs his hands into his tired eyes. Christina is beside him in bed with her Bible open and her reading glasses on. She reaches over without looking up from the passage she reads.

“Dinner is going to be great.” Orel’s shoulders relax at his wife’s words. With Christina by his side, he knows everything will be alright. There isn’t anyone who knows Orel as well as she does. And there isn’t a single thing he can do without her. Well, her and God, of course.

“Yup. It was going to happen sooner or later.” Orel swings his legs over and wraps an arm around Christina. He lays his head on her shoulder and closes his eyes. She points her finger to the passage she’s open to and reads aloud.

“You whom I have taken from the ends of the earth, and called from its farthest regions, and said to you ‘you are My servant, I have chosen you and have not cast you away. Fear not, for I am with you; be not dismayed, for I am your God. I will strengthen you, yes, I will help you, I will uphold you with My righteous right hand.’”

“Isaiah forty one, verse nine through ten,” Orel says, his eyes still closed.

“God’s reassurance to Israel,” Christina says before placing the long, red bookmark onto the page and closing her Bible. “So, just how much do we have to be afraid of when it comes to a night with your folks, huh? Good food, good company–it will be a good time.”

“Good company, you say?” Orel comments sarcastically which earns him a playful poke to the nose. His wife takes his hand in hers and adjusts herself in bed so that she leans against his chest.

“Yes, sweetheart. Good company. Jesus sat and ate with all kinds of people, didn’t he?” Christina moves her left hand to the cross she wears on her chest. “It’s times like these where we need to lean on Him for the strength we need to face whatever is in front of us.” Orel smiles down at her and places a kiss on her head.

“Right you are. God knows that only He can get us through dinner with my parents.” Orel tilts his head back and sighs. “Have I not commanded you-”

“Be strong, and courageous! Do not tremble or be frightened…for the Lord your God is with you wherever you go,” Christina finishes the verse before Orel can continue.

“Joshua one, verse nine. You know it’s my favorite,” Orel says, looking down at Christina. She yawns; this prompts Orel to reach over to the floor lamp on his side of their bed and click off the only light that brightened the room.

“Goodnight, Mr. Puppington.”

“Goodnight, Mrs. Puppington.” Orel gives his wife another soft kiss on the cheek.

“As long as you’re yourself, it’ll be just fine,” Christina sleepily states, almost whispering. Orel hears her perfectly.

Chapter Text

Clay isn’t in his study, but in the living room. Bloberta is out getting groceries. That’s what she would tell Clay whenever she went out. When she would come back without groceries, Clay used to ask, “Where are the groceries?” His wife always said “They didn’t have what I was looking for.” One day, Clay decided to bite back.

-

“Why do you never find what you were looking for? What the hell were you looking for?”

“I see, it’s my fault that the grocery store doesn’t have what I need. You get so irrational sometimes. It’s all that drinking, you can never think straight.” Bloberta would go on and on and on about Clay, his drinking, his lack of common sense, and anything else she could use to avoid admission to where she really went and what she really did. Clay stopped caring a long time ago, but that day he knew that he’d (try to) fight back until he turned blue before giving her victory.

“My drinking has nothing to do with your lies, hch…I don’t give a shit what you go or where you do,” Clay incoherently spat. 

Then, Bloberta would give him that look. The one that has no anger, no sadness, not even confusion or frustration. It’s the look that tore Clay up from the inside out. Bloberta always knew when to use it to her advantage.

The look of pity.

She only looked at him this way—eyebrows slightly drooped, lips pursed, and head tilted down—when she wanted to win. It’s what their relationship seemed to survive off of; seeing who would win, who would break who, which one of them would leave the room in a huff, retreat to the bedroom, stumble to the study, and fall apart. That day, though, was the last day Clay questioned Bloberta about her “grocery runs”.

-

So, Clay continues to sit in silence in his chair in the living room. The whir of the ceiling fan from the kitchen is the only sound that dully cuts through the quiet of his home. He’s not sure what to do with himself, sitting down without another drink on hand. On most weekday nights he drinks and drinks and drinks until he knocks out cold. But thinking about getting up right now to pour himself another glass makes his head hurt…just a little bit. He wishes he could call out to someone to do it for him. He gives a low chuckle to the empty space, humored by his own thoughts.

I kind of miss her when she isn't home to play housewife. 

He wonders if he should just take a quick shower and get to bed early–maybe he can miss Bloberta coming back home and telling him about where she wasn’t and things she didn’t do. Now that would be a real headache.  

“I’m back.” The front door slams shut behind Bloberta.

Too late. 

Clay only nods in his wife’s direction to acknowledge her return. He doesn’t actually look at her. 

“I got the ingredients for the soup. They were having a sale on ginger, so I bought some extra.” Bloberta moves swiftly across the living room, crossing in front of her husband who isn’t too buzzed to be shocked at the fact that she carries two grocery bags under each arm. His brows are furrowed and his mouth hangs slightly open. He watches Bloberta walk into the kitchen to unload the bags. Then, he catches a whiff of sweet perfume lingering in the air. 

“Why do you smell so good?” So, Clay actually may be more than buzzed at the moment. He leans forward until his behind comes up from the chair, practically rolling off, and walks slowly to where Bloberta stands by the fridge to watch her. 

