TLWDYB - Writing Exercise: Caleb & Joan

Caleb & Joan1

“Your dad called while you were at school,” Joan said softly, squeezing the large mug of black coffee between her palms. Joan Evans always had some sort of caffeine nearby and her favorite was her horrible version of coffee, which you would find with her at every meal. She found it went especially well with French fries. This may be because it was about as solid as ketchup and would attach itself to a fry if you, for some ungodly reason, decided to dip one into it. She brought the mug up to her mouth and blew powerfully, watching down her nose as it made small ripples in the thick tar-like “liquid.” She glanced across the polished glass table at Caleb as he took a bite out of his huge turkey sandwich with lettuce and tomatoes thickly coated in mayo dropping out. Caleb didn’t say anything even after he had swallowed his food. He just nodded and neutrally raised his eyebrows, rushing a hand through his bone straight auburn hair. “He wanted to check if ya’ll are still goin’ to the theater this Friday.”
He chuckled and leaned back in his wrought iron chair, watching his hand as he twisted a salty potato chip between his fingers. “Well,” Caleb sighed as he sat up and wiped the seasonings off on his navy blue jeans, “you can tell him—“
“Baby, I told him you would call him,” Joan interrupted quickly before Caleb could say anything about his father she didn’t want to hear. She hadn’t even taken a drink of her coffee yet, she had been preoccupied with the ripples—an excuse not to look at her son, who she knew was staring at her. The mug made a sharp clink sound as she set the mug down on the table. “Caleb,” she began quietly as she pushed her tiny glasses up the bridge of her nose. She searched for an explanation but as she looked up at him, she found his stare to be much too distracting to come up with anything.
“Why?” Caleb asked slowly, taking care that he didn’t raise his voice. His mother could not handle being spoken to sternly by men, especially not her son. “Mom, you know that I’m never gonna call him,” he said with a laugh, relaxing his stare. The idea was simply ridiculous; Caleb had not spoken to his father David since he showed up at his 16th birthday party, sweaty, drunk, muttering profanities and trying to kiss Joan in front of her new husband Robert. “And who the hell made him think we were going out Friday?”
Joan gave him a don’t ask stupid questions look and exhaled, scraping off a bit of dried up … something from the table. “It’s Monday, you have plenty of time to think about it. I just thought you guys might want to patch some things up before … you can’t.”
“What, is he dying?” he scoffed as he bit off some of the sandwich. “You know, you can tell me if he is. I’d like to R.S.V.P. and get a good seat at the show before everyone else he’s ever met heads for the front row.”
“Oh, Caleb!” she said crossly, shaking her head at him with an exaggerated frown. She tugged at her green t-shirt that she chose especially to match her nail polish and rhinestone earrings. She placed her palm on her forehead; this strife was getting her overheated. She took a breath and spoke coolly, “Your daddy loves you very much and I think … I think he just wants to prove to you that he’s cleaned up some, that he’s not the man he was.”
“Hmmm. Has he really changed that much since he showed up an impressive three months ago, a raving drunk?” He stood from the table and gathered the empty dishes, thinking of his father’s mass inabilities to positively change anything in his life. “I think that the chances of him making a big turnaround inside three months are about as strong as me and Robert running off to Switzerland to make deformed, homosexually produced test-tube babies, mom. I just really can’t see that happening.”
Joan slumped forward and pressed her forehead against the cool glass tabletop, interlocking her fingers behind her neck. Why had he been so difficult lately? Her little boy used to adore his father, and now he’d grown to be tall, lanky and unforgiving. “Caleb, you disappoint me,” she said, trying to massage a knot from her neck. “I don’t like you talking about your dads like that.”
Caleb dropped the dishes into the sink and hopped back onto the countertop, grabbing a browning Granny smith apple. “I know how much you wanted that Swiss test-tube step kid/grandkid, mom,” he laughed as he dug his short fingernail into the apple to scoop out the bruise. “But I don’t think it’s going to work out.”
Joan pushed out of her seat at the table and grabbed her bright red coffee mug. She leaned against the counter beside him, circling the ring of the mug with her middle finger. Caleb had always loved eating apples on the counter no matter where it was, she remembered. Even when he was a toddler with his blue plastic step stool, he would climb up there where a green apple was always waiting for him. She’d spent about 14 years with sanitary wipes and apples in her bag, always ready for a counter to sanitize and put an apple on. “Do you actually believe that half the things you say are funny?” she said with a smile before she sipped from her tar-coffee.
He shrugged, noisily chewing a mouthful of apple. “I’m not sure. Do you actually believe that toxic sludge in your mug is coffee?” he smiled as he tousled her short graying red hair like those cheerfully perfect fathers did to their baseball playing sons on old idealistic sitcoms. She batted him away from her head and quietly smoothed down her hair with her small boney hand. It seemed everything about Joan was small and boney, and she was about as emotionally fragile as she looked physically. It was hard to tell she was any younger than forty-five years old; the corners of her eyes and mouth were lined with wrinkles from her many nights of crying. Caleb placed his arm around her little shoulders and brought her close like he used to when he was little after she and his father had gotten into one of their earsplitting fights.
She took another drink, licking the black substance from her thin lips, and gave him her shaky smile that hadn’t fooled him once in his entire life of seeing it. He set the apple down and drew her into a tight hug; she always seemed to desperately need one and Caleb had always took it upon himself to deliver, as neither his step father nor his biological father were ever particularly affectionate with her. Joan rubbed his back, feeling the curve of his spine from the scoliosis he’d had since he was seven. She squeezed him tight and let go, wearing that same unconvincing smile while she gave him a quick pat on the knee. She stopped and looked at him before she made her way out of the yellow-themed kitchen. “Call your dad,” she said, and left with her coffee before he had the chance to shoot her a look.
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