“You need someone to tell you a few things.” Joe had made some calls over the last week. His own status as a vet had helped a little. He had some resources on hand. He knew his father had been blowing up more and more, almost always over his stuff and anyone touching it or trying to get him to deal with it. There were issues here far more than the slipped discs in his back.

“Oh yeah? And you think you’re the man to do it?”

He sighed. “Dad, sit down, please. I don’t want to fight with you. But this has gone far enough. It’s a serious thing, you know. People are starting to talk. You’re upsetting people, including Mom.”

“Why is it anyone’s business?” The rage had washed away now, the confusion replacing it.

“It’s not until your stuff spills into your neighbor’s driveway. Or when you start a fight with the mail carrier or George down at the hardware store. Or when you scare my mother. There’s something wrong and I think it’s time to see someone.”

“There’s not a damned thing wrong with me!”

“Dad, you run off in your pajamas with no shoes on. You start fights with the neighbors. Heck, with your friends. People you’ve known for decades. You forget what you’re saying halfway through a sentence. You say things…hateful, ugly things that I know you don’t mean. You threatened to burn the house down with Mom inside. You’re not that man. Sometimes your chemistry gets mixed up. It’s like dirty gasoline. It messes up everything, building up until things break down little by little. It’s not your fault. But you don’t have to keep suffering. There are things to help.”

“You don’t know anything about me. You left.”

Joe nodded. “I did. I know I was a crappy son. I know I kept you awake with worry lots of nights. I’m not that person anymore. I’m here to help. I made some calls. I know you don’t want to go to Atlanta. But there are some other places we can start that are closer to home. All we need to get started is you saying yes.”

“I’m not crazy.”

“Of course you’re not crazy. No one is saying that.”

“Then what are you saying?”

Joe sucked in a breath and hoped like hell he was going to do this right. “I’m saying that your behavior isn’t normal. Not for you. This stuff you’re doing, it’s getting worse. Your brain chemistry might be off. They have medication that can help. I’m saying I’d like you to make an appointment to see someone about it. Just a first step and we can go from there. You’re not crazy. There is help. If you’ll just take it. There’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

“I’ll think about it.” His dad got up and left the room.

Beside Joe, his mother let out a sigh. “You handled that well. Thank you. He doesn’t mean all that, you know. You weren’t a crappy son.”

“Yeah? If I wasn’t, why’d it take you so long to call to ask me for help?”

“Oh, honey. You have made something for yourself. You made us proud when you went into the army. Worried, of course, especially when you were in Iraq so long. But then you came back and you got a job and you built a life for yourself. I didn’t want to mess that up. You and your sister deserve lives away from here.”

He put an arm around her shoulders. “Petal’s not so bad. The garage is doing well. I just hired another mechanic and a part-timer.” And Beth, things were going well with her too. “My best friends live here. You and Dad are here. We’ll get through this. I’ve got to go make a run to the dump. You gonna be all right?”

She nodded. “He’ll hole up in the shed a few hours. When he erupts, he usually will be okay for a day or two until the next time.”

“I’ll be back later today to check in.”

He backed his truck up and filled it with the bags of garbage that had spilled into the driveway next door. Mr. Pierson watched him carefully for a while, but once he was assured Joe was dealing with it like he’d promised, he’d gone away.

The incidents were getting closer together.

There was no way around that. His father’s mental state was eroding. His anger was worse, and Joe was concerned that his father would end up hurting someone.

Where his dad had always had anger in him, he hadn’t been quick with his fists. That had been Joe’s thing. He’d gotten what he’d later thought of as rage hangovers. All that physical anger had washed through him until he couldn’t see straight or think right. The army had given him the discipline to divert that, to channel his energy so that he could deal with his shit without his fists. The last thing he wanted was for his father to wake up, fully cognizant of the mess he’d made, the things he’d done that were not something he could take back.

The years of drinking might have taken a toll on him. Certainly it had masked some of the symptoms as he self-medicated.

The woman at the mental-health-services line had given Joe a great list of resources. He’d read a lot on the internet as well. There were many things this could be. But none of it was anything they could treat unless and until he got in to see someone capable of diagnosing whatever it was.

So that was step one.

He was a better man than the shit-headed kid who’d signed up for the military because he’d been drunk and jingoistic. He’d learned a lot. Become a man. And he needed to show his father that he was someone worth leaning on.

Beth had her hands in the dirt. Digging and planting. Around her the kids played. Some of them helped. The little ones wandered off with the flowers and would bring them back occasionally.