The Last Thing He Needs (27 page)

Tommy considered arguing with him or asking Gene exactly what good things were left, but he let the topic die. In truth, Tommy had to admit it was solid advice.

“I’ll throw some towels in the bathroom for ya,” Gene told him when he came back through the room. “I’m off to bed.”

He turned off a few lights as he made his way down the hall.

Ben seemed content to stay where he was. His long legs were stretched out in front of him, knees spread, fingers laced behind his head on the back of the couch. He took up nearly half of it.

“How long have you and your guy been together?” Tommy wasn’t usually one for small talk, but he was restless and needed to ignore his own problems for a while longer.

“We were together three years.” Ben sat up and reached for his beer. He turned to face Tommy. “Split up a few days ago. I haven’t told Gene yet.”

Tommy felt like his own life was too much of a headache to think about, so he asked, “What happened?”

Ben shrugged one bulky shoulder. “Gavin was too young for me.” 

If Tommy had to put an age on Ben, he’d assume somewhere in his late thirties, but he sure as hell wasn’t going to ask. “How young?”

Ben laughed at the question, a soft rumble of breath through a bright smile. “
Too
young. He was seventeen when we met, barely eighteen when we got together, a total mess. But he’s gotten his shit together, and he’s in college now, and… it’s time for him to move on.”

Maybe he was still a little drunk, but Tommy was genuinely curious. “Why break it off after he gets his shit together?”

“That’s not the reason, just, he’s twenty-one now, ya know? I loved being that young and that stupid. I was out at clubs every night, fucked everything that moved.” Ben was looking at his beer bottle in his hand, picking at the label. He said quietly, “I’m the only person Gavin’s ever been with and that just seems… wrong, somehow. He’s practically a kid, and instead of going out and partying, he’s home studying and making casseroles for dinner.” He dropped his head back on the couch and sighed. “He shouldn’t feel like a 1950s housewife.”

Tommy didn’t care one way or another if someone had been with one or a hundred-and-one people, but he understood why it bothered Ben. “Why not just open the relationship up? Let him play around and see if he still comes home.”

Ben raked his hand through his shaggy hair. “I thought about that. I mean, I don’t know if I could handle it, but I thought maybe a don’t-ask-don’t-tell arrangement would be okay. When I brought it up, he thought it was because I wanted to get out more.” His voice got quiet and he cleared his throat. “Think it really hurt his feelings. We had a big fight, and I told him he should just be packed up and gone by the time I got home.”

Tommy shifted to the edge of the couch. He knew what he was about to say could get him knocked on his ass, and he’d probably deserve it. “Okay, I gotta hit the shower and get some sleep so I can deal with the fucking disaster that is my life right now. But I gotta know, did you ever ask him if he wants to be out partying and sucking off strangers every night?”

He braced himself for a blow, but it didn’t come. Ben looked surprised at the question. “Did ya ever think maybe he kinda
wants
to be a fifties housewife? Because I’ll admit, I don’t know you from shit, but it sounds to me like you’re the only one with a problem in the relationship.”

Ben sat up and leaned his elbows on his knees. “Fuck.”

When Tommy stood up, he patted Ben on the shoulder. “Sorry, man, but I’m glad to know I’m not the only one that shoots himself in the foot from time to time.” Ben let out a short laugh at that. Tommy said, “Do yourself a favor and call Gavin. Practice your groveling before you see him.”

Ben looked up with a smile. “Maybe I can take some pointers from you. Sounds like you’ll have to do some begging of your own when you call that Bobby guy.”

“Maybe we can take a class together before we gotta face ’em.”

