“Huh?”
His confusion irks me.
I’ve taught him to be able to anticipate what I want to talk about, and yet he always seems to forget.
“Well?” I ask, as I set the pitcher down and suck my teeth.
“Well what?”
I lean back in my chair and run a hand irritably over my face. They both have shit to do in this house besides their everyday chores. Skylar always keeps the house, makes sure that meals are prepared when I don’t feel like fixing any for these ingrates, and whatever else I can think of for her to do.
Richter is supposed to let me know if I need to go into town to stock up the pantry and refrigerator again, do yardwork—which he clearly hasn’t been—and make sure that my truck always runs like new.
It was an interesting day when I taught him how to work on the truck.
He barely paid attention and I took notice of it. Then I asked him to do something as simple as rotate the tires and he couldn’t figure out how. So, I took a tire iron to his back until he couldn’t breathe anymore.
I thought that had been enough for him to remember shit, but I guess I’m wrong.
“Do I need to go into town?” I shoot back.
“Um, let me grab my list,” he says nervously before he scrambles out of the room.
I shake my head as I reach for the glass and take a sip, then glance up when my little girl walks back into the room with a large plate piled high.
“Looks good,” I tell her with a nod.
“Thank you, Daddy.”
“Have a seat and start eating. I have to talk to your brother,” I say as I push my chair back and get to my feet.