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The music was loud, washing over the quiet of the apartment. Robby had made a huge dent in the pile of dishes in the sink, making a vow, which he remembered doing the last time he had tackled this job, to never let dishes sit in the sink until mold took up residence in the unfinished vestiges of milk at the bottom of a week’s worth of cereal bowls. “Gross,” he gave up trying to scrub an unknown substance out of a dish and tossed the entire science project into the garbage.
There was a sound. A knock? Robby turned off the faucet. Yup.
Robby shook his head at the insistent knocking at the front door. “Really, Dad?” He swiped his soapy, wet hands on his jeans, and lowered the music on his phone. “What did you forget this time?” Robby made no attempt to wipe the smirk from his face when he flung open the door.
Wasn’t his father standing there, and Robby’s heart stuttered, his breath paused. Past life experience had been a harsh teacher. Two plainclothes police, one his dad’s age, one a female, a handful of years older than Robby. Their dark unmarked patrol car their backdrop.
“Are you Robby Keene?” the woman asked, her voice soft. Concerned. Setting off every fucking single one of Robby’s alarms.
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Johnny’s pinky precariously held the weight of a six pack of Coors Banquet. His arms balanced two pizzas and a bag of garlic knots, the oil leaking through the brown bag onto the cardboard box of pizza. “Jeezus, Robby,” Johnny begged loudly, “open the damn door.” Cursing, Johnny put the boxes down on the opened lawn chair and dug in his pocket for the front door key.
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Johnny left the keys in the door, almost dropping the pizzas, but the beer was saved only because of his ability to multi-task. The six pack went on the coffee table with reverence, the pizza boxes he dropped with a thud, cursing as the bag of garlics knots finally gave up its hold and rolled onto the carpeting.
“Robby,” he yelled, barely resisting the urge to kick the grease covered bag. “Where the—”
“Here. I’m right,” there was a pause, “here. You should’ve asked for help.” The words were spoken in measured, slow breaths. “I would’ve helped.”
“Jeeze,” Johnny spun around, the reprimand of laziness, sputtering out and dying.
Robby was slouching in the chair, Johnny’s chair, a half empty bottle of whiskey dangling from his fingers, the base of the bottle skimming the floor as Robby listed to one side.
“Shit.”
“I know,” Robby slurred, nodding then stopping suddenly. “Tastes like shit.” He went to get up, staggered then dropped back into the chair with a snort. “Oops. Lost my balance. Mr. LaRusso, wouldn’t be happy.” Robby held the bottle out. “Here. The beer was better—”
Johnny grabbed the bottle and put it on the table, far from Robby’s reach. “Beer?” Robby was definitely drunk, but Johnny was the one having problems connecting two coherent thoughts. “What beer?”
“Shhhh,” Robby stuck a finger to his lips. “Beer no more.”
“Robby, what the fuck?” There had been five bottles in the fridge.
“Don’t yell.” Robby grimaced. “Too loud.”
“Sorry.” Johnny huffed out a laugh, “not sorry.”
Robby stood, swayed and stumbled over the couch, he fell more than sat, righting himself. He pushed his hair out of his face and stared at Johnny. “Got some—something you wanna say?” He slapped his chest. “To me?”
“Oh, I have plenty,” Johnny crossed his arms. “I’m waiting for the right time.”
“I’m hungry.” Robby bent down, almost face planting between the couch and the table, and caught himself. He came up laughing, waving the brown bag of garlic knots. “Look what I found.”
“A word of advice, that isn’t going to end well.” Johnny said, pointing at the bag.
“Nothing ends well.” Robby opened the bag, he didn’t even need a bite, the smell of garlic and oil was the catalyst. “I think—shit.”
Unceremoniously, Johnny grabbed him by the shirt, hauled him over the table and into the bathroom.
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Johnny went to take the keys out of the lock while Robby puked up ‘how he spent his Friday afternoon’. Johnny leaned against the bathroom’s doorjamb, eating a slice of pizza neither the sight nor the smell affecting his appetite.
