Frankie sat with his right leg crossed under his left, sifting through puzzle pieces, turning them over so that they were color-side up. His left leg ached and his right leg felt like a cement slab attached to his hip. Still, he flipped the little cardboard pieces over and handed them to his son one at a time. One by one, Benji inspected each piece and threw them back at his father. “Stop giving me wrong pieces.” he growled in a voice too small to be taken seriously. Frankie uncrossed his legs and felt the rush of blood activate a curious mixture of acute radiation poisoning and that weird ticklish feeling throughout his lower half. The boy had steel blue eyes like himself. He had his strong jaw but his mother’s irrational logic. “What makes you think I’m giving you wrong pieces on purpose?” Frankie asked with a half-smile, moving his feet back and forth to expedite the circulation process. Benji didn’t answer. He stared at the empty spots in his Pixar puzzle and tears began to form in his eyes as he grabbed at the pile in front of his father, mashing each piece into the voids until he finally began digging his little fingers at the parts of the puzzle that were finished. He clawed at the carpet, breaking everything up and bending the pieces that didn’t fit. Frankie watched his son cry and attack the box, waiting for him to calm down before saying anything. After another minute, the boy crossed his arms and sat in a shivering heap. His lower lip quivered as he tried to contain his frustration, but tears fell and soaked the remaining pieces. “Benji,” Frankie said calmly, standing up and reaching down for his hand. The boy didn’t move. Frankie reached down and carefully slid his hands under the boy’s arms, picking him up and holding him against his shoulder. “It’s okay, Benji. The puzzle was stupid. You don’t need puzzles when you grow up.” In his father’s arms, the boy relaxed and wiped his face on the thin strip of material that covered his father’s shoulder. Frankie held him back a little and looked into his puffy red face. He had little streaks of gold in his dark brown hair, like himself when he was young. He had his thick eyebrows and light freckles, but he had his mother’s quick burning wick. No doubt about it. “You want to get some pizza and forget about the puzzle?” Benji’s lip remained in a pout, but he wiped his eyes and nodded slowly. “Okay, bud. Pick out what you want to wear.” Frankie set the boy down and watched him run excitedly through the mess of scattered pieces, as though the puzzle had somehow never existed.
Frankie put on a black collared work shirt over his white tank and took a peek down the hall to make sure Benji was still in his room. He could see a pile of clothes growing in the doorway and ran quietly to the kitchen to grab himself a drink. He reached in the cupboard above the refrigerator and fished around for a few seconds, feeling his hand cross over a few other objects before landing on his flask. He never looked into the cupboard. Ever. Just fumbled around until he felt the cold, smooth surface of the last thing his father ever gave to him. He poked his head out from the kitchen one more time, calling out, “You almost ready, bud?” “No!” the little boy called back with an audible tinge of irritation. Frankie turned back and leaned against the canary yellow kitchen countertop. He hated the color. He’d been meaning to change it. He unscrewed the flask cap and held the opening to his nose, taking several deep breaths in before taking a seconds-long swig. His eyes lost focus for a minute and for just a few seconds, he wasn’t thinking about anything. He took one more swig, but the clarity was gone. He screwed the cap back on and threw it back in the cupboard. “You ready, pal?” he called out, but heard only quiet sobs.
Benji would be starting preschool soon. Frankie would have to change his schedule at the semiconductor plant so that he could be taking his son in the mornings. He called his mother almost every night in the weeks before Benji’s first day. “He’s going to be just fine, Frankie. He’s a spittin’ image of you and you never had any trouble in school,” his mother said to him over the phone. “All kids get in a little trouble. Especially kids who don’t have siblings. But he’ll adjust just fine, I promise.” Frankie rubbed at his temples with his thumb and middle finger, nodding although his mother couldn’t see him. “Thanks, ma. I’ll see you soon, okay? I know I haven’t been able to get over there lately, but-“his mother interrupted, “That’s alright, Frankie. I understand. You just take care of yourself, okay?” “Okay, ma.” He hung up and tiptoed down the hall to Benji’s room. He peered in on his sleeping child, curled up in a tight ball on the far side of the bed by the wall. He snored tiny snores just like Frankie and slept with his back against the wall like Frankie, but like his mother, he never seemed to relax. The boy’s tiny fists clutched his blankets and his face seemed like he was battling some unperceivable monster. His legs would kick for a few seconds before curling back up into a tiny ball. Frankie leaned his head against the doorway and felt a weighty pain in his chest. Carefully, he tiptoed back to cupboard above the fridge and reached in for one more drink. Just to help him relax, he thought. Just to help him get some sleep. He paced back and forth in the kitchen between drinks. He hated that yellow. Maybe he’d let Benji pick out the new kitchen color.
The morning came when it was time to drive Benji to school. The Saturday before, he’d taken Benji to the clothing department in the mall and said, “Pick out whatever you want”. The boy’s choices were conservative and flattering. He had his father’s sense of style. When the time came to pay for the clothes, the boy became frustrated with his choices and talked himself out of most all of them. He had his mother’s patience, too. Frankie buckled his son’s seatbelt and triple checked his little lunch pail to make sure he had everything. Peanut butter sandwich with the crusts on the side. A small container of jelly to dip his crusts in. A carton of milk and a little mound of sunflower seeds. The chewing and spitting helped him relax, Frankie noticed. As they approached the little school, Frankie noticed many children hanging onto their mothers’ legs and crying and whining and other usual things. Frankie parked in a fire lane across the street and got out to walk his son to the front. He’d met the teachers a month in advance and explained his son’s “situation” as thoroughly as he could. “Sometimes, he gets a little wound up,” he kept telling them, to which they all nodded and giggled, “Yes, most toddlers do!” They didn’t understand and it killed Frankie to think they wouldn’t know how to handle him. He walked around the back of the car and opened Benji’s door. The boy looked as calm as an angel in prayer. He was expressionless. Not eager. Not afraid. Frankie helped him out of his seat and reached for his hand. “I can walk myself, dad” the boy said with a look that could have been construed as a smile. “Are you sure, buddy? It’s just right there. It’s alright to be nervous.” The boy looked out at how the other children were behaving. He crinkled his nose and shook his head. “I can walk myself.” He had his mother’s confidence. That was certain. Frankie leaned against the hood of the car and watched his little boy walk to the corner to stand with the crossing guard. He crossed with the group and didn’t look back even once.
Frankie waited until he disappeared inside the doors and got back in his car. He moved a few feet up so that he was no longer in the fire lane, killed the ignition and cried.