Read Online Joshua Then and Now by Mordecai Richler - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Mordecai Richler
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naturally. Alex flicked on the TV set to watch the Expos. Joshua freshened his drink and started out for the porch. “Hey, Dad, I want to quit school.”
“Everybody’s demented today. You’re only seventeen, Alex.”
“So were you when you quit.”
“We’ll talk about it in the morning.”
If Reuben had still been there, Joshua knew what he’d say. His father had actually lasted ten days with them this summer before he began to itch for the streets again. Once, during his visit, Joshua had wandered out after work to discover his father and Alex on the grounds, just this side of the tilting boathouse, with their boxing gloves and helmets on. Reuben Shapiro, once rated “Prospect of the Month” by the exacting Mr. Nat Fleischer, was instructing his grandson, even as he had once coached Joshua, in the fine art of jabbing, attended by Susy and Teddy, the cornermen, ready with towels and pails of water; and by a giggly Pauline, serving as referee.
“Now you try that once more,” Reuben said. “Only remember: my chin’s not here, it’s another foot away. So when you jab at it you’re still gathering speed, get it, you’re not slowing down, anticipating bone, but still coming at me. And then, kid, it’s stick, stick, and away you go. O.K., Pauline, let’s hear it.”
“Ding-a-ling,” Pauline called out. “Ding-a-ling.” And Joshua, filled with delight, thought, Hey, we’re some family. We really are some family.
Drinking out on the porch, glaring at the country club lights across the lake, Joshua realized that he was eventually going to have to get out the Jeep and fetch her. Hell. And then, suddenly, there was a resounding crack of thunder, a rumbling across the water, and the lake was leaping with lightning. He was being pelted. But before retreating into the house, he did notice the clubhouse lights fail. A moment later, even as the lightning struck again, their own lights went out and he was bumping into things, cursing, hunting for a flashlight. O.K., he was going to fetch her, but should he take a knife? Like that other time on Ibiza.
Ibiza, my God, he reflected, dashing for the Jeep, he hadn’t thought about Ibiza in months.
Joshua decided to make a soup. That was constructive. It wasn’t avoiding work. Soup was nourishing for the kids, his responsibility these days. He poured the boiling water into a pot. He cubed six carrots and plunged them into the water. Oh shit, he forgot to peel them. The hell with it. He chopped some cabbage, discarding the moldy bits, diced some celery limp with age, adding salt, pepper, six Knorr chicken cubes, a handful of frozen peas, and last night’s corncobs retrieved from the garbage pail. Never mind, they add taste. He also found some mushrooms, a little slippery, somewhat fuzzy here and there, and wiped them with a dishtowel before adding them to the pot. Then he discovered some abandoned baked potatoes in the bottom tray and scooped them out, mashing vigorously, as they say,before dumping them into the pot for thickening. Waste not, want not. Slicing onions, he sneaked a glance at his wristwatch and noted that it was only 9:30. His rule was that only if he honestly didn’t get anything done before 11 a.m. could he write off the rest of the day. Even opening a tin of tomatoes and chopping parsley, even counting time to stir for taste, he would still be done before ten, when Mrs. Zwibock arrived for the day. Mrs. Zwibock, with her mindless chatter.
The phone rang.
“Hello, Joshua, I hope I’m not disturbing you.”
“No. no. That’s O.K.”
It was a call he feared. His bank manager, Gibson of the Royal. Would he like him to extend his $10,000 note, his overdraft, for another month? No sweat, mind you.
“Now that’s not a bad idea,” Joshua said, trying to sound casual, adding that as soon as it was convenient he would bring in sterling to cover the note. “You can count on it, Hugh.”
Joshua was now late with his school fees, and he had
“Everybody’s demented today. You’re only seventeen, Alex.”
“So were you when you quit.”
“We’ll talk about it in the morning.”
If Reuben had still been there, Joshua knew what he’d say. His father had actually lasted ten days with them this summer before he began to itch for the streets again. Once, during his visit, Joshua had wandered out after work to discover his father and Alex on the grounds, just this side of the tilting boathouse, with their boxing gloves and helmets on. Reuben Shapiro, once rated “Prospect of the Month” by the exacting Mr. Nat Fleischer, was instructing his grandson, even as he had once coached Joshua, in the fine art of jabbing, attended by Susy and Teddy, the cornermen, ready with towels and pails of water; and by a giggly Pauline, serving as referee.
“Now you try that once more,” Reuben said. “Only remember: my chin’s not here, it’s another foot away. So when you jab at it you’re still gathering speed, get it, you’re not slowing down, anticipating bone, but still coming at me. And then, kid, it’s stick, stick, and away you go. O.K., Pauline, let’s hear it.”
“Ding-a-ling,” Pauline called out. “Ding-a-ling.” And Joshua, filled with delight, thought, Hey, we’re some family. We really are some family.
Drinking out on the porch, glaring at the country club lights across the lake, Joshua realized that he was eventually going to have to get out the Jeep and fetch her. Hell. And then, suddenly, there was a resounding crack of thunder, a rumbling across the water, and the lake was leaping with lightning. He was being pelted. But before retreating into the house, he did notice the clubhouse lights fail. A moment later, even as the lightning struck again, their own lights went out and he was bumping into things, cursing, hunting for a flashlight. O.K., he was going to fetch her, but should he take a knife? Like that other time on Ibiza.
Ibiza, my God, he reflected, dashing for the Jeep, he hadn’t thought about Ibiza in months.
Joshua decided to make a soup. That was constructive. It wasn’t avoiding work. Soup was nourishing for the kids, his responsibility these days. He poured the boiling water into a pot. He cubed six carrots and plunged them into the water. Oh shit, he forgot to peel them. The hell with it. He chopped some cabbage, discarding the moldy bits, diced some celery limp with age, adding salt, pepper, six Knorr chicken cubes, a handful of frozen peas, and last night’s corncobs retrieved from the garbage pail. Never mind, they add taste. He also found some mushrooms, a little slippery, somewhat fuzzy here and there, and wiped them with a dishtowel before adding them to the pot. Then he discovered some abandoned baked potatoes in the bottom tray and scooped them out, mashing vigorously, as they say,before dumping them into the pot for thickening. Waste not, want not. Slicing onions, he sneaked a glance at his wristwatch and noted that it was only 9:30. His rule was that only if he honestly didn’t get anything done before 11 a.m. could he write off the rest of the day. Even opening a tin of tomatoes and chopping parsley, even counting time to stir for taste, he would still be done before ten, when Mrs. Zwibock arrived for the day. Mrs. Zwibock, with her mindless chatter.
The phone rang.
“Hello, Joshua, I hope I’m not disturbing you.”
“No. no. That’s O.K.”
It was a call he feared. His bank manager, Gibson of the Royal. Would he like him to extend his $10,000 note, his overdraft, for another month? No sweat, mind you.
“Now that’s not a bad idea,” Joshua said, trying to sound casual, adding that as soon as it was convenient he would bring in sterling to cover the note. “You can count on it, Hugh.”
Joshua was now late with his school fees, and he had
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