Robby waved his arm behind him, futilely attempting to shut the door on Johnny.
“Nope,” Johnny blocked the door with his foot. “Payback for being an asshole.” Patiently, he waited until Robby was finished with his next round of upchucking before continuing. “All right, I’m going to get you some water and Advil, then we’ll talk.”
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“Fuck the water. Fuck the Advil. Robby,” he bellowed, grabbing the card off the counter.
Robby had shoved himself between the toilet and the tub, looking pathetic.
Good. Johnny thought as he slapped Robby’s knee for attention. “What the hell is the meaning of this?” He held a police officer’s business card under his son’s nose. “Care to explain what the hell you did? Didn’t you learn?”
Robby’s gaze was uncomprehending.
Johnny was verbally winding up.
“There was an accident,” Robby said flatly
“Obviously,” Johnny waved the card in the air.
“Dad?”
Johnny sighed, frustrated. “Robby?”
“Mo—”
“Damnit, kid, just spit it out.”
Robby pulled his knees up to this chest and drew his arms over his head.
“Enough!” Johnny had lost all patience and dragged down Robby’s arms. “Stop it, you can’t hide. I thought you would’ve figured that out from last time.”
“Call the number on the card,” his eyes were blurry and bloodshot, but Robby’s voice was clear and strong.
Johnny waited for more, wanted to force more from his son. “Fine,” Johnny stood, “bet your ass we’ll talk as soon as I’m done.”
“I’m sure we will,” Robby averted his head, as if dismissing Johnny from the bathroom.
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Johnny dialed the number, stuck the house phone between his ear and shoulder, surprised when the call was answered on the second ring. “Hi, my name is Johnny Lawrence, my son is Robby Keene. You left your card here when—"
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Slowly, Johnny placed the phone in its cradle, shoving the card with the number under the base.
“Shit. Shit. Shit.” Shocked, he scrubbed his hand over his face. Johnny opened the fridge, remembered Robby’s confession, and instead grabbed one Coors Banquet, from the six pack on the table, twisting off the top. Finishing the warm beer in record time. He dropped the empty on the coffee table, took another, repeated. By rote the third beer flew from his grip and hit the wall, the liquid splattering in all directions. The fourth beer he finished. The fifth and sixth shattered against the wall. Neither the drink nor the violence numbing the turbulence of emotions.
Robby.
The bathroom was empty, Robby’s clothes were hanging half in/half out of the hamper, but there were two wet towels on the floor.
Wet footprint led the way to Robby’s bedroom.
Johnny knocked once then opened the closed bedroom door, not waiting for an invitation.
Robby was getting dressed, LaRusso Motor khaki pants, a green button up shirt, his wet hair dripping down the back of the shirt.
“Robby?”
Robby scooped a pair of socks off the floor and sat on the bed, his back to Johnny. “You called the number,” he asked softly.
“I did.” Slowly, Johnny walked forward.
Socks on he reached for his sneakers. High top, fairly new, bright red Converse. “We have to go—”
Johnny sat next to him on the bed, taking the shoes off his lap and putting them back on the floor. “Kid, I’ll go. You don’t have to—”
“Yes, I have to.” Robby picked up the sneakers. “Go brush your teeth. Gargle or some shit. You smell like beer.”
Doing what Robby asked was easier than just wracking his brain to find the right thing to say. To convince his son this was not the time to be an adult. Allowing Johnny to do what needed to be done was fine. Acceptable. No one was going to think less of Robby if he allowed Johnny to do the dirty work.
“Ah, kid.”
Robby was sitting on the bed, hugging the fucking sneakers to his chest, rocking back and forth.
Johnny hurried to his side, pulled him into his arms, Converse and all. “I’m so fucking sorry.”
“Me too.” The words were awash with tears.
His son made a futile attempt to skirt from Johnny’s grasp, but he held him harder. Tighter. Maybe because he needed the contact as much as Robby did.
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Identifying the body had been far worse than anything Johnny had been able to imagine.