“It’s the scent you got me last year,” She states with a tone Clay is too drunk to put a name to.

“Um, yeah. Okay.” Clay leans on the table with both hands and tilts his head. Bloberta hasn’t looked him in the eye yet, so he decides to wait for her to say something else. He may be hammered but he’s far outgrown the habit of trying to steer these weirdly ambiguous conversations with his wife one way or another. It’s too tiring, especially when he isn’t sober.

“Do you remember the name of it?” She turns around. Now Clay is completely in the dark. Is she trying to trick me? 

“I…don’t know,” Clay admits. He opens his mouth to say something else, but Bloberta cuts in.

“Why, it’s Shalimar! You don’t remember, sweetheart?” She walks away from the half-organized grocery items and takes his shoulders in her hands, still gloved in white from being outside. There’s a nasty glint in her eye that makes Clay’s stomach gurgle. All he does is stare at her through drunken haze. 

Then, the small smile she wears morphs into a grin. “Dear, you did call Orel to invite him and his wife to dinner, right?” The grip she has on his shoulders tightens. 

Oh.

“Mhm. Bad news.” Before Clay can free himself from his wife’s grip, Bloberta pushes him back and throws both hands up in the air. 

“Oh for God’s sake. I knew it. I knew you wouldn’t be able to convince them. You must have been shit faced when you called, and you know your son hates when you drink. I mean, it’s just disgusting! Everyday you insist on changing. Every time you say things will start to be different. You roll over to my side and beg me to hold you, and for what? We’ll never be a family. We’ll never fix what was broken from the start, Clay. You’re just…you’re poison!” Bloberta, in her fit of yelling, has put away all of the grocery items in their proper place and now stands far from Clay at the other side of the kitchen. Her hands are on her hips and her left foot taps against the spotless floor like a ticking time bomb. Tap-tap-tap-tap.

Clay bites his lip to stifle a laugh, nods slowly, then lights the cigarette he snagged from some drawer while Bloberta ranted. “They can’t be here until six,” Clay takes a long drag, “both of them will be here.” 

Bloberta isn’t easily stunned. Or, rather, she isn’t easily stunned into silence. She’s always used her words as weapons; but, when she didn’t have any ammunition, the look on her face was nothing short of glorious. 

“Oh,” she says. It doesn’t count, really. Clay, however, has a real kicker for her. 

“Let’s save playing house until the kids are here to watch the show, hm?” He walks over to her and grabs her by the waist. He can smell that perfume again and it makes him shiver. Though, the sudden tightness he feels in his chest and his pants is a testament to how impaired he actually is. Bloberta only holds his gaze with some blank, unreadable expression; though, Clay could swear she looked proud. She nods quickly with raised brows, then snatches the cigarette hanging from his mouth. 

She takes a hit, blows the smoke into Clay’s face, then walks off without handing it back. She turns on her heel before leaving the kitchen.

“You know, I don’t like you very much, darling. But I do… did like having a family.” 

Clay is taken aback, and he hates that it shows on his face.

“I’m tired of playing. How different would it be if we could just…do it for real? Would that be so hard ? Your son does it just fine.” She sucks her teeth and exits to the living room with a sad smile. Clay gets a swirling, anxious feeling in the pit of his stomach that makes him feel like throwing up. His throat burns and he might even feel bad for her, actually. Maybe. 

He hasn’t changed so much, though. He can’t. Not yet.

“I still won,” he whispers so that she can’t hear him. Does he care if she did? 

He doesn’t really know.

Chapter Text

Christina finishes getting ready with a couple of perfume spritz on her neck and wrists. Her hair is tied up in a bun and she wears subtle, white-gold earrings that dangle just slightly beneath her earlobes. Her cross necklace is displayed atop her chest against the deep maroon fabric of her semi-fitted, crew neck midi dress. Even though it’s barely halfway through September, she’s found the weather outside getting more brisk with each passing day–especially at night. Her dress is what Orel endearingly refers to as “sweater-ish” and it provides just enough warmth outside without being itchy and irritating indoors. 

She looks at herself in the mirror and smiles. Then, she realizes her shoulders are a little hunched. Deep breath in, deep breath out. Her posture relaxes. She nods her self approval. 

In all honesty, Christina would be lying if she said she wasn’t at least a little nervous for dinner at her in-laws. Yes, they’ve gone before a handful of times; but those couple of meals shared with Orel’s parents were either brief lunches during the day with the company of Orel’s younger brothers or dinner parties involving both the extended Puppington and Posabule family. These events, again, were far and few between–yet while they still happened, they didn’t really give Christina a good idea of what a dinner with Bloberta and Clay alone could be like. 

Although…with the few and fleeting times Christina has spent with Orel’s parents, she can think back to certain moments that, for one reason or another, stand out within her memory. When thinking about the characters of both Clay and Bloberta Puppington, Christina remembers a particularly interesting gathering.

-

One spring dinner party two years ago–arranged by her mother, Poppit–took place at Christina's childhood home. While Orel made commendable but ultimately futile efforts to bond with her father and his group of friends at the dining table–all middle-aged men with interests just as boring as Art’s–Christina aided her mother with the food in the kitchen. 

