Read Online Father's Day by Simon van Booy - Free Book Online Page A

and his father rolled around on them. Then Jason got on top and there was blood on his father’s cheek from one of the angel’s wings. Mom was screaming and trying to pull Jason off. Eventually, the fight ended and their father got up and ran out of the house.
    Jason vacuumed up the glass from the broken ornaments, then watched as Steve rubbed the carpet with paper towels to soak up the beer. Before opening presents, they made toast and poured two glasses of eggnog. It was sweet and so much thicker than normal milk.
    Jason got blank TDK cassettes to make his own mix tapes, an Iron Maiden T-shirt, and the expensive hair wax he needed to style his hair like James Dean.
    Steve got a set of Hot Wheels, a New York Jets jersey with Joe Namath’s name and number, a deck of Playboy playing cards, a package of Topps baseball cards, a Slinky, and an Atari game system, which was the only thing he’d said he really wanted. Jason’s mother started crying when she saw it and said she didn’t know how Santa could afford electronics.
    â€œC’mon, Mom, I saved up months to get that,” Jason said. But from the corner of his eye could see Steve trying not to laugh, which made him feel good about having stolen it.
    Later on Jason boiled hot dogs, then watched a Snoopy Christmas movie with his brother. Mom spent the afternoon in her bedroom, calling around different bars.
    Wanda thought it was brave of Jason to stick up for his little brother. Jason said it was a much longer story.
    â€œI like long stories,” she said, but Jason didn’t want to get into it.
    â€œWas it hard for your mother to manage after your father passed away?”
    â€œWith no one around to punish her, she punished herself. It’s Steve I felt sorry for, because, to be honest, I really didn’t love my mother at all. She could have protected us, but chose not to.”
    â€œWere you in prison when she died, Jason?”
    He could tell that Wanda wanted his version of why he’d gone to jail, but he honestly couldn’t be bothered to tell her. No one had cared to listen then, and it was too late now. He had served his time—which really means putting up with what happens to you when you’re inside.
    Then Wanda asked him to hold on a minute while she found her cigarettes.
    â€œFinally, the office is empty,” she said. “I smoke one Newport a day, always the same time—have done for years. Be nice to have a drink with it. You still like a drink, Jason?”

XVIII
    A BOUT FIVE YEARS after his release from prison, Jason started taking the Long Island Rail Road into Manhattan.
    At first he was hopeful and thought he might find a job, even move into the city if things went well. But since his motorcycle accident twelve months earlier, following the breakup of a serious relationship with a woman called Rita Vega, Jason had been drinking just to get through the day.
    Most Saturday nights he spent on the Lower East Side, stopping for a beer or some tequila at places he thought might give him a job. A few people told him to come back with a résumé. Another guy—an ex-marine called Rocky—said he needed someone to tend bar until four, but then lost interest when he found out Jason had a record.
    One night Jason was almost hit by a yellow cab while walking across Delancey Street. He jumped back and fell down—still unsteady after four months on his prosthetic leg. Three girls in short skirts and platform heels reeled with laughter. “Oh my God, did you see that guy? Oh my God! We almost saw someone get smushed! Oh my God!”
    At a liquor store on Orchard Street, Jason bought a half-bottle of whiskey, then carried it in a brown paper bag back to Ludlow Street, where there was more to look at.
    An oversize fire hydrant outside a hair salon that was usually occupied by someone in grimy clothes with acardboard sign was unoccupied when Jason passed, and so he sat down.
    After a while