Martin and John by Dale Peck Read Free Book Online Page B

sometime soon?” I didn’t look at her. “I had a busy day,” I said. “Nope, no one’s heard of a Mar-tin at all.” My father broke the word in half as if sounding it out, then forked another bite of stew. My mother set a small plate and fork in front of me. Her fingers tapped the table once, and I looked up and met her gaze, and then my eyes darted between her and my father several times, and then I just stared at my plate until she turned away.
    “That Johnson,” my father was saying, pushing his empty plate away and reaching for his beer. “Do you know how much he got for plumbing that new Casa del Sol?” I looked at him over my mother’s arm as she placed a thick slice of chocolate cake in front of me. I shook my head; my father drank some beer. “Let me tell you: thirty thousand dollars.” I widened my eyes as far as I could, my mouth already full of cake. “More?” my mother said, a hand on his plate. “I’m full, thank you very much,” he said, and my mother moved to theoven and played with the towel in her hands. To me, my father said, “And who
really
did that restaurant?” “You,” I got out between bites. “Damn straight I did.” My father shoved his chair back several feet, almost hitting my mother. “That little Mex just wrote out the check like it was nothing. Here you are, Señor Mister Johnson sir, and thank you very much. Well,” my father said, and then he swigged the last of his beer and set his glass on the table heavily, “I guess I’ll be damned if I’ll ever see money like that.” As he walked from the kitchen my mother swept his plate and glass from the table. He stopped in the doorway and turned on me. “You clean The Factory’s stall today?” My jaw stopped working and a forkful of cake clung to the roof of my mouth like wet clay. I stared at my father. He looked back, one hand rubbing the expanse of his belly. “Well?” “Henry, please,” my mother said. “John always does his chores.” “Well then,” my father said. “Good night,
family.”
My mother watched me while I chewed and swallowed the last bite of cake. Behind his closed door, my father burped. The sound was short and explosive, but muffled, like a distant gunshot. I put my fork and plate in my mother’s outstretched hand. She kissed me on the forehead. “I’ve made up the couch for you tonight,” she said. Her voice was tired. I wanted to apologize for not taking out the cans, but I didn’t. As I left the kitchen I heard her behind me, washing away the last traces of the meal.

    WAKING UP DURING the night put me back in the hospital: the living room walls weren’t what I normally opened my eyes to, and the strange pull of pajamas had me scratching my neck and crotch. I sat up just in time to see the refrigerator light go off. After a few seconds I heard a glass being set on the metal grate in the sink. I slid down into the couch and watched my father walk past the door, feet heavy on the linoleum. A few minutes later I walked as silently as I could to my room. Hearing nothing, I moved to my parents’ door; it was partially open, but I couldn’t make out the bed. My father was already snoring. Back on the couch it was hot and the blanket weighed on my body, but I didn’t kick it off. In the hallway the clock cuckooed three times. Then, almost as if he’d heard, our stupid rooster crowed, announcing a dawn still hours away.
    AT SCHOOL, KIDS I hardly knew asked me questions that started with “My father told me.…” I told them nothing. They’d been like that the day after Justin’s funeral, and when I told them about Justin they just nodded their heads solemnly—they didn’t understand. Because it wasn’t solemnity I felt, it was just a strangeness. And telling them, or telling my teachers, who gave me breaks on my tests as though my brain were dead and not my brother, just made me feel empty. Robbed, really, of a feeling that I hadn’t even had time to understand. No, Martin was