A Song for Julia

went well. I’d be on my best behavior today, for Sean. Tony D’Amato, my dad’s partner would be there, and Mrs. Doyle, who always got wicked flustered when I flirted with her, which I did incessantly because it annoyed my dad, amused me, and made her happy. And Julia.
    Not much of a party, but Sean didn’t have friends.
    I got out of the car, crushed my cigarette, and headed up the back steps, backpack slung over my shoulder.
    When I walked in, things looked normal. Sean was sitting on the couch, curled up with a comic. I walked over to him and leaned over, kissing him on the top of his head. “Hey, bud. You doing all right? Happy birthday.”
    He ignored me, which I pretty much expected. I started to walk to the kitchen, and Sean said to my back, “Did you bring Julia?”
    I looked over my shoulder. Sean was still looking down at his magazine. “She’s coming separately. But she said she’d be here.”
    He didn’t answer. It worried me that he’d become attached to her so quickly. Sean didn’t need that kind of letdown.
    I headed on into the kitchen. Dad was in there, wearing his “World’s Best Mom” apron, just taking the cake out of the oven. Gluten-free, corn-free, dairy-free, because Sean was on a special diet. But, believe it or not, it would be pretty good. We’d all learned over the years to work around some things, and making food out of ingredients like tapioca and rice flour had become par for the course.
    “Hey, Dad.”
    “About time you showed up, punk.”
    “Good to see you, too,” I replied, zipping open my backpack. Inside, I had two gifts for Sean, both of them newly released video games. “Cake looks good.”
    He grumbled, setting it on the counter to cool. “Your mother will be here shortly. I want you on your best behavior.”
    I took a deep breath. “I promise, Dad,” I said in a low voice. “Sean doesn’t need any arguments.”
    “I don’t either,” he said equally quiet. Sean had uncanny hearing and would bring up conversations he hadn’t been in the room for, sometimes days later. “I’ve had it up to here with all of that. I wish you’d learn to …”
    “To what, Dad? To forgive my mom walking out? Leaving you alone struggling with Sean?”
    “Why not? You left at about the same time, kid.”
    “I couldn’t take it any more,” I said.
    He just stared at me. Which sucked, because about that, he was right. I was in trouble all the time back then. Drinking, partying, sex, drugs. Got picked up by the cops repeatedly, which is pretty embarrassing for your dad when he’s one of them.
    I looked down at the table and clenched my fist. “I’ve done a lot of growing up since then, Dad.”
    “I know you have, Dougal.”
    “Why don’t we change the subject to something more cheerful?”
    “What do you have in mind?” he said. “Funerals?”
    “War?” I asked.
    “Poverty,” he replied.
    “The Simpsons,” I said.
    He cracked a smile, and I grinned back. My dad and I didn’t always see eye to eye. But he was my hero, all the same.
    I heard a knock on the back door.
    “I got it,” I said.
    I stood up, and just as I did so, the back door opened, and I heard Tony’s booming voice, “Where’s the birthday boy?”
    My dad shouted, “Oh, Christ, who the hell let a dago in my house?”
    Tony shouted back, as he thumped his way down the hall, “Some drunken mick invited me over.”
    A moment later, Tony entered the kitchen. Tall, with salt and pepper hair, he and my dad had been partners for nearly ten years. During the worst of the storms in my teenage years, there’s been more than one time when Tony had provided a refuge for me, letting me crash on the couch in his tiny one bedroom apartment off Broadway. Tony and my dad threw ethnic and other insults at each other like bombs, but they loved each other, no question of that.
    “Where’s the beer?” Tony asked when he entered the kitchen.
    “What, you didn’t bring any?” my dad said. “Christ, Italians are so cheap.”
    Tony chuckled. “I was coming to an Irish household, why the hell would I need to bring alcohol?”
    I groaned, and my dad cracked up.
    “What are you up to, Crank? Still up to no good?”
    I shrugged. “Keeping busy with the band. Trying to stay out of trouble.”
    “Yeah, I’ll believe that when you get a brain transplant,” he responded.
    I grinned, and then my dad had to chime in, “Dougal’s girlfriend is coming over for the party.”
    “Dad,” I said.