Living with the hawk by Robert Currie Read Free Book Online

were.”
    I thought of Vaughn Foster and the way he must’ve caught it from his parents. Oh man, yes. But then I thought of Joan, his sister — she didn’t need someone else’s father phoning them, getting them all stirred up again.
    â€œCome on, Blair. Whose house was it?”
    â€œI don’t know.” An outright lie. Sooner or later, I’d pay for that.
    â€œYou know where you were. Tell me.”
    â€œI . . . I — really couldn’t say.”
    â€œPaul!” My mother reached toward him, but he wasn’t going to hit me, I knew that. He was just angry — angry and frustrated.
    â€œGo to your room,” he said. “And stay there. Your brother’s grounded, and so are you. Until further notice.” He reached for the coffee perk, then shoved it aside. “You bloody well need to tell me where you were.” His face was red with anger, but he looked embarrassed too. Bloody, I thought, that was as close as he ever got to swearing. When he spoke again, he sounded tired. “You think about it long enough, maybe you’ll come to your senses. I sure hope so.”
    Some people might imagine I’d be glad of the chance to skip a Sunday service, but the truth is I didn’t mind church at all. It was also true that I seldom paid much attention to my father’s sermons, my mind drifting aimlessly, but I liked the way his rich voice rolled over me like a bright, warm river, light pouring through the stained glass windows, Christ lambent with colour, the vivid children gathered in His radiance. I liked exchanging the peace, especially with Mr. Hammond — he was a policeman, lean as a fencepost, a tough cop, some people said, but you’d never guess it in church. He was the one who always led the congregation in singing “Happy Birthday,” who never failed to look for me, striding down the aisle till he found me, taking my hand in that great mitt of his, holding it, that deep voice saying, “The Peace of Christ be with you, Blair.” Saying it and meaning it. And I liked the way we all sang “The Lord’s Prayer,” some of us kneeling, some of us standing, but all of our voices rising together, merging with the booming peal of the organ, the whole church filling with sound, “For the kingdom, the power and the glory are yours, now and for ever. Amen.” And best of all, that moment before dismissal when my father looked down from the sanctuary, spreading his arms wide, until they included us, everyone, and that familiar voice, which was only partly his by then, extended to each of us “The peace of God, which passes all understanding.”
    Today there’d be no peace for me.
    Nor for Blake.
    As soon as my parents left for church, I went into his room. His window was thrown up, curtains jumping in the breeze, but still the air held a faint smell of vomit. My brother’s eyes were open when I entered, but he closed them right away, his breathing slow and steady.
    I was furious with him for what he’d done, enraged with myself for lying to our father. Yes, and blaming Blake for the lie.
    â€œWe all heard you last night, you know, honking your guts into the can.”
    No change in his breathing.
    â€œCome on. I know you’re awake.” I wanted him to squirm, wanted to see him suffer. “Nice going there, bro. You made Mom and Dad real proud.” He rolled away from me, but I wasn’t finished. “One good thing about it though, you supplied Dad with enough raw material for a month of sermons. He can talk about the sins of the son for — ”
    â€œGo to Hell!”
    I looked down at him lying there on the bed, turned away from me, legs curled into a fetal hunch, covers pulled almost over his head, face shoved toward the wall, the bed quivering beneath him. What a sorry specimen, wrapped in blankets and shivering. I wanted to rip the blankets from the bed, make him lie there,