Read Online In Reach by Pamela Carter Joern - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Pamela Carter Joern
Ads: Link
we’re smarter now.”
“Than what?”
Jason shrugged his shoulders. Rolled up the window.
“Smarter now than then or smarter than your parents? Which is it?”
Jason did not answer. He knew his dad in this mood.
“Let me tell you something, kid. You don’t know everything. And you’re not the first kid who thought he did.”
They rode a few more miles in silence. Then, without turning his head, Jason said, “Don’t call me kid.”
They stopped in Grand Island for gas, Kearney for lunch at McDonald’s. Dave ordered a Big Mac Meal Deal, dipped his French fries first in mayonnaise, then ketchup. Jason had a salad and chicken nuggets, no sauce.
Once they were headed west again, driving straight into the amber sun, Jason took out The Catcher in the Rye .
“I read that,” Dave said.
“What’d you think?”
Dave shrugged. “Don’t remember much about it. Except it’s about a kid who’s kind of lost.”
Jason thumbed down the page corner. “Holden Caulfield.”
“What?”
“The kid you think was lost. His name is Holden Caulfield.”
“Yeah, I guess that’s right.”
“Except it’s the culture that’s lost.”
“Huh?”
“That’s the point. Of the book.”
Dave didn’t say anything for a mile or two. “It’s not normal,” he finally said.
Jason grunted, hoping his dad would shut the fuck up.
“The way you see things. You’re kind of twisted.”
Jason squinted, pictured an eagle in flight, soaring, soaring, up and away.
“Not that it’s your fault.”
“Leave Mom alone.” He made his voice hard, flinty.
After a few more miles, Dave said, “Remember that time we went on that baseball tour?”
Jason looked up from his book. It was two years after his father walked out on them. Jason was eleven, and they’d gone on a whirlwind tour of major league baseball games. Each night in a different motel room identical to the one from the night before, reeking of cigarettes and chlorine, Jason endured a quiz. He recited players’ names, ERA s, and analyzed what went wrong on second base in the third inning. He kept the baseball cards stuffed in his bottom desk drawer, hidden under snapshots and debris. Every time he chanced upon them, he knew he should throw them away. But then he’d remember hot dogs and pretzels and sitting by his dad, and he couldn’t bring himself to do it.
Now he said, “Not really.”
“You had your nose in a book most of that whole trip,” Dave said.
Jason shifted in his seat. His legs seemed to have gotten too long for the car, and he didn’t know what to do with his elbows. The air in the Jeep felt close, clammy on his skin. He actually put his palm on the roof over his head, as if he might shove the top open and find some relief.
Jason dropped Holden Caulfield on the floor and reached for his sketchpad. With quick strokes of a soft-leaded pencil, he drew a boxy car, high-wheeled. He drew a sun, oversized and glaring, and a long, white ribbon of road. Sticking out the windows of the boxy car, he drew twigs. They jutted and poked at crazy angles, twisted one over another, completely jammed the car. Then, heturned the twigs into French fries, the ends drenched with drippings. He added spokes to the high wheels, and between the spokes, he inserted chrome emblems that looked something like baseball cards. His father might have said something to him, or he might not. Jason was out of reach.
The farther they went across Nebraska, the longer the road seemed to get. It stretched like taffy, like time when there’s nothing to do. They decided to stay overnight in Ogallala. Dave pulled up to a Super 8 along the interstate. They had supper across the viaduct in a tourist trap called Front Street: saloon with swinging doors, red lights, sawdust on a wood floor, honky-tonk piano player, and a menu that offered beef or buffalo. In one corner, on a raised stage, a poker game was shrouded in heavy smoke. Satin-and-lace women draped over the arms of
“Than what?”
Jason shrugged his shoulders. Rolled up the window.
“Smarter now than then or smarter than your parents? Which is it?”
Jason did not answer. He knew his dad in this mood.
“Let me tell you something, kid. You don’t know everything. And you’re not the first kid who thought he did.”
They rode a few more miles in silence. Then, without turning his head, Jason said, “Don’t call me kid.”
They stopped in Grand Island for gas, Kearney for lunch at McDonald’s. Dave ordered a Big Mac Meal Deal, dipped his French fries first in mayonnaise, then ketchup. Jason had a salad and chicken nuggets, no sauce.
Once they were headed west again, driving straight into the amber sun, Jason took out The Catcher in the Rye .
“I read that,” Dave said.
“What’d you think?”
Dave shrugged. “Don’t remember much about it. Except it’s about a kid who’s kind of lost.”
Jason thumbed down the page corner. “Holden Caulfield.”
“What?”
“The kid you think was lost. His name is Holden Caulfield.”
“Yeah, I guess that’s right.”
“Except it’s the culture that’s lost.”
“Huh?”
“That’s the point. Of the book.”
Dave didn’t say anything for a mile or two. “It’s not normal,” he finally said.
Jason grunted, hoping his dad would shut the fuck up.
“The way you see things. You’re kind of twisted.”
Jason squinted, pictured an eagle in flight, soaring, soaring, up and away.
“Not that it’s your fault.”
“Leave Mom alone.” He made his voice hard, flinty.
After a few more miles, Dave said, “Remember that time we went on that baseball tour?”
Jason looked up from his book. It was two years after his father walked out on them. Jason was eleven, and they’d gone on a whirlwind tour of major league baseball games. Each night in a different motel room identical to the one from the night before, reeking of cigarettes and chlorine, Jason endured a quiz. He recited players’ names, ERA s, and analyzed what went wrong on second base in the third inning. He kept the baseball cards stuffed in his bottom desk drawer, hidden under snapshots and debris. Every time he chanced upon them, he knew he should throw them away. But then he’d remember hot dogs and pretzels and sitting by his dad, and he couldn’t bring himself to do it.
Now he said, “Not really.”
“You had your nose in a book most of that whole trip,” Dave said.
Jason shifted in his seat. His legs seemed to have gotten too long for the car, and he didn’t know what to do with his elbows. The air in the Jeep felt close, clammy on his skin. He actually put his palm on the roof over his head, as if he might shove the top open and find some relief.
Jason dropped Holden Caulfield on the floor and reached for his sketchpad. With quick strokes of a soft-leaded pencil, he drew a boxy car, high-wheeled. He drew a sun, oversized and glaring, and a long, white ribbon of road. Sticking out the windows of the boxy car, he drew twigs. They jutted and poked at crazy angles, twisted one over another, completely jammed the car. Then, heturned the twigs into French fries, the ends drenched with drippings. He added spokes to the high wheels, and between the spokes, he inserted chrome emblems that looked something like baseball cards. His father might have said something to him, or he might not. Jason was out of reach.
The farther they went across Nebraska, the longer the road seemed to get. It stretched like taffy, like time when there’s nothing to do. They decided to stay overnight in Ogallala. Dave pulled up to a Super 8 along the interstate. They had supper across the viaduct in a tourist trap called Front Street: saloon with swinging doors, red lights, sawdust on a wood floor, honky-tonk piano player, and a menu that offered beef or buffalo. In one corner, on a raised stage, a poker game was shrouded in heavy smoke. Satin-and-lace women draped over the arms of
Similar Books