The silence in the car was deafening but Johnny was unable to bring himself to turn on music. Robby’s muteness was breaking Johnny’s heart and he was floundering, because there were only so many ways one could say sorry.
“I guess you’re stuck with me now until I turn eighteen.”
“We are not having this discussion in the car,” Johnny failed to keep the hardness from his tone.
“Whatever,” Robby crossed his arms and turned towards the window, away from Johnny.
Time was a funny. The ride home had never seemed so short or so long in all of Johnny’s memory.
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“Sit,” Johnny ordered two steps into the apartment. He hadn’t expected Robby to listen and managed to keep the smile of satisfaction to a bare minimum when his son sat on the couch. Far from the boxes of pizza and the now disgusting bag of garlic knots.
“I can’t.” Robby popped up and took off.
Johnny sighed at the slamming of the bathroom door, the walls thin enough not to hide the sound of vomiting.
“Great,” Johnny groaned, but decided to give him privacy. Slowly, and without thought in his mind, Johnny attempted to clean what passed as a kitchen and living room.
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Johnny found two pieces of mold free bread, stuck them in the toaster and cut them into squares, foregoing the butter when done. He shoved a bottle of water in one pocket and two Advil in the other.
This time, Johnny didn't even knock. Slowly, he opened the bedroom door, announcing his arrival with a soft 'hey."
Robby had shoved himself into the corner of the bed, his back to the door.
"Feel better?"
"In the history of stupid questions, that's gotta be in the top ten."
Johnny exhaled, slowly. "Yeah, you're right." He sat on the bed, invading Robby's space. “Turn around.”
Robby pivoted, as Johnny had wanted, but his body language reflected abject misery.
“Eat the toast,” Johnny tried to put the plate on Robby’s lap.
“I can’t—I don’t want anything.” Robby halfheartedly pushed it away.
Johnny caught the plate before it landed on the floor. With a sigh, he got up, put the plate on the tiny dresser. He gave Robby the water and the Advil before sitting.
Robby took the Advil, washing them down with barely enough water.
“Drink more. Hangovers are from dehydration—”
“You and mom are—were,” a sob escaped from deep inside of Robby. “experts.” Robby dropped sideways onto the bed.
Robby wasn’t tall. He had taken after Shannon, but he curled into himself, fetal position, making the space he was occupying even smaller. Johnny moved further down the bed, fought the battle with the damn Converse shoelaces, angrily tossing them across the room after the struggle.
“Shoes never did anything to you.”
Johnny rubbed Robby’s calves. “I’m not stuck with you, Robby. You’re my son, having you in my life isn’t an obligation. It’s an act of love.”
“Get back to me in a few weeks. Let me know—”
“Damnit. Maybe I should be the one asking you this question.” Robby’s calves tightened under Johnny’s hand. Ready to run. “Now you’re stuck with me.” Johnny pretended not to see the moisture pooling in his son’s eyes.
“It hurts.”
“God, I know it does.” All these years and Johnny could still remember the hole his mother’s death had left in his heart.
“Today I drank because I needed to know,” Robby said, his fingers painting circles on his sheet. “Why she chose alcohol and drugs over me.”
“And—” Johnny left the sentence hang there, unfinished.
Robby glared at Johnny in response. “She was so fucking close,” Robby pounded the bed. “So damn close with rehab. Why wasn’t she able to do it for me?”
“It was never about you. Me. Your mom. It was never about our lack of love for you, Robby, it was and is all about a lack of love for ourselves. Our failures. And it sucked that you were always caught in the crossfire. I’m so fucking sorry.”
“I hate her for not loving me enough. I hate her for being stupid. For driving drunk.” Robby pulled his legs from Johnny’s grasp and sat up, facing him. “And I have more than enough hate for you too.”
“Robby, please.”
“Just go, okay. I need--” he scrubbed at his eyes, “just go, okay?”
A question? A statement. Johnny wasn’t sure, but he did what Robby wanted and left.