The wives of her father’s friends also found space grouping together in the kitchen, along with a few other single gals, children; basically anyone that wasn’t a man. Everyone seemed to have found their place, chatting, drinking, cooking, or running around with toy cars and baby dolls. The sun was setting, and dinner was just about ready.

Then, the doorbell rang. 

Christina can’t remember why she rushed to the door that night–surely any one of the men at the table in the dining room could have heard it and obliged the welcome of another guest. Perhaps it was because it was so much later than when the gathering first began.

Yes, maybe that was why.

Christina swung the door open with an expectant look on her face; eyes wide and smile toothy. Before she could even greet her in-laws through the door frame, a voice sounded behind her, pitched with faint annoyance. 

“Mom, dad, you’re finally here.” Orel almost seemed to seethe as he moved past Christina, took his mother’s hand and led her in. “I was worried, I didn’t think you’d make it.” Christina couldn’t help but shoot her husband a look. He raised his eyebrows, then quickly nodded. 

“No need to worry about us, Orel. Maybe your father–the oaf. Do you know we had to stop three times on the way here? Yes, three,” Bloberta divulged to her son as they walked. She looked back to Christina with a pretty genuine smile. “Lovely to see you, dear.”

“You too!” Christina placed her hands on her hips and nodded. “Welcome, dinner will be ready in just a minute,” she called. Then, quickly, she spun back around to the frame of the front door where her father-in-law stood with a bottle of wine. She had almost forgotten he was there. “Hello, Clay!”

“Hi. Heh, I tell ya, mothers just can’t get enough of their children; heck, they’ll leave their big man for their little man as soon as they get the chance, am I right?” Clay let out a hearty laugh as he stepped inside. He seemed to speak with sarcasm, but the sheepish smile on his face took away most of the humor in his words. “The house looks nice.” 

Now that Clay was under the light of the living room, just a few feet from Christina, there was no concealing the redness coloring his eyes or the strong stench of alcohol on his breath. “I’ll be sure to pass the word on to Mom and Dad. Thanks for coming, Clay.” Christina held a pleasant look, trying hard to gently usher her tipsy father-in-law to the dining room to meet the men at the table. Without Orel available at that moment, she had no idea where else to put him.

“Yeah. Yes, of course. Of course, thank you for having us. Uh-huh. Wow-we, lotta people here, huh?” Clay gripped Christina’s shoulder weakly, surely thankful for the guidance, but all the while avoiding full dependence on her by not leaning too heavily.

“Yes sir! It was Mom’s idea, but Dad took to inviting a lot of his friends and coworkers. I think-”

“Ha, ha! That makes sense. I used to work with Brett…or, Bob? One of those, yeah? And, so, he delivered supplies to the office just last week out in Moralton,” Clay interrupted, looking down at Christina who moved to hold onto his arm. “Right? So, anyway, Brett or Bob ends up telling me, Mr. Mayor, that he’ll see me at the party. So I said: what party?” 

“Uh-huh. Careful there, Clay.” Christina tried her best to listen but was only really concerned with preventing Clay from dropping the bottle of wine as he awkwardly stepped closer towards the dining room. 

“You know what he said? He said Art’s party! Didn’t he personally invite you? Of course, I said, well…no!” Clay started to chuckle and Christina’s heart raced. He broke from the balancing anchor of her arm, spun to look for the table, tripped over his foot, and fell flat on his face.

Christina winced then looked around to be sure no one saw him fall. 

All eyes in the dining room were on him. Some chuckled, and some tsked. Although Christina actually stood quite far from him, and was not the center of attention, sprawled out on the carpet looking like a starfish, her stomach churned and her hands shook.

She didn’t know if Clay was too buzzed to be embarrassed, but she felt awful watching him roll and flop onto his back as the whispers around the house intensified.

Christina was unsure if Orel saw his dad faceplant that night; she never brought it up to him afterward.

A few hours into dinner, after the whole…Clay situation, when everyone was sitting around the dining table talking about their jobs, children, or another family they don’t like and needed to gossip about for some reason, Christina found time to have a brief exchange with Bloberta. 

She sat across the table from her; all of the people around them were engrossed in their own conversations, so Christina decided to make her move.

“How do you like it, Bloberta? I told Mom to use more pesto and less lemon.” 

Bloberta looked surprised at Christina’s offer of small talk. She couldn’t help but grin.

“Oh, really? Well, I do enjoy it. You’ll have to give me the recipe. It’s lovely that you helped your mother with dinner…Orel used to help me in the kitchen a lot as a teenager.” Bloberta nodded while she spoke and tried to keep her face neutral.

Christina smiled empathetically. “That’s sweet. Orel talks a lot about how much you taught him when it comes to making good food.” 

Then, Bloberta’s neutral smile twitched—Christina almost didn’t catch it. The original one seemed to return within milliseconds. But, there was no mistaking that slip, that change, that…waver. 

A flash of sadness accompanied Bloberta’s look, briefly glazing over her eyes.

“Mhm…well, isn’t that nice?” Bloberta shrugged and just continued to nod. “Isn’t that funny? I was actually just telling his father how much I miss him around the house…” That last line came out quickly, quietly, and trailed off just as fast as it came. Christina leaned forward in acknowledgment of what Bloberta had said, but she wasn’t looking her way anymore. Her mother-in-law turned and found a spot in a conversation just next to her, with one of Art’s friends’ wife Christina couldn’t remember the name of. 

