How to Talk to a Widower

minute they get that little step-bastard to sleep they just start going at it, for hours. My room is right under theirs, and it’s like they never stop. And Angie yells all this shit while they’re fucking, like ‘fuck me harder, fuck me harder,’ and I’m sitting down there watching the ceiling shake and thinking that if he fucks her any harder the two of them will come right through the ceiling and land in my bed, and believe me, I have been traumatized enough and I do not need that kind of shit.” He runs his fingers through his shaggy hair, pulling it off his face, and I see a splash of color on the side of his neck.
    “What’d you get, a tattoo?” I say, trying not to sound alarmed.
    “Yeah,” he says, looking away.
    “When did you do it?”
    “Last week.”
    “Let me see it.”
    He pulls back his hair to reveal a blue tadpole-shaped squiggle trailing around the bend of his neck, surrounded by orange comic-book flames. And I know it shouldn’t make me sad, I know that these days tattoos are just another accessory, like thumb rings and wrist cuffs. Oscar-winning actresses have Buddhist texts scribbled across their backs. Every girl in low-rise jeans has a floral design or a butterfly hovering over her ass crack. But still, the idea of something so permanent on this sad, angry sixteen-year-old brings a lump to my throat. That, and knowing how much it would have hurt Hailey to see it. Hailey, who was practically inconsolable the first time Russ shaved his peach-fuzz mustache. But still, it’s not like he can take it back, so there’s nothing to do but be supportive.
    “Nice,” I say weakly.
    “What is it?” Russ challenges me.
    “Flaming sperm?”
    “Fuck you.”
    “It’s a meteor.”
    “It’s a comet,” he says.
    “What’s the difference?”
    “How the fuck should I know?”
    “Okay, then. It’s a comet.”
    He rubs it protectively. “It’s Hailey’s comet.”
    The tears come to my eyes so fast, there’s just no way to stop them.
    “I know the real one is spelled differently,” Russ says, suddenly self-conscious. “But I just kind of liked the image, you know. Hailey’s comet. And she was always on my back about how bad my spelling is, so it’s kind of fitting, in a way.”
    And now I want to cry, and hug him, and go out and get my own tattoo, all at the same time. But doing any of that would require more of me than I have in stock these days, so instead I just look away and say, “That’s cool, Russ. She would have liked it.”
    “She’d have yelled and cried and grounded me for a year.”
    “Maybe. But secretly, she would have loved it.”
    “No,” Russ says, shaking his head. “She wouldn’t have.”
    I think about it for a moment, and then nod slowly. “Yeah, I guess you’re right. But I still think it’s a nice tribute.”
    “I did it because I knew she would hate it.”
    I try to look wise, like the kind of guy who might actually know what he’s talking about. “Well, even though you can’t see it now, it’s still a tribute to her.”
    “Doug?”
    “Yeah.”
    “You are so full of shit.”
    I sigh. “Tell me something I don’t know.”
    He snorts derisively and produces a bent joint, seemingly out of thin air, and then rummages around in his pockets for a lighter.
    “Could you please not do that in front of me?” I say.
    “Why not?”
    “Because I’m your stepfather, and it’s irresponsible.”
    “I wonder,” he says. “Do you retain the title even though you didn’t defend it? I mean, Mom’s dead, and we’re in a kind of gray area here, legally speaking. Now, if you were my legal guardian—”
    “Fine,” I say. “Fire it up. Just spare me the lecture.”
    He lights up, sucking so hard that I can hear the crinkling whisper of the immolating paper, and we sit there quietly in our little Hallmark moment, my stoner stepson and me. “You know,” he says thoughtfully after a few minutes, “if you think about it, he’s only my father because he happens to have fucked my mother.”
    “Right. You know, that’s actually something I try really hard never to think about.”
    “All I’m saying is that by those standards, you’re equally qualified. More so, actually, since he demonstrated poor moral character.”
    “Yeah,” I say. “And I’m a paragon of virtue. That’s why you’re getting high right in front of me.”
    He shrugs. “So you’re progressive.”
    “I’m an asshole.”
    “Preaching to the choir,” he says