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Robby was sleeping by the third time Johnny checked on him. Somewhere between the second check in and this last time, Robby had eaten a slice of toast and finished off the water. “Good boy,” Johnny whispered, kissing his temple before covering him with the blanket.
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Hard as it was, Johnny called LaRusso and Carmen. LaRusso was shocked to the point of being speechless which lasted a total of three minutes, a record. Robby. Funeral. Details. Robby. Arrangements.
“I can’t, LaRusso. Not now. I just thought you should know—” Johnny hung up the phone. “Shit.” He speed walked to Robby’s room, found his cell on the dresser and grabbed it, walking backwards out of the room, closing the door in his wake. Text messages, one after the other started to come in, all from the LaRusso family members. Johnny’s tech knowledge allowed him to turn off the phone and that was about it.
Carmen’s voice was warm and full of sympathy. She asked after Robby, clucking in understanding as Johnny regaled the day. Carmen didn’t push, just told him to take care of himself and Robby. And above all to be patient with the boy.
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Johnny had redone the apartment and there were times, like now, when the walls didn’t feel as if he belonged here. He missed his chair with the cushion that hugged his ass just so. The overstuffed couch, okay the roaches sucked big time, but the couch had been amazing
He put on Iron Eagle and turned down the sound. Johnny knew the words by heart and for Robby there needed to be quiet.
The first knock on the door was an hour later and Johnny stood with a sigh and a groan. “I don’t want what you’re—”
“Whole Foods delivery.” The kid was Robby’s age and his arms were filled with bags of groceries.
“I didn’t order any—”
The boy’s voice was muffled by a bag, which Johnny took from him. “Thank you, sir. A Mr. LaRusso sent them over. Where should I put them?”
“Up his ass,” Johnny hissed.
“I’m sorry?” the poor kid was flustered and Johnny’s day had been bad enough to take pity on him.
“Leave them. I’ll bring them in.”
“It’s against policy. We have store to kitchen—”
“Listen. Leave them right here. I will bring them in, and no one will ever know—” He dug into his pocket and pulled out a couple of singles.
“Oh no, sir, Mr. LaRusso took care of everything.”
“I’m sure he did. Now leave the fuckin’ bags right here and I’ll bring them in.”
The kid hesitated for a second.
“I. Promise.” Johnny sneered. “Now get the fuck back into your Holey Food car—”
“Whole Foods,” the kid repeated like Johnny was an idiot, but he put the bags of food on the ground and left without looking back.
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Granola. Cage free eggs (what the hell?). Blocks of cheese. Weird ass crackers. Almond butter. Bread. Apple butter. Hazelnut croissants. Apples. Oranges. Pomegranate juice. Kobe burgers. Multi colored carrots (which were just fucking weird looking). Muffins (doable). Gluten free hamburger rolls (wasn’t that an oxy moron?). Turkey bacon (really, LaRusso?). Bananas. Prepackaged sushi (Johnny came close to tossing that). Cauliflower chips. Pineapple salsa. And a case of flavored water and a gallon of almond milk.
No chips. No pretzels. No pop tarts. No cereal.
If this is what Robby ate at the LaRusso’s, he’s surprised his poor son hadn’t starved to death.
Everything was put away, and while Johnny wouldn’t eat ninety-five percent of the food, it did his heart good to see the cabinets and fridge semi full. He was just getting comfortable, sitting down with a banana when he’s interrupted by another knock on the door.
“LaRusso, I swear—” Johnny tossed the half-eaten banana on the table and stomped the two steps over to the door. “Miguel!”
“Sensei.” Miguel had three oversized shopping bags filled to overflowing.
“Come in,” he invited him, holding the door opened even wider.
“I’m sorry, Sensei.” Miguel glanced around even before stepping over the threshold. “Where’s Robby? How’s he doing?”
“Sleeping. And not that great,” Johnny admitted, putting his fingers to his lips.
“Just take these, okay? I don’t want to intrude. My mom would kill me. She just told me to go buy what I thought you would like—”
Johnny almost kissed Miguel when he noticed a red bag of Doritos sticking out of one of the bags.
