The Maalox rested at an about to spill angle against the Meshell Ndegeocello CD in the center console, and the old Pontiac sounded like it was ready to shed a tie rod when it turned the corner.
Ed Delemaine checked himself in the rearview.
There were purple crescents under his eyes where a year ago there was nothing but tan, healthy skin with maybe the wink of a wrinkle.
The adoption of Millicent was the right thing to do on paper and the wrong thing to do for what had been a happy marriage.
Millicent was the sweetest little five-year-old ever, seemingly unscathed by a foster care system that could have snuffed any spark a kid might have.
Ed watched a slide show in his head of Kelly allowing the child free rein in their improving but not nearly idyllic urban neighborhood, listened to audio loops of Kelly discussing deep sociopolitical issues and world history with Millicent as though she was a product of the old Soviet homunculus escapade, and saw flashes of horror as Kelly microdosed the child with psilocybin during routine bouts of basic melancholy.
The latest was paying Millicent for bags of trash she collected, and separated into recyclable piles and disposable refuse in their refurbished mancave style entertainment garage.
Ed could hear himself telling Kelly “If I wanted to invite trash in, I wouldn’t have carpeted the place.”
Ed parked in the alley behind the garage and sat in the car.
He knew the situation wouldn’t radically change.
But he knew they had to find some oasis of agreement, some common path to parenting.
He could quit his job, cash in his 401k, do freelance work from home and help raise their child.
Ed slammed the Maalox, hit his THC vape, shuffled through the door of the garage.
Millicent’s neighborhood garbage was in piles.
The poor kid is gonna get some kind of infection playing Eastside benevolent junk hauler, Ed thought.
His keys were not yet in his pocket when he realized his darling little angel was dropping discarded nitrous cartridges, like bombs. onto his World War One model airplanes that were cut from their display lines and scattered around the carpeted floor.
***
Photo by Etienne Girardet on Unsplash
I am intrigued by the imaginative and unusual names given to the characters. The last time I knew of anyone with the name Milicent was from 1976 to January 1983 (Mlilicent Fenwicck was a Republican US Senator from New Jersey, elected in 76, booted out in 82) And the guy's name, -- the guy whose Maaloz is teetering on the console --was really weird.
Wow.