Christina only watched with her brows slightly furrowed as Bloberta returned to nodding and smiling and trying to look like she didn’t have a care in the world. 

The mask she wore reminded Christina of the one often worn by her own mom. The look of longing for…something Christina still wasn’t entirely sure ever existed.

Just then, Orel, who sat beside her, took her soft hand in his. Christina glanced his way and focused immediately on a tear that rolled down his cheek. He spoke with as much pep and positivity as ever, though.

“I definitely heard that last part.”

-

Christina closes her purse and slings it over her shoulder. Thinking about the spring dinner set a new motion of determination in her heart. As crazy as Orel’s parents are…Christina sees some semblance of care for Orel. And, if not much is there at all, whether they’d admit to it or not: his parents need him. They need their son in their lives. Orel’s brightness has brought so much good to Christina over the years they’ve shared together; if anyone can bring positive change and light to Clay and Bloberta, it’s their son.

She takes another deep breath and smiles at herself in the mirror.

“Wow-we. Don’t you look beautiful.” Orel slowly closes the bedroom door behind him as he towel dries his soaked golden-brown locks. He’s already dressed up too; he wears a dark blue, button-down dress shirt that is tucked into wrinkle-free khaki pants. 

“Oh, stop.” Christina–even after being married for four years–blushes at his compliment. She places her hands on Orel’s shoulders and kisses him sweetly on the cheek. He sighs, casting his gaze downward and taking Christina’s hands in his. “What is it?”

“Maybe…this dinner isn’t such a good idea,” Orel admits dubiously, rubbing his thumbs gently over his wifes knuckles.

Christina frowns. Shoot. 

She quickly shakes her head and takes her husband’s face into her hands. “I know how much you want to spend time with your parents again. I know that things between you and them are a little rocky. We’ve both dealt with…a lot growing up.” Orel covers Christina’s hands that are placed gently on his cheeks. He listens intently. 

“Taking the first step is the hardest. I’m not saying it will be easy, but, how are we called to act?” 

“Different.”

“Romans One verse Two-”

“Do not be conformed to this world, but be transformed by the renewal of your mind…” Orel cracks a small smile. “You always know what to say.”

Christina places a quick kiss to his lips and releases his face from her hold. “Most people would just say…forget it, forget them. We don’t owe them anything; not our time, our effort, or our love.” She points at Orel while she speaks, emphasizing each point. “But we can’t, Orel. We can’t be like everybody else. We need to show them the difference. We need to show them how God-fearing, God-loving, God-worshiping people are supposed to act. We aren’t perfect…but that doesn’t mean we can’t strive for better, no matter what.”

Orel began to pace back and forth, not frantically or fast, just moving from one end of their bedroom to the other, considering all his wife was saying. He stops by the mirror and stares at his reflection. Christina follows suit and takes his right hand in her left.

“I do want to see them again. I really want to go to this dinner…I haven’t stopped thinking about it since Dad called.” He nods at himself.

“I know, I’ve seen that in you.”

“So…why the heck do I want to call, cancel, and order Chinese takeout for the two of us?” Orel chuckles and Christina grins, squeezing her husband’s hand.    

“Because you’re human,” she brushes a ball of lint off of her dress, “and as humans, our perceptions of things twist what's true into something worse, running a muck in our minds. Sometimes we’re right about them, and sometimes we’re wrong.” 

Orel rests his head on Christina’s shoulder. They continue looking at themselves in their bedroom mirror. 

“But we won’t know until we actually try,” Orel contends.

“We won’t know until we actually try,” Christina repeats. 

Orel faces Christina and turns her body toward him. He takes a deep breath in, and a deep breath out. He doesn’t let go of her hand “Alright.” 

“Shall we?” 

“Let us shall.”

They both enter a laughing fit that lasts at least five minutes. 

Within another ten, they’re out the door.

Chapter Text

There’s a thickness in the air. Clay’s neck is itching and he’s sure that all of his skin is breaking out in hives. It’s not, but it feels that way to him. He feels suffocated. He feels warm and antsy and oh, God he just wants a drink.

“You look like a lunatic.” Bloberta is practically sashaying around the living room, her duster swiftly swiping along each spot she dusted five minutes earlier. Clay sits in his large lounge chair, not paying much attention to her, and taps a steady rhythm into the carpet with his foot. 

Both of them are dressed quite nicely; Clay wears flattering black slacks with a long-sleeved, deep-navy blue polo shirt. He had his collar all the way buttoned when he got dressed but, with how much he’s started to sweat, the look didn’t last long. Bloberta matches her husband, of course; she wears a dark, slightly more royal-blue missy-length knitted dress. She has diamonds with silver backings in her ears and rocks a subtle, rose-colored lip. She’s straightened her hair, making it look slightly longer laying just past her shoulders. 

“Stop scratching yourself like that, Clay. Have a-”

“No. I’m not drinking tonight.”

Bloberta can’t help but snort. “Okay, dear.” 