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This was so much better. Chocolate milk. Captain Crunch. Cinnamon Toast Crunch. Fruity Pebbles. Pop Tarts. Chips. Pretzels. Spaghetti. Jar sauce. Franks. Rolls. Chicken nuggets. Two frozen pizzas. Oreos and Chips Ahoy. And damn it, a gallon of Rocky Road ice cream. God, he loved that boy and his family.
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The flushing toilet woke Johnny and he waited in the darkened living room.
Robby entered, knuckling the sleep from his eyes like a toddler, flipping on the kitchen light as he walked past. He’d changed into sweatpants and an oversized Twisted Sister tee shirt, which Johnny believed was his, but thought to save that conversation for another day.
Robby dropped onto the couch with a groan, pressing his palms against his temples. “Water didn’t help. Neither did the Advil or toast. You lied.”
Without a word, Johnny got up, poured Robby a bowl of Captain Crunch, with milk then sliced a banana onto the floating squares like a good parent. He grabbed a spoon and brought it over to the table. “Come. Eat.”
“I’m going to puke it—”
“Nope. Come on.” He waved to Robby in perfect imitation of a game show host.
Robby shuffled over to the table and sat. “Is that Captain Crunch? Like the real stuff. Not the bastard brand?”
“Just sit and eat wise guy.”
Johnny made himself a bowl of Fruity Pebbles, slicing the rest of the banana into his cereal.
“Holy shit, Fruity Pebbles?” Wide eyed he stared at Johnny’s bowl.
“Hands off my cereal,” he threatened with his spoon. “Finish yours.”
Robby finished most of the cereal before pushing the bowl away. “That’s not right.”
“What, the milks bad? It’s fresh because LaRusso and the Diaz’ sent over a shit load of stuff. Guess they were afraid you were going to—“yeah, that wasn’t the answer and Johnny’s voice trailed away. “What’s not right?”
“Mom,” his voice caught on the one syllable. “I shouldn’t be enjoying fucking cereal. I shouldn’t be enjoying anything.”
Johnny grabbed Robby's hand, anticipating the next move. "Do not," he warned, "throw the bowl. Maybe you want to go hit someone? Always worked for me."
Robby hesitated, just for a moment before exhaling loudly with a shake of his head. "Juvie here, hitting someone is frowned upon."
"You could hit me--"
"Yeah, that worked really well last time I tried that."
"Jeezus, kid, I've apologized like a million times for that--" Johnny stopped.
"Yanking your chain, Dad," Robby's smile was wan, but it was there.
"I have an idea," he lifted his bowl and downed the remainder of the milk before pushing Robby's bowl back to him. "Finish."
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As promised, the dojo was unlocked The lights along the paths were casting enough illumination. And as instructed, there wasn't a LaRusso in sight.
Johnny sat on the sparring platform, offering Robby a smile and a wave of his arm. “For tonight, it’s all yours.”
With one eye on his cell (thank goodness for Miguel installing Candy Crush and Tetris) and one eye on Robby, Johnny settled in.
Kata of course. LaRusso bullshit, but if the movements gave Robby some sort or peace Johnny would sit here until the sun came up.
Oversized tee shirt, baggy sweats and barefoot, his too long hair hanging in his face, Robby resembled a boy rather than the man he would be in a year or two. So much wasted time with his kid. Johnny scrubbed at his face and turned his attention back to his cell.
Somewhere between levels of Candy Crush, Robby, without wrapping his hands, had moved to the punching bag. Johnny’s heart swelled with pride, LaRusso was right, Robby was a natural. His kicks were delivered with Miyagi-do focus and precision and with Cobra Kai strength. His strikes were direct, the power behind them rocked the punching bag.
Johnny remained neutral for as long as his instincts would allow. Until sweat glued the shirt to Robby’s torso. Until his hair was plastered to his skull. Until Robby’s breathing morphed to panting. Until the pristine white covering of the punching bag was splattered with Robby’s blood. Until the silence of the dojo was shattered by Robby’s sobs.
