These Gentle Wounds by Helene Dunbar Read Free Book Online Page B

answers. Jim shakes his head, like his son’s weird cooking is one more cross he has to bear.
    â€œCan I get ten minutes to myself before we do whatever we’re going to do here?” Jim asks. I can hear the hope in his voice, but I can’t wait any longer.
    â€œNo,” I say.
    Jim looks at Kevin to save him, so I look at Kevin ten times harder. I’m going to blow if I have to just wait here.
    Kevin wrenches his eyes away from mine like it takes a lot of effort. “Dad … ”
    Jim takes one look at me and sighs. We all move into the living room. Jim and Kevin arrange themselves on various chairs while I stalk back and forth behind them, waiting to hear what’s going on.
    â€œIce,” Kevin demands. “Sit.”
    I glare at him, but I do as he says. It isn’t worth the fight.
    â€œI know you boys want something definitive, but I don’t have it. Ms. DeSilva says she’ll review the papers. But it sounds like your dad … ” Jim winces. “By law he’s entitled to see you.”
    â€œNo. No he isn’t. He can’t be.” I launch up again. I’m sure Jim must have misheard her, or maybe she’s wrong, or … Kevin comes up to try to stop my pacing, but I wrench away.
    â€œDad?” he says. “There must be something—”
    â€œShe’s going to get in touch with his lawyer and get back to me.” Jim cuts him off. And then he’s right in front of me with his big hands on my shoulders, stopping me. “And you, just stay out of trouble and let us handle this. Do you hear me?”
    Jim pretty much lets Kevin deal with me. But I’ve learned that when he gets to the point where he puts his foot down about something, he means it.
    â€œGordie?” he asks softly. “Are you listening?”
    What a ridiculous question. Of course I’m listening. It’s my whole freaking life we’re discussing. How could I not be listening? All I want is for him to take a stand and to tell me that he’s going to fight it. That he agrees my father has no right to be anything in my life.
    â€œHey,” he says again, louder this time.
    I look up and see Kevin standing behind him. He’s clenching his jaw and nodding his head, urging me silently to say something.
    â€œLet me hear it, kid,” Jim says.
    I give up. “Handle it, then,” I say. “Just handle it.” I run upstairs, because I know there’s nothing else he can say to me tonight that matters.
    I slam the door harder than I need to and lie on Kevin’s disheveled bed. It used to bother me that he’s such a slob, but now I kind of envy him. I wish I could stop caring about everything being in its place and making sense.
    His side of the room is littered with dirty jeans, scraps
of paper with his indecipherable writing on it, and a couple of wooden spoons, although I’m not sure I want to know what those are doing here.
    The only thing that’s neat on his side of the room is the stack of college catalogs on his desk. Figures .
    I get up and throw the whole stack across the room, which isn’t as satisfying as I would have hoped. Then I flop back down and let my mind go.
    And of course it goes to my father. I have no choice about that.
    My father worked with contracts or proposals or something that meant he collected piles of paper and got paid for it.
    Most office guys come home at night, I think. But he’d disappear for months at a time.
    I have a few memories of him.
    Him beating Kevin with the leather belt Mom made us save up to buy for him for Father’s Day.
    And watching him and Mom throw empty liquor bottles at each other, the glass shattering all over the living room floor.
    And him at the funeral, not looking sad, but pissed, like Mom had finally gotten one over on him. As if killing the kids meant she’d finally gotten the last word. I watched him all through the service to see if he would cry,