After his wife finishes somehow elegantly tornadoing around the house–cleaning this, dusting that, sweeping here, readjusting there–the only sound Clay can really focus on is the tick, tick, ticking of the clock that sits high on the wall in the living room. Bloberta hums softly in the kitchen and the sound of the wooden spoon stirring against the sides of the boiling pot of soup on the stove is just a faint ambience in comparison to that clock as it ticks away; it’s louder, sharper, and all too menacing. 

If I had a drink it would calm me down. I could have just one drink. One drink wouldn’t hurt. He won’t even smell it on me. I can have one drink. 

Just one drink.

“Honey, can you get me a glass of water?” 

“Yes, dear.” 

Bloberta holds a cold, sweaty cup of water out for Clay to take. He doesn’t. 

“I’ll be right back.” Clay gets up and makes his way to the study. Bloberta leaves the glass on the side table next to his chair–on a coaster that’s a small clip art picture of the Holy Bible, of course. 

Once Clay enters his study, he crosses his arms and huffs out an annoyed hmph. He can go one night without a drink…can’t he? Just to show his son that-

No. No! Why on earth should he have to change for Orel? Orel? His first born? His son who was always so spineless, so misguided, and so much different than him? His son who…no longer took his advice, found a way to actually enjoy married life (still, so shocking), and didn’t need to be drunk to do it…

It’s been rattling around the back of his head since the night he made the call to invite Orel to dinner. Now, it’s at the forefront of his racing mind–Clay isn’t sure if he actually wants to try and rebuild his relationship with his son, or if he just wants to show him that he too could have a life like his. Clay is no failure. He’s still not divorced, he’s still the mayor of Moralton, and he hasn’t died from alcohol poisoning like Orel said he might! Now, that is success. 

And, after all, it was Bloberta’s silly idea for this whole dinner ordeal anyway. He may have earned a win when he told his wife he followed through with the invite, but he was hammered when he called (surprise, surprise) and didn’t even expect it to work! Now he has to deal with everything that comes with a visit from his holier than thou son who’s overly sensitive and doesn’t drink. How annoying. 

Clay bites down on his bottom lip hard and kicks his big leather chair–similarly to an upset, little boy having a tantrum. He turns around and stares at the semi-organized line of various types of bottled alcoholic drinks that sit just on top of his wooden wine cabinet (of which houses even more drinks, not just wine). 

As his neck begins to itch again, and his hands become unsteady, Clay narrows his eyes; his gaze is fixed on the drinks, and he stands there for a while taking deep breaths that become more pained and staggered as the minutes go by. 

He stays there wrestling with his thoughts, his willpower dwindling, practically melting of desperation for the vice he lives for, alone and in silence.

Just as he always does.

Bloberta won’t stop tapping her freshly painted fingernails against the dinning table as she continues to steal glances at the clock on the stove every couple of seconds–as if the minutes will go by quicker the more she looks. 

5:51

“Oh, for God’s sake.” Bloberta sighs through her nose with pursed lips. “They should have at least shown up ten or so minutes early.” She speaks to no one–she knows Clay will be in the study until she calls after him when the kids get here. She isn’t even talking to herself, really; she’s letting out her own nervous energy in small bursts the only way she knows how.

But talking really doesn’t seem to help…so, she decides to focus on the only other person as anxious as she is in the house: Clay. How is Clay preparing himself? What is he doing at the moment? She thinks of what he’s finally chosen to drink. Or…maybe he really does want to stay sober for the night–but if he does, how will he stay cordial? Will he act as belligerent as she thinks he will? What if he insults their son? Or offends their daughter-in-law? 

It’s been almost a decade since Clay has tried going sober; the time he did it only lasted a couple of hours. He practically went insane: spitting out obscenities, wallowing on the floor, throwing himself onto Bloberta like a sick, snotty child in need of his mother–it was a pathetic sight to behold; and thank God she was the only one who saw it, she wouldn’t know how to face her community if those they knew saw him like that–saw them like that.

She can’t have that happen again. Still, it has been a while since his little episode. Maybe it won’t be as dramatic this time around–maybe a detox would do him good. 

Maybe he’s changed?

Bloberta quickly chuckles at the thought. “No, not in a thousand years.” She speaks out loud, again, to no one.

She glances at the stove once more.

5:53

“God, help me.” Bloberta rolls her eyes, and her finger tapping becomes vigorous.

Be grateful they’re coming at all.

Bloberta blinks hard and looks around, like she’s looking for someone that could have whispered this thought in her ear; like someone was trying to mess with her. 

Be grateful you’re seeing them.

She huffs and leans her head on her hand. 

This could be a chance for…

“Something,” Bloberta finishes her thought aloud, sounding more like a question than a statement.

Then,

“Diiiiing Dooooong!”

Orel can feel his palms start to sweat as he stands just outside the front door; all he can do after he’s rung the bell is plant his feet firmly to the ground and wait. 

“God, help me,” Orel whispers faintly. Christina takes a deep breath. 

The click from the door lock draws Orel’s eyes to the knob; it turns quickly, but the time it takes for the door to fully open is uncomfortably slow.

Bloberta is on the other side of the frame, looking just as nervous as she does stunning. 

“Mom, hi,” is all Orel says. He makes no effort to walk inside, so Christina helps him out.

