Chapter Three
It was approximately 4 days before Weasel arrived in Queens, New York. Homeless and now broke, he found himself on the stoop he once knew.
“Jackie?” A voice echoed out from behind him.
He got up from the stoop, and turned to the woman behind him.
She stood a little shorter than him, her nose pointed down into a curve. She had a longer face, drooped and tired; yet there was a youthful glow that made her look younger than she actually was. Black long hair peppered with silver was thrown up into a bun, with strands poking out on each side of her face. You could tell she was his mother.
“What are you doing dear?” “Come come,-” she motioned him towards the door. “You'll catch a cold if you stay out here even a minute more. She pulled him inside; she may have been frail, but she was strong.
A wave of warmth was felt as they walked into the home. The smell of sweet bread and warm honey lingered in the air; each room lit with dim, decorative fixtures, giving a yellowish-gold cast to the walls; old victorian styled reproductions were placed skillfully in each room: love seats with cherry wood finishings, doilies feathered upon side tables, and old shelves cluttered with organized knick knacks. She sat him down on the nearest couch and waddled over to a wicker basket, grabbing a knitted cotton blanket, draping it over her son. Next she doddled into the kitchen to prepare what Weasel knew was a blend of herbal tea; her signature drink. Bringing two mugs into the sitting room, she placed them softly onto the coffee table, making sure not to spill a drop. Finally she gathered into an antique rocking chair, positioning herself to face her son.
Weasel looked up at his mother, he’d missed her face. Especially her eyes: a smoky amber, now glazed with age.
“I'm glad you're here.” “I missed you” She glanced at him, as if waiting for a reciprocating response.
“I missed you too.” He looked to the side, ashamed that he wasn't visiting on account of that. She noticed his side glance, for having memorized every movement, every mannerism her son had ever produced, she knew something was the matter.
“Baby?” She got up and put herself next to her son, cupping her soft wrinkled hands around his cheeks. “What's wrong?” He looked up at her, and with a reassuring smile, his mother had made it known he could tell her anything.
“I messed up, ma.”
“How do you mean?”
“My whole life, I've messed it up.” “I'm homeless, broke, and from what it feels, alone.” He sniffled, breaking gaze with his mother.
“Oh, honey.-” She held him, knowing that there was no better way to deal with the situation.
It was half past six when a man walked through the front door. He was a hulking man; large frame; thick charcoal hair; square thin glasses. He wore a hefty black suit, and a slick navy tie. Weasel sat at the kitchen counter, his mother standing near the oven; both talking and laughing like old times.
“I'm home, Virginia.” he spouts, placing his hat on the coat rack and shoes on the mat.
“In the kitchen dear!”
He walks through the archway into the kitchen; a soft glow illuminates the space. The smell of a home cooked dinner wafts around, as if to allure any passerby in for a hearty meal.
“Hello honey.” He says, popping a kiss on his wife's forehead. Virginia gave a blushed smile up at her husband (after all these years, his mother seemed to keep a childlike crush on his father: blushing, smiling, and giggling at any affection he'd throw her way. Weasel admired this; he longed for a love like his parents).
Virginia, still beaming with love, turned to her son. “Jack?” “Aren't you going to greet your father?” His father: John, stood turned in front of him. He didn't seem to be as thrilled or concerned as his mother had been about his abrupt arrival.
“Dad.” Weasel sputtered, getting up to give his father a heavy handshake.
“Jack.” His father replied, grabbing his hand with a firm grip.
Things had been odd between the two men. They had stopped acting as father and son after Weasel’s multiple drunken escapades during his college years. He'd always been a ‘good boy' as his mother referred to him, but his behavior had seemed to change after his first semester of his sophomore year of college (‘Deadpool #11 : With Great Power Comes Great Coincidence’). Ever since then, they'd grown further apart; his father not paying much more than discipline to his son. The only thing they shared in common anymore was the love for Virginia, though his father would debate that Weasel loved his mother at all.
Opening the oven and grabbing a pyrex casserole dish, Virginia sat the dinner on the table, hoping her cooking would relieve the newly acquired tension. It worked; sort of. The family sat at the table (a beautiful chestnut piece with matching chairs and lacey runners) and began to dish out their plates. Dinner consisted of one of Weasel’s favorites: homemade mac & cheese, bread rolls, and a vegetable medley.
“So…” His father started, picking at his food. “What brings you home son?”
“Well-” he started, before taking a bite from his fork.
“Let me guess, you needed some money from your parents?” He stabbed his food. “Run out of ‘drug money’?
"John!”
“What Virginia?!” His fork scraped his plate. “Why else would he visit, it's been what?- Three?- Five?- Years since he last came home?” “After that long you don't just ‘pop in’ to ‘visit’, he wants something!” He pounds his fists on the table, as if to make an even bigger statement to his son.
Weasel, now placing his fork on the table then wiping his mouth with his sleeve, stood up. “This has been just a lovely visit.” “Thank you for dinner Ma.”
“Jackie, please just- sit back down.” She pleads, attempting to defuse the situation. “Let's talk this through, it's alright if you need something, I already said you could stay here till you get back on your feet, you are our son, we are here to help you.”
“What do you mean he can stay here till he ‘gets back on his feet’?” “Jack?” “What happened to your ‘stable’ living situation?” His father was now standing; hands on the table.
“I lost it.”
“You ‘lost’ it?” “You LOST it?!”
“Yes.”
“John.” Virginia pleads.
“You get evicted?” He continues, voice rising.
“...”
“He's back to his old ways, Virginia, that's why he's here; he wants to crash and burn under our roof.” “Well let me tell you Jack, your mother and I won't let you use our home as your personal ‘hole’.”
“Why do you constantly insist that I'm an addict?!”
“Your father isn't-”
“No!” “He is!”
“It's not ‘insisting’ if it's the truth!”
Both men stood across the table from each other, anger seething in a hot stream between them. Virginia sat, face warm, eyes wet, head in her hands.
“Out.”
“...”
“OUT!” He slammed his fists on the table.
Weasel gets up and leaves: not finishing his plate, not hugging his mother.