Page 22 of Bad Husband

“Ridley, I don’t have time for this.”

“I’m just asking… man or woman?”

“Woman.”

Is she lying? Probably, but I’ll let her slide for now. What was I going to do, drive to her work and wait outside her door?

Well, I thought about it, but I can’t today. I have drywall to be hanging and a compliance inspector up my ass about not meeting electrical codes.

Take a look around.

Do you see those parents sitting nervously in the classroom? The onesnottalking to one another with an unspoken void between the two of them?

I don’t think there’s a void, but I know she does. When I look over at her, I feel it radiating from her. I don’t think she’s telling the truth about not loving me; she still does, even if I have to prove it to her, but there’s something else there I intend on finding out.

“Where’s Callan at?” I’ve never been to a parent-teacher conference, and I don’t remember having them as a kid. I remember plenty of student-principal talks. Surely that’s not what this is because we’ve never even had to punish Callan. We won’t talk about Noah right now.

“He’s at Trisha’s house. She watches him on Wednesdays because I usually run late with clients.”

It’s apparent, a maybe partial grounds for her rash and totally uncalled for decision yesterday, that I know nothing about my family’s schedule.

“Thanks for coming on such short notice,” a woman who seems old enough to maybe babysit my son says, sitting down in a chair meant for first graders, not adults. What’s with this school and hiring kids? Do they just wait for them to get out of sixth grade and offer them teaching jobs?

Just so you know, I’m miserable and completely uncomfortable. Look at me squeezed into a chair meant for a child across from the teacher. Not only am I wearing work jeans and a shirt that’s covered in grout and I look like Shrek in the chair with my knees up around my elbows.

The teacher looks at me. “Are you Callan’s uncle?”

What the fuck?

“No.” I glare at Madison because after last night and the soccer dad’s, does she mention me to anyone or do they just assume she had a sperm donor? “I’m his father.”

If you just repeatedStar Warsin your head, I’m high-fiving you right now.

Focus though. His teacher is somewhat attractive, if you’re into eighteen-year-olds. We discussed this already. I’m not, but I can bet your ass if Brantley was here with me, he’d be asking this girl out.

Anyway, you can’t miss she’s pretty, and I can see why Callan loves her so much. She’s nurturing in a sense, but not in a way I want to put my head on her tits and hug the shit out of her like I do with Madison. Nurturing in a way I’d probably let her read me a story while I took a nap on the floor in this very classroom.

She’s talking now so I better pay attention.

I straighten up in my mini chair meant for Umpa Lumpa’s and listen in.

“As I’m sure you both know, Callan’s incredibly talented and gifted not only as a first grader but a child. I can’t tell you what a pleasure it is to teach someone who has such a thirst and desire to learn. When we spoke at the last parent teacher night, I informed you Callan was taking it upon himself to visually act out his feelings toward the assignments we were taking on as a class. This usually ranged anywhere from a loud, deep sigh accompanied by an eye roll or could escalate to a deep groan that ended with him dropping his head onto his desk and pounding his fist exclaiming “Oh for the love of Stephen Hawking are you serious?”

I look to Madison. Our son does this shit? That’s odd, right?

I don’t ask this, but I’m certainly thinking it. You’ve met him. Does this seem normal for a kid his age?

Madison straightens her back, taking on the posture of a mama bear about to protect her young. “After our last conversation, I had a long talk with Callen about keeping his thoughts about those things to himself. He assured me he’s stopped his disruptive behavior. Are you telling me that’s not true?”

Ms. Sadie waves her hand around, which she does a lot when talking. I’ve nearly been smacked upside the head twice now. “No, no, Mrs. Cooper, that’s not what I’m saying at all.” She lays her hands on the folder and folds them. At least I don’t have to dodge her hands anymore. I silently wonder if you were to tie her wrists together, would she stop talking? “Quite the opposite actually. I just wanted to review where we stood last time we spoke so that I could share with you that Callen has taken great lengths to not outwardly display any displeasure with the lesson plan.”

At this point, I’m thinking to myself this is good. These parent-teacher conferences are a breeze. I don’t know why parents complain about this shit.

Guess what? I’m wrong. As usual.

“He has, however, not completely given up his crusade to express his distaste.” With every word, I fight the urge to roll my eyes. “Instead of disrupting the class with his dramatic enactments of frustration, he has taken to drawing his displeasure for my eyes only.” And then Ms. Sadie opens a folder filled with what looks like assignments and worksheets. Each one she sets before us has Callan’s name at the top and a pretty simple, but to the point, comic strip at the bottom. Each one shows a stick figure student sitting at a desk with his head down exclaiming either the word “Seriously? Ugh!” or the phrase, “Please, Lord, take me now.” “Most of my students can’t even read those words let alone write them like Callan can.”

I can’t help the laugh that escapes me. This shit is funny. He’s also an amazing artist for almost seven. I look back up at the teacher, smiling, and Madison, and it seems I’m the only one who thinks so.

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