She gently nudges him forward. “Hello, Bloberta! You look fantastic.” Orel takes the soft hint and leads Christina inside.

“Oh,” Bloberta starts, watching the two shut the door behind them, “thank you, dear. The soup is just about ready! Clay is just freshening up—he’ll join us soon.” 

Orel struggles not to cringe at Bloberta’s squinted eyes. He knows they mean she’s lying.

Christina shrugs off her coat and Orel takes it to hang it up on the same old freestanding coat rack he used as a kid. He can’t help but give a small smile at its obvious age, with its small nicks and scratches–yet it still looks just as charming. 

“Wonderful. We’re famished,” Christina smiles sweetly, looking at both Orel and his mother—who both stand stiffly under the orangey-yellow glow of the hall light, not looking at each other—and places her hands on her hips. “How are things here? How have you and Clay been?”

The next half hour or so is spent in the living room on the couch; Bloberta, Orel, and Christina begin catching up through small talk and polite nods, which eventually turns into belly laughs and soft clapping. The three of them, much to Orel’s surprise, have cultivated a comfortable rhythm of conversation that is flowing a lot more naturally than he could have hoped. Yes, the awkwardness still lingers around them from time to time, but Orel feels more at ease watching his wife and his mother interact, cracking jokes here and there and placing light, friendly hands on each other’s shoulders.

Really, Christina glows as she talks to Bloberta–telling her about the house, about her hobbies, connecting with Bloberta about cooking, cleaning, and church.

“I’d love for you to try it. I can always cook extra and bring you guys some!”

“Oh, that would be just fine. You know, the older I get the harder it is to cook good meals everyday.”

“Oh, Bloberta. Don’t use the ‘o’ word…Orel always helps me out in the kitchen when we’re making more complicated meals so I don’t get overwhelmed. It’s easy to feel lost in the kitchen when you go it alone, even when it’s become second nature like it has to me.”

Bloberta purses her lips. “Clay would never be caught working in the kitchen–I’m not sure he even knows how to work the stove.” She lets out a small giggle and smiles wide, but Orel and Christina don’t know whether to echo the laugh or shrug the comment off. Christina decides for both of them:

“Maybe we could teach him, that’d be a fun challenge, wouldn’t it?” 

Orel grins at his wife and nods at his mother. Bloberta can’t help but smile.

“I’m very glad you two made it to dinner tonight,” she says with that same, artificially steady tone. Though, Orel notices she isn’t squinting at all. 

“So…where’s dad?” Orel feels bad about breaking the three of them away from the nice moment to pose the question–or, maybe it’s just him who feels that way–but he is genuinely curious.

Bloberta frowns; she looks genuinely annoyed. “My, he has been gone a while, hasn’t he? The soup is going to be cold!” Immediately, she stands up and begins walking past the kitchen.

Christina turns to Orel. “Isn’t his bedroom upstairs?”

“Oh, he’s not in the bedroom,” Orel replies matter-of-factly.

…

“Clay?”

“What?” Clay’s voice is unnaturally high, his eyes bulging at his wife standing in the door frame of the study as he clutches a bottle of something Bloberta can’t make out.

She rolls her eyes. “Your son is here.”

“I know! I know…I was just-I was-”

“I don’t give a shit what you were doing. Come out and be a good host, damnit. Or are you already drunk? The soup is getting cold. Ugh…we shouldn’t have done this. You can’t handle it, I knew it. You-”

Clay huffs and scoffs and places what Bloberta now recognizes as a bottle of gin he was sipping on next to his large leather chair, on the desk just beside it. 

“Well, excuse me for practicing some self-care before entertaining our guests.” Clay’s speech isn’t slurred or slowed, but his eyes are extremely blood-shot. The air between him and his wife becomes sour and intense, like his breath. As he walks over to where she stands the same bottle he just put down falls off of the table; he didn’t cap it, though that wouldn’t have mattered anyway because the glass completely shatters and the gin spills onto the floor. Part of his carpet gets soaked, too. Bloberta just chuckles. 

“Hey, I…could have sworn that bottle was all good. All set, you know? I thought I had it together but it slipped off! I fell off the table.” Clay shrugs.

“You mean the bottle fell off the table.” 

“Yeah…”

“Is everything alright?” Christina calls from the kitchen. Her voice startles Clay and causes Bloberta to blush. 

“Clay…come on.”

Clay begins to follow Bloberta as she walks out of the study, but stops just short of leaving to stare at the glistening concoction of glass shards and gin continue to pool around the bottom of his chair. Maybe, he thinks, if I scoop some of that up and drink it I’ll be dead before I get to the dining table.    

He doesn’t do that. He just shuts the door on the mess he made: the broken glass and spoiled gin, a portent of the evening in front of him.

Chapter Text

The table is simply set, with reflectively clean silverware placed in pairs at four seats around the table. Clay, the tipsy head of the household that stumbled his way into the kitchen and almost knocked Orel over with his superficial hug, sits, of course, at the head. Bloberta, her good mood noticeably ruined by the presence of her husband and his lack of sobriety, sits to his right. Orel and Christina, the happily married couple, sit side by side across from Bloberta, so that Orel is closest to Clay.

