The Summer Son by Craig Lancaster Read Free Book Online Page B

lingers in my head. I remember the gas stations, and I remember the bars. I remember the songs on the jukebox and the radio. If I hear “Sad Eyes” on an oldies station, I’m back in Milford.
    Then there are the things I have forgotten. I couldn’t tell you the name of the diner or the name of the trailer park. The physical aspects of that little town cling to my memory, immovable even as I pile a lifetime of experience on top of them. The names are just trivialities.
    I can also remember that Dad smelled of Aqua Velva when his fight with Marie chased me into the fading light.
     
     
    Dad emerged from his bath and sat down to his ledger, ready to assess Marie’s damage and to cut checks for Jerry and Toby, pay the various notes on his equipment, and settle his fuel charges and the other invoices that trickled in. I sat across from him, watching the black-and-white TV with the sound down so only I could hear it.
    Dad recorded each entry, and I saw him rub his face more and more as the unfavorable math piled up. Finally, he turned to Marie, who was reading.
    “Five hundred and twenty-two dollars.”
    “What?”
    “Five hundred and twenty-two dollars. That’s what we have for the next couple of weeks. For me to keep this crew going, to buy bits, to stock up on supplies, to pay for this spot, and for you to do whatever the hell it is you do. Shit, Marie, it’s not enough to cover the fuel.”
    “So you’re saying that because I did a little shopping, we’re broke?”
    “Because you did a lot of shopping, we’re broke.”
    “What do you want me to say, Jim? What am I supposed to do around here all day?”
    “You don’t have to come at all. If all you’re going to do is break us, I’d prefer you didn’t.”
    “You’d rather I sat up there at that ranch?”
    “That’s what we bought it for.”
    “I’m not sitting up there for weeks at a time while I wait for you to come home.”
    “No, you sit around here, bleeding me dry.”
    “Fuck you, Jim.”
    “Fuck me?” he said, standing up and advancing on her.
    Marie stood up to meet him.
    “Yes. Fuck you.” She reared back with a haymaker, which landed harmlessly against Dad’s arm. That pissed Marie off more. She shoved past him into the hall and began chucking toiletries. He ducked under a can of shaving cream. It hit the table in front of me and caromed off my forehead.
    I bolted. Dad yelled for me, but then a soap dish whizzed by. It crashed into the window at the back of the trailer, and Marie had his full attention again. I heard them screaming at each other as I sprinted down the gravel road, across the street, and up the hill into the park. Atop the hill, where the rows of houses picked up, I stopped and put my hands on my knees and tried to corral my breath. Once I had air again, I zigzagged through the streets until at last I found Jerry’s door.
    I gave it four raps. I leaned on the doorbell for good measure.
    Jerry, looking irritated, threw open the door and saw me standing there, my chest heaving. He stepped aside and waved me in.
     
     
    By eight o’clock, I could no longer fight a collapse into sleep. My own run-in with Dad had been bad enough; a lingering battle with Marie, I knew, could make things exponentially harder on us all. Dad’s urgency about work hit overdrive when he felt stressed, and that impatience would surely get pounded out on the people around him. Half-sick with worry, and having eaten just a few handfuls of potato chips at Jerry’s, I fell into a fitful sleep on the floor in front of the television.
    Around ten, Jerry shook me awake and told me to answer the phone. I padded into the kitchen, bleary-eyed.
    “Hello?”
    “Hi, Mitch.”
    “Marie?”
    “Yeah. I’m sorry about tonight. I’m heading back to Montana. It’s for the best. I just wanted to call and make sure you were all right.”
    “Yeah, I guess.”
    “Good. I wanted to let you know that you shouldn’t ask for too much from your dad right now,