The Old Neighborhood by Bill Hillmann

it really was was free room and board. Back then, Drake cost about 15K per year, and my parents almost had to take out a second mortgage to keep him in classes. Ma took on another eight kids babysitting, and Dad worked his way up to Superintendent for McQue Construction. Blake was a good high school wide receiver but nowhere near fast enough to be scouted by a Division I school. Drake was Division I-AA, but at the time, they happened to be on an eight-year suspension due to a recruiting scandal. As part of that suspension, they were ejected from their conference and forced to function as a Division III school. This opened the door for Blake. His giant ego most likely propelled him toward Drake for posterity’s sake, as he’d always be able to say, ‘ I played for Drake, a DI-AA school,’ when in reality, he probably couldn’t have been a towel boy for Drake without the suspension in effect. Blake was like that though—hyper-interested in providing a f a ç ade rather than substance. And that attitude was contagious. Everyone revered him, myself included. Grandma even started calling him “Blakey the Drakey.”
    All was well until the winter break of his junior year when his high school sweetheart and supposed ex-girlfriend, Karen, and her mother showed up at our front door and asked to speak to my parents. They sent us kids upstairs, but we all huddled along the carpeted steps in the dark. There, we listened and peeked in on the conversation in the brightly lit kitchen.
    â€œI’ll pay for the abortion,” Ma said in a matter of fact tone as she stepped slowly to the counter and riffled through her purse. “I’ll cut you a check right now—$500 bucks. Take her over to the place right on Peterson and get it done.” She found the checkbook and a pen and slowly limped back to the kitchen table. She sat down in her yellow-cushioned chair at the foot of the table.
    â€œMy daughter’ll have an abortion over my dead body!” Karen’s mom said in a cold, rigid tone with her hands neatly folded over each other atop the oak table.
    Dad furiously washed his tall, clear glass in the empty sink. I heard the gush of water and the squeak of his hands and fingers slathering on the dish soap. The suds clapped to the tin sink basin, and his white mustache undulated under his hawkish nose.
    Karen cowered beside her mother on the bench, sniffling into a big, fuzzy ball of Kleenex. Her hair was done-up in a giant, blonde perm. Blake paced in and out of the passage between the kitchen and the TV room in his blue-and-white Drake University football letterman’s jacket. His sculpted face and long, narrow nose were crunched in a deep scowl. He passed from the dark TV room to the bright kitchen over and over like a defender masking a blitz.
    â€œHe’s got one year left to graduate. How’s he going to do that with a child to raise?” Ma urged.
    There was a pop, followed by the sound of glass folding. Dad crushed his cup in his massive paws, and then he softly placed the broken pieces in the sink as not to make any noise.
    â€œHe’ll have to drop out and marry her,” Mrs. Kerney snapped, contemptuously.
    â€œThat’s not happening,” Dad declared, spinning around from the sink. A spray of soppy droplets whisked from his fingertips and clapped to the linoleum floor.
    â€œWell, he’ll be a father soon,” Mrs. Kerney said as she rose from the oak bench. Karen followed. “He better have a way to provide for the child.”
    Mrs. Kerney briskly stepped past Dad with her small button nose jutted toward the ceiling. Her eyes pursed, nearly closed, and Karen scuttled after her, still sniffling into the Kleenex wad. Karen followed her mother’s gray heels as they clicked sharply down the hall to the front door. Us kids scampered back up the adjacent stairs. Mrs. Kerney swung the heavy door open and slammed it shut behind