Each of their bowls are filled with soup, and a wooden-weaved basket filled with butter-rolls sits in the middle of them.

Bloberta clears her throat and throws Clay a look, to which he gives a half-nod in response.

“I will, uh, say grace–of course,” Clay announces, a bit unsure of himself and worried that it shows.

Everyone bows their heads.

“Thank you God for the food we are about to eat. Thank you for the time we’re able to have together. Thank you…for giving us the food we have here…to eat–together.” Clay clears his throat. “Um…”

Bloberta opens an eye and peeks over at Clay–his eyes are still shut.

“Thanks for the…air that we breathe. The clothes that we wear…thank you. Thank you, so much. And…thank you for the time we have here together.”

“Ahem.” Bloberta kicks his shin under the table—not violently, just forcefully enough to snap his eyes up and at her own agitated gaze; her forced smile looking more like a grimace by the second.

Clay clears his throat once more. “I guess I already said that, didn’t I? Haha…yeah. So, thank you. Thank you, God…amen,” Clay mumbles out, quick and quiet, wanting the moment to be over.

“Amen.” Orel, Christina, and Bloberta voice in unison.

“Alrighty! Boy, am I starving. Let’s eat!” Clay’s voice is raspy and loud as it cuts what might have been a semi-serene moment.

“Wow, the soup smells like heaven.” Christina licks her lips and grabs her spoon enthusiastically, winking at Orel who gives a small smile back.

“Well if it were heaven then we wouldn’t be eating it—hch—we can’t eat heaven that’s…blasphemous. Very blasphemous! You mind those manners, young lady.” Clay says with his index finger pointed at his daughter-in-law.

Bloberta’s eye twitches and Orel snaps his head towards his father.

“It’s just an expression, Dad,” Orel asserts with a raised brow. His tone is firm, but steady.

Clay shrugs and sucks his teeth; his cheeks go a bit red, but that’s probably just the alcohol.

“So…Clay. Bloberta has been telling Orel and I about all of the projects you’ve been doing around the house; she showed us the downstairs bathroom with that new sink countertop. It looks lovely.”

The chip on Clay’s shoulder practically doubles in size. “What? You didn’t think an old man like me could still be handy? I remember when Blobs told me about that old dresser in our room–one of the legs was chipped and made the whole damn thing lean to one side like this,” Clay leaned over the table to one side, his eyes bulging, “and I fixed it! I…I just fixed it.” He poured himself some wine and downed the whole thing. “I did a good job, too. I did a really good job.”

“Oh, great. How did you fix it?” Christina asked innocently.

“Fix what?”

“...The dresser?” Orel held his breath.

“Dresser…yeah, that old dresser we have upstairs. Did you know that, one time, your mother told me that it was chipped on one of the legs–it was leaning-”

“Ahem. So, Christina, you and Orel are planning a short vacation? You were telling me about that earlier, yes?” Bloberta interjected quickly, changing the subject.

“Yes! We want to take a trip to-”

“Vacation, huh? Like a getaway?” Clay abandons the wine glass beside him and begins taking swigs from the wine bottle itself. “Boy, Orel, do you remember our getaway? Our father-and-son outing when we camped in the woods?”

Orel stiffens.

Christina bites her lip.

Bloberta’s eyes are trained on her husband, wide and waiting; she’s not mad or upset or nervous. She’s just…waiting.

Clay takes another swig.

“Yeah, dad. I remember.” Orel breathes the sentence out, taking Christina’s hand in his.

“That was a fucking trip and a half, wasn’t it? Oh yeah…just a nice ride out into the forest, living off the land, catching rays with your old man.” Clay nods and smiles, his eyes bloodshot, his forehead glistening.

“Clay, please don’t use that language in the house.” Bloberta’s tone is even and cool. She darts her eyes toward her son and daughter-in-law, briefly wearing that painted-on, gold-star smile she’s become somewhat a connoisseur of over the years–but she rips her dinner roll in half with visible force.

Orel and Christina exchange a look.

“My house, you mean. Right? I mean, I’m the one working. I’m the one who pays our mortgage, right? Blobs? I’ll say what I damn well please while in my house, thank you very much.”

Bloberta tilts her head, now staring at the two halves of the ripped apart dinner roll in her hands.

“As I was saying-hch-” Clay takes two swigs from the wine bottle, “that was one important day, wasn’t it, son? That was the day I taught you how to shoot.”

Clay’s getting plastered, and it isn’t just sad to the party at the table anymore; it’s uncomfortable.

Well, Bloberta thinks it’s disgusting.

Christina thinks it’s awkward.

Orel thinks it’s exactly how he thought tonight would go anyway.

“I bet you a buck that won’t be a lesson…you won’t soon forget, huh?” Clay unbuttons the top of his shirt. Bloberta shakes her head at his verbal nonsense.

“I definitely won’t be forgetting that day, dad. Trust me.” Orel has a bite to his words now–Christina clears her throat and smooths out a small crease on Orel’s pant leg. He tries again: “It was interesting. We’ll leave it at that.”

