Wingshooters by Nina Revoyr Read Free Book Online Page A

and raised it like he was going to hit the table, but he just let it fall and shook his head and didn’t say a word.
    The next morning, when I found my grandfather sitting at the table, it took him a moment to notice me. When he did, he raised his head and smiled sadly.
    “Hello, Mike,” he said, and his voice was soft and hoarse. He looked like a different man from the night before.
    “Is my dad up yet?” I asked. I glanced at the door that led to the attic where he always slept. Suddenly I knew that whatever was wrong must have had to do with him.
    Charlie took a deep breath and said, “Your father is gone.”
    “He didn’t come home last night?” It wouldn’t have been the first time. There’d been times in Japan, after my parents had argued, that he hadn’t come home until morning.
    Charlie’s gaze was steady and he spoke carefully, as if to make sure I understood. “He did come home. But he packed up and left again early this morning. He heard something about your mother, and he had to get out to California.” My grandfather stopped and uncurled his fists, touched the table with the edges of his hands. “He told us to tell you he was sorry that he didn’t have a chance to say goodbye. But he’ll be back soon, he said. He’s coming back to get you.”
    I just stood there, not knowing what to think. I was used to having one or the other of my parents disappear. But both of them? “When?” I asked. “When will he be back?”
    “A couple of weeks, he said.”
    Just then my grandmother came into the doorway; she must have been in the kitchen. Her eyes were red and puffy and her face was drawn. She and my grandfather exchanged a look, and then he turned back to me and smiled. “You don’t mind this now, do you? You don’t mind staying here with us for a while?”
    The day that I learned about the substitute teacher, there was nothing in Charlie’s manner or words that suggested anything was amiss. We finished supper and quickly cleared the table. After we all did the dishes (as always, she washed, he dried, and I helped put everything back into the cupboards), Charlie changed into his work pants and undershirt and we went out to the garage to get our baseball gloves. His was an old glove from his playing days, mine was a kid’s glove, the color of dried blood, with the stamped signature of Catfish Hunter. Charlie had a pail of baseballs in the corner of the garage but we used just one that day, playing catch in the yard while the dog ran between us, following the flight of the ball. We didn’t talk—he only spoke to tell me to extend my arm further, or to pull my legs together so grounders wouldn’t sneak through; we just slung the ball back and forth through the cooling air. This—playing catch with my grandfather at dusk—was my very favorite thing in the world. And it was especially good on a day like today, when I felt stirred up and confused. Charlie seemed to know I needed physical activity; maybe he needed it too. We threw and caught the old baseball, sent it whirling through the air, heard its leathery thunk as it lodged in our gloves, until the ball began to blend in with the night and it got too dark to see.
    When we went inside, my grandmother made us my favorite dessert—strawberries she’d canned and frozen during the summer, poured over French vanilla ice cream. We ate in the dining room, where Brett—once he realized he wasn’t getting any food—lay down, yawned, and shook his head a little, as if the yawn was so large his head couldn’t quite contain it. He rolled onto his side for a belly rub, which I happily gave him, scratching the spot just below his rib cage until his eyes half closed with bliss. Then we all went into the living room—Grandma sat in her recliner, me in the corner chair, and Charlie stretched out on his sofa—and watched TV until my bedtime. I got up and kissed my grandmother on the cheek, then stood behind my grandfather at one end of the couch and