Riot Most Uncouth by Daniel Friedman Read Free Book Online

grown long and uneven.
    â€œThe gypsies pin corpses into coffins with wooden stakes, through the heart and the mouth so they will stay where they are put. If they are improperly secured, those who make a bargain with the Devil can arise as vrykolakas, as vampire. And the vampire would dearly enjoy the blood of a plump boy like you, if you weren’t so damaged.”
    My father, too, had grown unkempt and wild in those last dire weeks. His beard was shaggy and mottled with patches of white, though he had yet to reach his thirty-fifth year. His hair was lank and dirty, and his clothing was tattered and stained. He had not been sober in days.
    â€œMother believes I can get better,” I said. “I am going to see a doctor.”
    I’d been to lots of doctors, in fact. As my father’s health and the family finances deteriorated, my mother had become increasingly preoccupied with fixing my clubfoot. The treatments hurt. The braces the doctors screwed onto my leg caused constant pain. But I tried not to cry; I wanted to be better, to be worthy in my father’s estimation. I wanted to be a soldier one day, to follow in Mad Jack’s path; to thrive in the family business of war-making.
    â€œThe doctor is a charlatan,” he said. “Your mother is stupid, and so are you. Nothing can fix you; you’re a physical manifestation of my failings and inadequacies, a curse from God. He wants me to stare at your misshapen form every day as punishment for my sins.”
    My mother, overhearing this, swept me up and lifted me away from him with her plump round arms. “Why are you so cruel to him, Jack? He’s only a child.”
    â€œHis flesh isn’t worth the price of what I feed him. If I could swap him for a cask of low-end whisky, I would. But nobody wants a defective child, not even the vrykolakas. He’s thick and stupid, like you, Catherine, and so is his damned gimpy blood. He would offend the tastes of even the most ravenous ghoul.”
    Just then, four men carried a heavy armoire out of the house to load it on the back of a cart drawn by two big draft horses. Mad Jack winged a plate at them but missed. One of the men swore loudly, but my father ignored this and just swirled his whisky glass. “Me da’ was an admiral,” he said. “He had to earn his rank in the Navy because his no-good brother got Newstead. Foul-weather Jack, they called my old man. He knew how to keep his keel level through twenty-foot swells. And look at me. I had to marry a disgusting cow like you to get the funds to keep myself soaked in spirits. And the son you gave me: he’s worthless, ain’t he?”
    My mother braced my weight against her ample hip and pouted at my father. “I don’t see why you’re so horrible to me and the boy, so bent on destroying yourself. We had everything we needed to be happy, before things started falling apart.”
    â€œNothing fell apart,” he said. “I ruined it, intentionally and out of spite. None of it was worth preserving in the first place.”
    â€œYou ruined us, Jack.” She brandished me at my father. “What sort of future will there be for him?”
    â€œThere isn’t any future, not for him or anyone else.” He caught a glimpse of his reflection in the side of his glass; his nose webbed with broken red veins, his brown teeth protruding like desiccated stumps from the infertile clay of his purple-gray gums. “Ruin comes whether we court it or whether we cower. Might as well drink while we can afford a bottle. We’re all just staggering toward death.”
    â€œNot you, Papa,” I said. “You’re going to live forever. You know the gypsy secrets. You know about the vampires.”
    One of the workmen approached. “We’ve got to take the chair, too, Mr. Gordon,” he said.
    â€œMr. Gordon,” my father repeated, and he laughed. “I wasn’t born Gordon; I was