“No, no” Clay shakes his hands in protest, “I’d love to look back on that day with you all. What an incredible time of bonding it was for Orel and I…out in God’s green earth, nothing but the clothes on our backs and the sun in our eyes…”

“Let’s not do that, dad. Okay? We know what happened, alright? I don’t want to…I just want to have a relaxed dinner with you guys. Is that okay?” Orel’s plea is measured and smooth–he even wears a tired smile, willing himself to be as amicable as he can against what’s brewing inside the man drowning himself just beside him.

“Well, why? Why can’t we talk about it? I can talk about whatever I want to in my own house.” Clay continues to hiccup, quickly pouring out what little is left of the wine into his glass–suddenly at use again–and downing it just as fast.

Christina scoots her chair in, getting closer to Orel and to the table. “I really would love to share more about this vacation we’re planning, Clay. I mentioned to Bloberta-”

“You know what, sweetheart, I’m really not that interested. I’d much rather catch up with my son. Heh…my son. My son who couldn’t kill one fucking dear!” The loud cackle that escapes Clay’s mouth causes Christina to jump.

Bloberta is frozen in her seat. She’s still holding the bread, she’s still looking down–but the smile is gone. Orel is shaking his head vigorously, fists clenched.

“Dad, are you serious? What’s wrong with-I mean, I know what’s wrong with you. You…you can’t just disrespect people like that. You can’t talk to Christina that way.” Orel pinches the bridge of his nose.

He was right.

He should have trusted his gut.

This dinner was doomed from the start.

“Mom?”

Bloberta slowly looks up at Orel with a tired smile. “You know your father, Orel. It’s just his…nature.”

Clay is incredulous now. He rolls his eyes and taps on his wine glass. “Honey, I need more wine.” His wife rises without a word and walks to his study.

“Now, I want to know what the big deal is. I just wanted to reminisce, that’s all. Seriously, Orel, why are you being so difficult? Hm?” Clay shakes his head at Christina, his grin nasty and nose scrunched tight. “Can you believe this boy? What do you see in him, sweetie? Really?”

Christina stares at Clay with…
Oh, God.

No.

That look.

Pity.

“Fine, dad.” Orel cuts the beat of silence. “Fine. Let’s reminisce on that great, educational trip we took when I was twelve. The one where you brought more booze than drinking water, shot someone's dog right in front of me and…oh, yeah, shot me in the leg. Right? I guess it’s fair, only because we’re reminiscing, to talk about how you slept through an entire day while I bled out in pain in the dirt and had to defend you from a bear!”

Clay’s brows rise. “Defe- defend me? You-all you did was whine and act like a little girl that whole damn trip. Yeah! And…and, I shot that fucking bear. Not you! Me! I won!”

Christina bites down hard on her lip, keeping her eyes on Orel.

“Won?” Orel’s face says it all–his brows furrowed, his lips pursed, his head cocked to the side. “No, dad. No. No. No,” Orel is up, his hands firm on the table. “Stop. Just stop. This is exactly why I hate coming to see you guys.”

“Oh, that’s rich, isn’t it? D-does my career and life success make you-hch-feel miserable about your failures? Is that it, Mr. Orel Puppington guy?” Clay spits, wiping his now running nose with the sleeve of his shirt.

“Dad…I…” Orel’s head drops. Christina lets out a breath she didn’t realize she started holding.

Clay looks between the two of them, his hands shake slightly. He notices, then quickly throws them up in the air, mock surrendering.

“Okay, so I messed up once. Give me some grace, Orel! Why not, yeah, actually, you know what-” Clay pushes his chair back and wobbles up-“how about we sit here and-hch-talk about…er list off all the mistakes you made in your life. Yeah? How about your failures as a son!”

Orel and Christina only stare at this, someone–this something–that sits in Orel’s father’s chair. It’s a shadow of someone that he used to think of as his dad, someone he called his hero, the one he wanted to please the most…sometimes, even more than he wanted to please God.
“Yeah…oh, yeah it’s all coming back to me now! Remember when you…when you did drugs? Yeah! Y-you were a drug addict. You-hch-bought drugs off of the street and then…then…” Clay scratches his head hard, as if in doing so he’ll dig up the detailed memories of the mistakes Orel made when he was a young, impressionable, innocent child.

It doesn’t work.

Clay just huffs, looking at Orel.

“Dad…you’re a bad person.”

Clay blinks.

“You’re a terrible father.”

Clay gulps.

“You’re-”

Christina stands and takes her husband’s hand.

“We’ll be leaving now, Clay. Tell Bloberta that the soup was lovely.” Orel sucks in a breath, lets it go, looks at his wife, and nods.

He doesn’t smile, but having Christina’s hand in his is like a safe anchor amidst the storm swirling inside of him.

The two begin to gather their bowls and silverware. Clay is speechless and…

Tears?

“...Orel, now…hold on.”

“Here’s the wine, Clay.” Bloberta gently places another wine bottle in front of Clay. “Here, take a minute to look these over as well. I want the divorce to be as quick a process as we can make it.”

A pile of papers, placed just as gently and just as close in front of Clay on the dining table, holds the attention of everyone in the room.

“I thought it would be a bad time, but, then, no…” Bloberta doesn’t sit down, in fact, she glides across the room to take her son’s and wife’s bowls from them. “It’s quite a perfect time, actually.”

She disappears into the kitchen, humming some sweet-sounding tune.