Page 3 of King of Jokers

Lowering the volume of the radio, I pulled down the sun visor, blocking the setting sun from my line of sight as I pulled into the familiar long driveway which I had walked countless times as a child. Mum and Dad had lived in the same house, with the same pot-hole ridden driveway for longer than I’d been alive but the letterbox was always new. Today, it was a makeshift post which housed a large wooden spoon.

I rolled my eyes, knowing it would be Dad’s way of lightening the sour mood he predicted I was bringing with me. Not as bad as last year, when after hearing about my indiscretion, he erected a mailbox in the form of a bong and sent me a photo when I never quite made it home. Winter had also sent me a picture, which I was certain she forced Mum into taking, as she exaggeratedly pretended to be smoking from it with the mail from the day clearly stuffed into the ridiculously large cone piece. It was the first time I’d been able to laugh about the situation at all and even the memory tugged at the edges of my mouth.

If she hadn’t looked so pleased with herself, I may not have found it funny at all, but it wasn’t often she sent me photos of herself so it could only be remembered with fondness. She’d also delighted in the fact Dad thought cocaine and marijuana were the same thing and had turned to her for guidance on what exactly was needed. Clearly, she didn’t correct him, which was probably for the best. The humiliation of your family knowing, as a professional athlete, I stupidly chose to partake in drug use was enough. Getting caught the first and only time – ten times worse especially when you were bound to end up as a headline in all media outlets.

“You don’t think using the team colours was overkill.” I huffed, slamming the car door and walking the uneven pathway to the steps. Of course he was in the rocking chair on the verandah, the daily crossword firmly in his grip. It was the Grant calling card for dinner being near completion.

Mum would be in the kitchen, Garfield apron tied around her waist and Dad as far away as possible – ideal for the both of them. The cooking gene didn’t seem to compute with the male genetics in our family which was why we never dared complain about anything prepared for us. If we were within reach, Mum might seek assistance and it was a sure way to get lectured for your inability to do anything to her standards – which were unfairly high given she was the best cook in the entire Bay.

According to Dad anyway who would say anything to ensure his stomach was always full.

“Considering Winter suggested a premiership cup with Talons’ colours I think you’re getting off easy.” He replied, chuckling.

“Of course she did.” Probably the only other team she knew and it was purely because they were the other team who showed interest in scouting me just before I was drafted to the Hearts.

Reaching for the paper and the pen I read the last clue he was working on. Living with a cruciverbalist, I’d been privy to thousands of clues and it was funny how quickly it became almost habitual. It was oddly annoying that an empty crossword called to me like it did to him, but unlike my father, I could leave one unfinished.

He could not.

“Clue is Tyrant – six letters starting with aitch.”

I waited, hoping he would answer so I didn’t need to hear him complain when I got the answer before he did.

“Himmler?”

“Well Grandma didn’t name you Dean because you’d be head of the university. Himmler has seven letters.” I said, tapping him over the head with the paper.

“Well, what’s the answer, Einstein?”

“Hitler, unless there’s some prick called Huggsy I’ve never heard of.” Dad snatched the crossword out of my grasp and I laughed heading for the front door.

“Bloody genius you are.” He spouted, both annoyed I finished his daily treat but equally proud.

“You’re welcome. Mum in the kitchen?”

“You want to talk about the game last week now you’ve had time to recover?”

I didn’t need to respond. He was shit stirring and welcoming me home in his own way. We’d already unpacked it a few days after I processed and they told me to come home to lick my wounds – only to renege on the offer of accommodation the day before I arrived. Again, no surprise. There was never any order or structure to the things they did, yet ironically, I wouldn’t have it any other way.

“Hey, Ma.” I engulfed her in a hug, having to bend a fair way down these days, the floral smell of her hairspray as comforting as it always had been.

“Hope you’re hungry.” She gestured towards the bench which displayed enough food to feed the entire Hearts team. Twice over.

“Christ, Ma, you have the whole town coming over?” I joked.

“Nope, just us, but I told Winter you’d bring some leftovers over to her place when you leave because her meetings were running late tonight. Works too hard, that one.” She commented, holding my chin and rubbing her thumb lovingly across the light stubble I usually didn’t have.

“I’m happy you’re home. We’ve missed you,” she smiled before turning back. “But I know someone who has missed you more.”

I went to wash my hands before dinner feeling a strange warmth at the idea that I would be spending the next two months here, with no obligations, alongside the one person I never needed to pretend with.

Winter

Chapter Three

Ifonlypeoplereadthe fine print on their paperwork, I wouldn’t need to spend what felt like eighteen hours every day answering questions about the insurance policytheyselected.

No, your policy does not come with free car hire.

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