Read Online Crazy by William Peter Blatty - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: William Peter Blatty
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fabric of the universe.
Pop got up and cleared his plate, then came back to the table with a bottle of Schlitz, his favorite beer. He liked its faintly salty taste. I kept eating and he kept on studying me thoughtfully. Meantime, the Hit Parade was still going and now after “Hi-Yo Silver, Hi-Yo” came “The Three Little Fishies”:
Boop boop dittum dattum wattum, choo
Boop boop dittum dattum wattum, choo
Pop turned a blank look to the radio.
Number 3 on the Hit Parade .
I heard a rumble of thunder and then a burst of heavy rain sloshing down against the window panes so loud that you couldn’t hear the song, an event that I’m certain St. Thomas Aquinas would have cited as a “Sixth Way” of proving God’s existence. I started to brood about maybe this was some kind of warning that we ought to start thinking about building an ark in case the “Hut Sut Song” ended up at Number 1:
Hut-Sut Rawlson on the rillerah
And a brawla brawla sooit
I said, “Pop, do you pray?”
He was hoisting the Schlitz to his lips when he stopped and looked across the little table at me. “Do I pray? What kind question, Joey? Yes. Yes, I pray. Not with words. With my heart. Be always good to people, Joey. That is prayer.” Looking aside, I just nodded and said quietly, “Right.” Pop was big and very strong and there’d been times when he’d prayed with his fists, but I didn’t think it was such a hot idea just then to mention it or how he once broke a would-be mugger’s arm and then another time the nose of some high school football hero talking trash to a little old lady on account of she’d told him to shut his mouth when he’d called out to a girl in the rumble seat of a car that was stopped at a traffic light, “Hey, you wanna screw?” If I’d asked him what maiming had to do with kindness, I knew he’d just tell me that of all his humanitarian acts these two were possibly the kindest of all inasmuch as, “From now on they be good, Joey. Right?” He took a swig of the beer and then looked me in the eye. “Something wrong, Joey. Tell me. Tell your father.” Which is when my unconscious mind must have decided to run to the front of the bus, grab the driver by the shoulders and shake him awake.
“Be good to your father, Joey.”
The setup couldn’t have been better.
I put on a hangdog face and looked aside.
“Ah, it’s nothin’, Pop. Really.”
“No, is something, Joey. Tell.”
I shook my head and murmured, “No, Pop. No. It’s so selfish.”
“I not care. It’s alright, Joey. Tell. I give you anything.”
“Pop, you’ve given me enough, so just forget it. Okay?”
“No, not okay. I want to know. Now I worry.”
I looked up into his big chestnut eyes. He was scared.
“Oh, no, Pop! I don’t want you to worry!”
“Then must tell me, Joey! Tell!”
“You won’t get mad?”
“No-no-no, Joey! No!”
“Ah, geez! I just hate myself for asking!”
“Asking what, for God’s sake?”
“I need a favor, Pop.”
“A favor? Dot’s all?”
“It’s something big and that’s all I’m going to say.”
Pop buried his face into arms that he’d folded on top of the table and, utterly exasperated, said nothing. A sigh got lost in the wool of his sweater.
“Sheesh, Pop, if it means all that much to you!”
“I waiting,” came the muffled and hopeless murmur.
“I want to sleep in the living room. There. I’ve said it.”
For a couple of seconds Pop didn’t stir, but then he looked up, his wide brow furrowed with incomprehension as he suddenly exploded, “What?”
“See? I knew you’d get mad, Pop! I knew it!”
“No, not mad! Only not understanding, Joey! Why?”
I said, “The fights.”
And then I launched into a story that would have made even the most hardened white tiles in our bathroom, which had seen about everything, weep as I spoke of the loneliness of the long-distance bedroom sleeper, and how I’d be scared by “funny noises,” like these creaks
Pop got up and cleared his plate, then came back to the table with a bottle of Schlitz, his favorite beer. He liked its faintly salty taste. I kept eating and he kept on studying me thoughtfully. Meantime, the Hit Parade was still going and now after “Hi-Yo Silver, Hi-Yo” came “The Three Little Fishies”:
Boop boop dittum dattum wattum, choo
Boop boop dittum dattum wattum, choo
Pop turned a blank look to the radio.
Number 3 on the Hit Parade .
I heard a rumble of thunder and then a burst of heavy rain sloshing down against the window panes so loud that you couldn’t hear the song, an event that I’m certain St. Thomas Aquinas would have cited as a “Sixth Way” of proving God’s existence. I started to brood about maybe this was some kind of warning that we ought to start thinking about building an ark in case the “Hut Sut Song” ended up at Number 1:
Hut-Sut Rawlson on the rillerah
And a brawla brawla sooit
I said, “Pop, do you pray?”
He was hoisting the Schlitz to his lips when he stopped and looked across the little table at me. “Do I pray? What kind question, Joey? Yes. Yes, I pray. Not with words. With my heart. Be always good to people, Joey. That is prayer.” Looking aside, I just nodded and said quietly, “Right.” Pop was big and very strong and there’d been times when he’d prayed with his fists, but I didn’t think it was such a hot idea just then to mention it or how he once broke a would-be mugger’s arm and then another time the nose of some high school football hero talking trash to a little old lady on account of she’d told him to shut his mouth when he’d called out to a girl in the rumble seat of a car that was stopped at a traffic light, “Hey, you wanna screw?” If I’d asked him what maiming had to do with kindness, I knew he’d just tell me that of all his humanitarian acts these two were possibly the kindest of all inasmuch as, “From now on they be good, Joey. Right?” He took a swig of the beer and then looked me in the eye. “Something wrong, Joey. Tell me. Tell your father.” Which is when my unconscious mind must have decided to run to the front of the bus, grab the driver by the shoulders and shake him awake.
“Be good to your father, Joey.”
The setup couldn’t have been better.
I put on a hangdog face and looked aside.
“Ah, it’s nothin’, Pop. Really.”
“No, is something, Joey. Tell.”
I shook my head and murmured, “No, Pop. No. It’s so selfish.”
“I not care. It’s alright, Joey. Tell. I give you anything.”
“Pop, you’ve given me enough, so just forget it. Okay?”
“No, not okay. I want to know. Now I worry.”
I looked up into his big chestnut eyes. He was scared.
“Oh, no, Pop! I don’t want you to worry!”
“Then must tell me, Joey! Tell!”
“You won’t get mad?”
“No-no-no, Joey! No!”
“Ah, geez! I just hate myself for asking!”
“Asking what, for God’s sake?”
“I need a favor, Pop.”
“A favor? Dot’s all?”
“It’s something big and that’s all I’m going to say.”
Pop buried his face into arms that he’d folded on top of the table and, utterly exasperated, said nothing. A sigh got lost in the wool of his sweater.
“Sheesh, Pop, if it means all that much to you!”
“I waiting,” came the muffled and hopeless murmur.
“I want to sleep in the living room. There. I’ve said it.”
For a couple of seconds Pop didn’t stir, but then he looked up, his wide brow furrowed with incomprehension as he suddenly exploded, “What?”
“See? I knew you’d get mad, Pop! I knew it!”
“No, not mad! Only not understanding, Joey! Why?”
I said, “The fights.”
And then I launched into a story that would have made even the most hardened white tiles in our bathroom, which had seen about everything, weep as I spoke of the loneliness of the long-distance bedroom sleeper, and how I’d be scared by “funny noises,” like these creaks
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