“I think your father is seeing the delivery guy,” my mother stated with a heavy sigh.
She was nonchalant about the statement, simply stirring the ice cubes in her vodka drink. The tinkling of the ice filled the silence. My face twisted into a question mark.
“What?” I ask.
“The delivery guy. He’s dropping off packages up to three times a week,” she says.
“Well, dad has been ordering stuff so the guy is only doing his job,” I reply.
“But they all require signatures. You have to request to sign for something. He comes home from work to sign for the things.”
My mother points with her glass to the door, slightly spilling her drink.
“Mom, he orders coins and shit, that requires signatures. He’s not seeing the delivery guy,” I answer. I roll my eyes.
“The packages are decoys, they are probably empty,” she replies.
She is silent for awhile, her eyes glued to the TV. She pets the dog with a tender gentleness that is always reserved for the animals. She occasionally glances out to the driveway, searching for my dad’s truck. He is not home yet. She turns to the clock on the wall, 5:35. He should have been home ten minutes ago.
“God damn delivery guy,” she mutters.
“Dad is not seeing the delivery guy!” I yell, half in anger and half in laughter.
“If he is not seeing the delivery guy then it means that he really is ordering all that shit and spending all that money!” She shouts then drinks from her glass. “You better hope he’s seeing the delivery guy, for his sake!”
I hear a loud engine noise outside. My dad pulls up in his rusted out truck, into the pockmarked driveway. I hear the truck door slam and him clear his throat. My mother doesn’t even look out the window, she continues to stare at the TV and stir her drink. My dad approaches the door and fiddles with the broken knob. It will only be a matter of seconds before he enters and this problem with the delivery guy will be announced. I get up, grab my keys, and run out the back door.
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