The Family Men by Catherine Harris Read Free Book Online Page A

street or at the pub, happily humming along to the melody before processing that it is that tune again, that he is humming that song, walking in time to that music, the sense of revulsion so immediate and complete that his skin breaks out in a rash of goosebumps as though he has paused too long before showering after a mid-season game, when in fact it is twenty-nine degrees outside in the shade. But where to start? What to say? That he is exhausted? That he needs a break? That he just wants to be left alone?
    â€œIs there anything else?” asks Diana.
    â€œI might have had a bit too much to drink, that’s all.”
    â€œRight.” She’s heard that one before. That and everything else. She shakes her head at him and starts down the hall, saying that if he doesn’t watch himself he is going to end up like his dad, an alcoholic with no impulse control, beating up innocent door-to-door canvassers for trying to get him to switch his electricity provider.
    â€œIt’s not the same,” Harry insists as he keeps pace with her, following her into the laundry, where she starts pulling things out of the dryer. “Don’t say that. It’s completely different. You know Dad didn’t mean it.”
    His mother can barely look him in the eye. She throws a towel at him. “Take a shower,” she says. “You smell like a brewery.”
    The shower is a little steam box, so tightly sealed you can’t defog the mirror for a good twenty minutes or so after you turn off the taps, even with both of the windows propped open for ventilation. As he strips off his clothes he thinks of Rosie getting dressed that morning, her thick white tights under her stupid dress, the buckled elastic of her enormous beige underpants visible beneath the distended ribbing. “Why do you wear those undies?” he asked as she buttoned her dress from midriff to top, the fabric pulling slightly at her bust. Had she always worn those underpants? He tried to remember. If so, this was the first time he’d noticed.
    â€œI can put on other ones if you like,” she said, her face lighting up as though he’d invited her to her first dance. “I just wear these for work.”
    The image of her in her underwear, whether it be those undies or any others, was not appealing. He shook his head, fell back on to the bed, sneered. “No. Don’t bother. Don’t change them for me,” imagining his mum, there he goes again , knowing full well that this was what she meant by his attitude.
    It is a kind of truculence he expects his brother might have understood, the one person who could have risen to his defence, being cut from the same cloth, fallen from the same tree, and so on, not to mention that he was actually there, a reliable witness (in so far as any witness is reliable), could testify to the intoxicated fog of the situation, but Matt can’t put enough distance between them, their already cool relationship having turned decidedly frosty in the days leading up to his departure, it being all Matt could do to acknowledge Harry’s existence, end-of-season events having driven a wedge between their already tenuous fraternal bond. “I can’t believe you did that,” is all he’ll say on the subject, as though Harry has betrayed them both with his behaviour, publicly compromising the reputation of the entire family with his actions, much as their father had with his. I can’t believe you did that. The way their mum would talk to their dad. Wasn’t it bad enough already? Why do you always have to make such an exhibition of yourself? As though he, Harry, is responsible for the entire fiasco, when he knows that isn’t the case, can’t be, his role simply the logical extension of circumstances set in motion by others, months if not years before he even accepted the invitation. Hardly the same ball park.
    But you try telling that to Matt. So imperious. Thinking back