When Dad Came Back by Gary Soto Read Free Book Online Page A

ice, and for himself a glass of Kool-Aid.
    They ate in silence, until his mother asked, “How did he look?”
    â€œSick.”
    â€œWhat does ‘sick’ mean? Like he's skinny?” Her eye fell on a cherry tomato. She prodded it with a fork and said, “He could be lying, you know.”
    Gabe had considered this possibility. His dad had lied hundreds of times, spun many tales of deceit. He recalled how his father had bought him his first bicycle and said that it was new. He was only six then, but he did know new from old, truth from lie. The bicycle, with training wheels and bright plastic ribbons dangling from the handle grips, had belonged to some other child first. There were tiny pebbles embedded in the tread of the tires, and the reflector in the back was cracked.
    â€œYeah, Mom, he's skinny. And he has a thing on his wrist.”
    The cherry tomato that she was prodding was now lanced on the end of her fork. She asked, “What do you mean, ‘thing’?” She brought the fork to her mouth.
    â€œLike a bracelet. Like from when you're in the hospital.”
    His mother, chewing with her head down, pushed the rice and frijoles around her plate. Gabe could tell that she wasn't relishing her dinner. He couldn't taste his either. On any other day, he would be jumping up for second helpings of frijoles, arroz, and a third tortilla burnt crispy, the way he liked it.
    â€œMom, he says he's sorry,” Gabe said.
    â€œAnd I should care?” Her eyes glared at him until he looked down at his plate. She spooned salsa onto the frijoles and tore a piece of tortilla. “You think he's nice because he says he's sorry? Big deal!” She brought the tortilla laden with frijoles to her mouth.
    â€œI'm just saying, you know, he's better.” Gabe had lost his appetite. He bullied his frijoles around the plate.
    â€œI don't care. I don't want him to come around!”
    Mother and son, napkins in their fists, ate in silence.
    Gabe was right. When he finally showed up at the game, their team down 4–5 in the third inning, Coach Rodriguez posted his meaty hands on his lean hips and spat, “Get in the dugout, Mendoza.” He slapped the clipboard against his thigh, raising dust embedded in his pants.
    Gabe obeyed without a word. He clutched two shopping bags filled with supplies for his dad and moved to the far end of the dugout. He had intended—and still intended—to confide in Coach Rodriguez about his dad. But for now, he sat alone, his mitt at his side, and watched the game, where even the weakest hits found holes in the infield. Neither of the teams played well.
    By the fifth inning, the score was 9–5, Kerman in the lead. Most of the players got on base by walks, when the pitcher couldn't find the strike zone. There were at least five hit batters, and one had to be taken out when he got blasted on his left shin and couldn't run. Coach Rodriguez stood with his arms folded across his muscle-plated chest, not in the least happy when a figure appeared in deep center field.
    â€œIt's him,” Gabe muttered to himself. He hurried out of the dugout when the game was halted.
    The umpire, strolling out past second base, called, “Buddy, get off the field. You!” He hooked a thumb, as if giving the “out” sign. “You're holding up the game!”
    Gabe hustled along the first-base side into right field.
    It was his dad, a nuisance to the players, a lunatic, a slovenly dressed bum.
    â€œDad, you're in the way,” Gabe yelled as he approached his dad. Immediately he wondered whether his dad might take the wrong meaning from his words— you're in the way.
    â€œIt's not practice?” his dad asked innocently.
    â€œNo, it's a real game.”
    His dad seemed genuinely baffled— a real game? He scanned the players huddling at second base and those grouped at the pitcher's mound. He turned to his son and asked, “What's the score?