On the Wednesday morning after our move to Atlanta, the new puppy pees in a box of unpacked books, Adam smears syrup on the couch, and Dianne loses her wedding ring. Later, chauffeuring Adam to preschool feels like a reprieve.
I’ve just married Adam’s mom. The kid and I are off to a rough start; he thinks I’m trying to replace his dad. But we’ve bonded over jokes. Adam loves a joke: the setup, the tension, the punchline. He brays laughter, especially at his own jokes, which have the right structure but never quite land.
Gazing out the window, he asks, “What did the car say to the tree?”
I’m driving. “Um … we both have trunks?”
“No!” Adam says, shaking his head. “You drive me nuts!” He kicks and howls. “Get it? Drive, because cars drive, and trees have nuts.”
“You’ve done better,” I say.
He shrugs. “My real dad liked my jokes.”
“That why they put him in jail?” The minute I say it, I regret it … but I’ve had three hours of sleep and I’m tired of the sass. “Sorry. That wasn’t funny.”
Adam gives me a look. “You’ve done better.”
A mile from the school, we spy a homeless guy: scraggly beard, oversized coat, hand-lettered cardboard sign.
“Let’s give him a dollar,” Adam says.
“We don’t hand out money,” I say, digging in the glove compartment. “But you can give him this granola bar.”
I pitch the snack to Adam. When I stop for the light and let the window down, Adam calls out, “Hey! Got something for you!”
As the man approaches the window, Adam makes a surprisingly good toss. The guy cups his hands together, makes the catch, and stares down at Adam’s donation. He’s still staring at it when the light changes, and I have to move on.
“He could say thank you,” Adam says.
I shrug. “Maybe he doesn’t like granola.”
Adam giggles. “I took Mom’s ring as a joke. So I gave him that.”
We spot the guy shuffling down 5th, his hands clasped together like a kid with a June bug.
I match his speed. He ignores me.
I roll down the window. “Can we talk?”
He keeps walking.
“I’ll give you twenty bucks to give that back.”
He looks at me like I’m crazy. He keeps walking.
“Forty dollars cash.”
He halts, forcing me to slam on the brakes.
He squints at me. He shakes his cupped hands, and I imagine Dianne’s ring squeezed between the guy’s callouses. “Hundred.”
I dig out my wallet, pull out five twenties. “Deal.”
He leans into the window, reeking of urine and booze. “Put the money down.”
Adam bursts out laughing. “He wants a down payment! Get it?”
I comply. The guy snatches the cash, tosses me a red Lego, and hightails it down the sidewalk.
“Hey!” I holler. “Where’s my ring?”
Adam laughs. “I was joking about the ring!”
I catch up with the guy as he’s heading into a liquor store. I jump quickly out of the car and step between him and the entrance. “My kid was playing a joke. I need that money back.”
The guy swings at me. “My money!”
“Look, I’ll buy you a bottle or whatever, but I want that money back.”
The guy tries a karate kick, falls, hits the ground hard. “You broke my leg!” He screams. “Murder!”
The cops come out of nowhere. I try explaining, but end up mostly babbling.
One cop shushes the screaming guy. The other wanders back to my car, glances up at the sun, then peers in the rear window at Adam.
“Your boy in the car with the windows up? On a hot day?”
“It’s unlocked,” I say, as though that addresses the problem.
The cop opens the car door. “You okay?”
Adam, his voice weak and whiny, snuffles and says, “It’s very hot. And he called you a pig.”
The cop points at me. “Your daddy did that?”
Adam starts sobbing. “That’s not my daddy!”
The cops have lots of questions.
“Why did you leave this little boy in the car on a hot day?” I wouldn’t; I just got out of the car ten seconds ago.
“Why did you kick the homeless guy?” I didn’t; I just wanted my money back.
“Why would Adam say you weren’t his father?”
“He’s joking.”
“Would someone at the school confirm you’re Adam’s father?”
“We just moved here, so they—”
“Are you his father?”
“No, but—”
Next thing I know, my hands are cuffed behind me, and I’m bent over, chest-down, on the searing hot metal of a police cruiser’s trunk.
As the cops tuck Adam into a Child Services vehicle, he looks right at me and laughs and laughs and laughs.