T
OMMY
FOUND
some fresh towels and a change of clothes along with a bottle of aspirin on Gene’s bathroom counter. He’d known Gene since he was a kid. When his father would pass out in Gene’s bar, it was Tommy’s job, even as young as nine years old, to go down there and drag him home. Years later, when Tommy was frantic and scrambling to get the kids out of foster care, Gene had helped him track down Cal and Cheryl. When he turned eighteen and had already gotten into the habit of scamming people and stealing to get by, Gene had offered him a steady, honest job. Even at the time, Tommy didn’t think Gene needed a busboy or a dishwasher, but Gene insisted. He told Tommy he’d be doing him a favor, and Tommy was desperate enough to let himself believe it. When Tommy turned twenty-one, Gene had given him a set of keys to the pub and told him he could learn to tend bar if he wanted to. He’d given Tommy a small raise every year, even when there were times he wasn’t sure he could keep his business up and running.

Gene was more than just a boss. Hell, when Tommy stood there and did the time lapse over the last twelve or so years, he realized Gene was more than a friend. Gene was the closest thing he’d ever had to a father, and Tommy was going to have to thank him, find a way to pay him back one day.

One thing at a time
.

T
HE
DOWNSIDE
of never having been drunk in his life was that Tommy had no idea how bad a real hangover would feel. When he woke up in the early hours of morning, his head was pounding with every beat of his heart, and he wasn’t sure he could stand up without falling down again. His mouth tasted disgusting, and that only made him nauseous. He blinked his eyes open and looked around the living room. The apartment was still and quiet, so he could only assume Gene and Ben weren’t up yet.

The time display on the front of Gene’s DVD player said it was six fifteen, but who the hell knew if he’d set the clock to begin with? Tommy knew he had to pull himself up and get his shit together. If the clock was right, the Department of Family and Children Services would be opening soon. He needed to call Bobby and check in, but that idea made his head hurt worse.

When he finally sat up on the couch, Tommy wondered if the propensity for alcoholism had skipped him. In that moment he wasn’t sure if he’d ever even have another beer. His stomach flinched at every flashback of the day before, every shot of whiskey he’d had. He forced himself to his feet, staggered when the pain in his head shot down his spine and electrified every limb, and then took slow, unsteady steps to the kitchen where he got himself a tall glass of water. If that stayed down, he decided, he’d try for a shower. Despite having had one a few hours earlier, Tommy felt like the booze from the last twenty-four hours was seeping out of his pores, and he wanted to wash it away. He also wanted to find a toothbrush. Hell, a washcloth he could scrape his tongue off with would do.

It took him longer to get things done. He had to move with intention through the house. Every step took some focus, but he managed to get into the bathroom without toppling over. He was an asshole and stayed under the hot water until it was nearly gone, but he felt almost human when he dug in one of the bathroom drawers and found an unopened toothbrush. He figured he’d add that to the list of things he owed Gene.

By the time he was finally dressed, Tommy decided he didn’t have time to call Bobby. The office was going to open soon, and he had just enough time to walk down there and hope he’d be one of the first people in the door. He didn’t acknowledge that he was—at least in part—putting off the phone call.

E
VEN
AT
five minutes till eight, a line of people waited in front of the DFACS office. Not a huge crowd, but Tommy wasn’t going to be first or even fifth. He didn’t have an appointment, and he was there on ‘other business,’ so he’d have to take a number.

When he got inside, he checked in at the desk and then took a seat close to the front. He watched people hop up when their names were called, watched mothers fight with their kids, watched people come and go from the Job Services room with computers where they could search for work listings. He’d been there over an hour when a woman in a purple blouse and beige jacket called his name from behind a computer.

She was sitting at a low counter, and Tommy took a seat in front of it.

“Thomas O’Shea?” she asked, looking up at him with something resembling a smile.

“Yes, ma’am.” Tommy cleared his throat and paused. When the woman didn’t say anything else, he explained, “I’m here to find out about my brothers and sisters. They were taken into foster care sometime early Sunday morning.”

“I’ll need to see your driver’s license or picture ID.”

Tommy dug his wallet out and handed her his license. She got up and went to the photocopy machine behind her and then returned it to him. When she sat down again, she turned in her chair to face her computer screen and asked, “Do you have a case number or their socials?”

