Growth by Jeff Jacobson

games if he wanted. He was old enough to pour his own milk into a bowl of cereal and had proved more than capable of feeding himself. It wasn’t always appropriate, such as Cheese Doodles at six a.m., but he never went hungry.
    Last Sandy had heard, Kevin’s father was in southern Indiana, wiping down windshields while the other worker drained oil from cars in a Quik-Change. There was no paternity test. They both knew, without a doubt, he was the father, even if he never admitted it.
    The other problem was that Barry, Bar to his buddies, had tried to disappear two or three times now.
    The last time Sandy had caught up to her dear old ex, he was working at a big box superstore as the guy who collected the shopping carts. The confrontation in the middle of the massive parking lot was brief, painful, and embarrassing for both. Disgusted, Sandy got back in her car. She told him to get in touch when he was a man, and until then, well he could fuck right off.
    Bar assured her he was getting his life together, and he would send her money.
    They both knew this was a lie.
    It was easier to pretend it wasn’t.
    She usually spent Sunday mornings in the garage, then went back and made a big breakfast. If nothing important happened, like a car wreck or robbery or, God forbid, a murder, Sundays were her days off. The town, for the most part, complied. Nothing much happened and since things stayed quiet, Sandy could enjoy a full day at home with her son.
    But lately something wasn’t working with Kevin. Most times, they got along fine. He understood the rules, he did his chores and homework without complaining too much, and was happy to once in a while put down his books or tablet and join her for dinner. The past few months, though, the timing was off, they weren’t connecting, and Sandy couldn’t figure out what she was doing differently, and wondered what problems her son was facing alone.
    Whatever it was, she’d bet that it was probably related to the town, channeled through the school. She hoped it wasn’t a girl. He hadn’t exactly discovered sex yet and it took a backseat to his TV shows and books. She knew it wasn’t the most comfortable thing for him, being the son of the police chief, but they’d had long talks about bullying and how to respond, and she felt he would open up if that was the situation.
    She headed in for some breakfast. And maybe a nap.
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    Ingrid always enjoyed these calm mornings after Kurt’s storms. She hurt, make no mistake. After the cop left, he’d trapped her in the bathroom and gone after her with one of her pots. Ingrid wedged herself in the corner between the toilet and the wall, tucking her fingers into her armpits, knees into her chest while he went to town on the backs of her shoulders and the back of her head whenever he made a particular point, hissing that it wasn’t his fault she was too dumb to understand, reminding her it wasn’t any fun having to make all the tough decisions.
    When he was too tired to beat on her anymore, he straightened, threw the dented pot in the bathtub, said, “You want to hide next to the toilet, you face the consequences, stupid bitch.” He unzipped his jeans and pissed on her.
    Ingrid didn’t see the beatings as much different from sex. Sometimes it hurt, really awful, but when it was over, Kurt was spent and tired. He kept his distance. Sometimes for days. He’d gotten whatever it was out of his system and would leave her alone for a couple of days while she healed up. He ate in front of the television, as always, but she got to eat dinner in the kitchen by herself. It was a relief, not worrying if her eating was annoying him. The rest of the time, he spent in the front room, watching TV, drinking beer, or in the bathroom, with the paper. She knew he hid pornographic magazines in the paper and sometimes she could hear him masturbating in there.
    Again, it was actually a relief. It