White Man's Problems by Kevin Morris Read Free Book Online Page B

never forgot waiting with his mother on a cold Friday night for his father to get home from the police station. Mike had been caught drinking behind the Lenni Firehouse with his cousin Peter. Annemarie was just about to put John to bed when their father’s sister, Aunt Marian called.
    â€œMickey, the boys are in jail,” she said.
    â€œWhat the hell are you talking about?” said Mickey.
    â€œPeter and Mike. The state cops just called. You have to go get them. They’re at the station on Route 352. Hurry.”
    â€œChrist, Marian, they’re fifteen.”
    Times changed. Mike lost interest in sports, feeling the natural order of things drawing him toward steel-toe boots and flannel shirts. He spent most of his time in fields and in cars smoking pot. He smoked big fat bowls of ragweed homegrown dope that burned the throat and caused him to not care about basketball or college or Bobby Kennedy. He started hanging around a girl named Ginny DiMeo, who dressed the same way he did and always seemed to have a runny nose whenever she came over to the Donegans’ house. One night before bed, John heard Donny tell Annemarie that Peter told him Mike had licked Vicki DiMeo’s tits in the woods by the football field at the high school.
    After Mickey drove away, the four younger kids and their mother did not speak, as though talking would bring bad luck. They were all the same, the other Donegans, besides Mickey and Mike. Taking Rosemary’s lead, they worried for the world and obsessed over the oldest son, the big brother, who was a broad canvas on which they painted all their fears. There were differences, but they were the subtle differences between apples from the same tree. Donny had a bad temper. Annemarie had red hair and Rosemary’s big hips and love of rosary beads. Margie was dark; she was the one the boys liked. John was the youngest but the smartest, separated somehow. Even then, when he was six years old, the family knew, with a strange, unspoken clairvoyance, that he would leave.
    Though Mike was quiet, he was unfailingly nice to John, even as he became alienated and silent when at home. Mike never did well at school, but Rosemary could not discipline him, leaving enforcement of rules as a matter between father and son. Mickey Donegan was a simple guy, a plumber who liked a sandwich and a shot and a beer. Even before his first arrest behind the firehouse, Mickey was convinced the kid would go wrong. Truth be told, he preferred his daughters.
    The Pontiac parked at the curb, and Mike got out of the passenger’s side. “Oh thank God,” Rosemary said to the other kids. “Here comes Mike.” John looked out the front side window of the family’s row home to see if his father’s grip on Mike’s collar was the painful kind or the loving kind. It was actually not so tight—not the kind that said “get the fuck in the house”—and John could tell that Mickey was relieved. But by the time they got through the door, Mickey’s anger had risen. Rosemary ran to them, all hustle and bustle, and said, “Michael Christopher, are you ok? What in God’s name were you doing?”
    â€œHe’s fine,” said Mickey. “But he’s a dumb son of a bitch. And he’s gonna be a tired son of a bitch, too.”
    Mike’s eyes were glassy, and he was maybe a touch wobbly, but he was peaceful. If he was scared, John couldn’t see it. His hands were bleeding.
    Mickey continued in a raised voice, “With the fine and court costs, it was one hundred and thirty-three bucks.”
    â€œOh Jesus,” said Rosemary. “Michael.”
    â€œA dollar an hour. That’s what it’s gonna be, pal,” said Mickey. “One hundred and thirty-three hours of work for me. I know your math’s not too good, so I’ve done the calculations for you. It starts tomorrow and will go every day till it’s worked