Tommy pulled the slip of paper from his pocket and rattled off the number. The caseworker typed for what felt like a year, striking the keys with quick, short strokes. After a long time, she said, “Here they are. They were taken for emergency placement.” She paused to read further, and Tommy clamped his jaw tightly shut. Nearly two hours and so far he’d only been told what he already knew. “And you still haven’t located their father?” she asked, still reading the screen in front of her.

“No, ma’am.”

“Looks like we haven’t had any luck either, though typically in cases of abandonment, we don’t make extraordinary efforts. We might get more information on him today.” She narrowed her eyes like she didn’t understand what she was looking at. “This is odd. There was a note here, but it’s not showing up in my system. I’ll have to look into that.”

She pulled a yellow sticky pad from her desk and wrote something down.

Tommy let out a held breath and said, “Is there anything you can tell me about getting to see them soon? Or, I don’t know, maybe getting custody?”

She slid her chair back from her desk and reached behind her. When she turned to Tommy again, she had two large stacks of white paper and a few other forms. She set them down in front of him. “This is the paper you need to fill out so we can get you a visitation. It can take seventy-two hours to process once you’ve turned it in.”

Tommy nodded as she passed him the paper, but he felt an acid burn rising into his mouth.

It had already been too long.

“This is the packet you need to fill out to gain custody, but I’ll warn you now, it will be a long road, several months to a year.” She passed the packet to him and then handed him a pink piece of paper. “This details some of your rights and responsibilities. As a family member, the children would be foster children in your care. You would have to provide proof of income and proof of residence. There are guidelines for the amount of space you’ll need to have in order for all the children to live with you. You’ll have to take a parenting class, and you will be visited by a caseworker for an inspection before the children are placed with you and at least every three months once the children are in your home.”

He didn’t have a home. And looking at the information in front of him, the one they’d been in wasn’t big enough by their standards. He tried to stay calm. He knew she was one of the many things standing between him and the kids. “Can you at least tell me where they are now?”

She looked genuinely apologetic when she said, “I’m sorry, sir. Even if I had their location, I wouldn’t be able to tell you at this point. We need all your information and the proper forms filled out first.”

He’d been fighting half his life to keep the kids safe and fed, but now it all boiled down to filling out the right forms.

“Thanks,” he said as he stood up.

W
HEN
T
OMMY
decided it was time to call Bobby, he remembered he was still out of minutes on the prepaid cell phone. He ducked into the 7-Eleven and bought the cheapest card they had, but when he went to load the minutes, his battery was dead. The charger was a melted pile of plastic somewhere inside the charred remnants of their house. Tommy had never felt more like screaming in rage at his shit luck. All he had to his name was a worthless phone, the clothes on his back, and about twelve dollars in his wallet.

He needed to sit down somewhere quiet and fill out the stacks of forms he had folded under his jacket. He needed to find a way to make a lot more money and get a pretty goddamn big house and figure out how to speed up the process of getting the kids back with him. Seventy-two hours for a visit and up to a year to get them back? This was like a nightmare. He didn’t know where else to go, so he headed back to Gene’s. Tommy knew Gene didn’t go in to work until the lunchtime rush, and he could at least use the phone there to call Bobby.

If he ever found his balls.

T
OMMY
WAS
stepping off a curb when a cruiser passed him by. The cop driving didn’t look familiar, but he did a double take at Tommy and then pulled out a cell phone. Tommy didn’t think much of it at the time, but about fifteen minutes later, when Tommy was less than three blocks from Gene’s apartment, a shiny black Mustang came to a screeching halt, kicking up ice and sand next to Tommy on the sidewalk.

The door opened, and Tommy could see Bobby leaning over the passenger’s seat.

“Get in,” he said sharply.

Tommy was about to apologize for not calling. He wanted to explain about the phone and about what he’d dealt with that morning, but when he opened his mouth, Bobby pulled back and put his hands on the wheel. “Get in the goddamn car, Tom.”

Bobby didn’t have to tell him again.