Without a word, Johnny crept behind Robby and wrapped his arms around his son. “I wish I could take the pain away,” Johnny whispered in his ear. “But I can’t and for that I’m sorry.”
“I’m so angry. At her. At you. For choosing to escape life behind the bottle. Behind drugs. And for leaving me behind.” Robby spun around, breaking free from Johnny. “Why the fuck did she leave me?” He screamed at Johnny, pushing him, bloody knuckles leaving streaks on his shirt. “Why was she so fucking stupid? Drinking and driving. She knew better.” Robby poked Johnny in the chest. “You know better, but you and her, so fucking stupid.”
“I promise—”
“Don’t make promises you can’t keep. Mom made me promises too.” Robby wiped his nose with the back of his hand, dragging snot and blood onto his cheek. “And look where that got her—dead,” he spit at Johnny, “You’re no better. Kettle. Black, Dad.”
Johnny hung his head, embarrassed. “I’m trying—”
Robby snorted. “Mom was trying too. Rehab. Fat lot of good it did her.”
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By the time Johnny locked up the dojo and texted LaRusso he owed him a new punching bag cover (though why anyone would choose white was beyond him) Robby was sitting in the passenger seat of the car, staring out the window.
Silence reigned until three blocks from the apartment. “I’m scared,” Robby’s voice was hoarse, and still thick with tears not yet shed, “that you’re going to die.”
Argumentative words sat on the tip of Johnny’s tongue. ‘Don’t make promises you can’t keep’ Robby had said. “I don’t want to die, Robby. I don’t want to leave you. I won’t promise, but I will work on being healthier. A better father—”
“You are a good father. Took you seventeen years to get there, but you’re doing okay with the fatherhood thing.”
Johnny brought it up before Robby could. Or would, maybe it was all about fatherhood. “I thought you were guilty of something before I even—”
“I don’t have a great track record,” Robby said sadly, “I understand why you would—” Robby’s laugh was watery, tears were just a hair’s breathe away. “When the cops showed up at the door the first thing I thought of was that I was going to have to come up with bail.”
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LaRusso had offered to pay for the funeral. Johnny had his own thoughts, but the decision was Robby’s.
So, Johnny remained silent when his son chose cremation. Even when LaRusso argued that it wasn’t about the money if that was swaying his decision. Robby firmly stood his ground.
Patiently, Johnny had waited for LaRusso’s answer when Robby asked to keep his mother’s urn among the bonsai at Miyagi-do where Shannon would find peace and balance like Robby had.
“Mr. Miyagi would be honored, Robby,” had been LaRusso’s answer.
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The morning was bright and beautiful and LaRusso had called no less than three times already. A memorial service to place the urn among the peace at the dojo. A few people. Some food.
Robby stood in front of Johnny, shifting from one sneaker covered foot to another.
“Stand still, I can’t knot this tie—there,” Johnny stepped back admiring his handwork.
“I look like an usher. A waiter.” Robby stuck a finger, around his collar loosening the tie. “I don’t understand why I have to dress like this, just because—I can’t do this,” Robby said ripping off the tie.
“Okay, no tie.” Johnny took his off in support.
“No. This. Today. With people.”
“I’ll be right there with you. I promise.” Johnny tugged at the collar of Robby’s shirt, “and if LaRusso asks anything about the tie or lack thereof, say it was all my fault.”
“I can’t say goodbye to Mom—I can’t talk in front of—”
“Robby, you don’t have to. This is all about bringing her to a place of peace and balance. A place where she can watch over you." Johnny placed a hand over Robby’s heart. “She will always be in here. You are the best part of two broken, shattered people. And I couldn’t be prouder. So,” Johnny drew a deep breath. “Are you ready?”
“No,” Robby said, swiping away a single tear. “I’m never going to be ready to say goodbye to mom, but you promised.”
“To be right there with you, today. Yup, I got that covered.” Johnny placed an arm around his son’s shoulder, squeezing gently. “Come on, it’s time.”
The end.