Read Online Lloyd Corricelli - Ronan Marino 01 - Two Redheads & a Dead Blonde by Lloyd Corricelli - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Lloyd Corricelli
Ads: Link
red Ford Explorer was parked out front.
“Please tell me you didn’t call Dad.”
“No, Mom. I figured they should know before they heard it somewhere else.”
At times like this, the benefits of living three thousand miles from family were appealing. We used to be a quiet little family that didn’t talk all that much, and that’s how I liked it. Somewhere along the way it all changed. I blamed it on my father who was made to take “people” classes as part of his professional development when he made captain in the fire department. Now he expected all of us to be touchy-feely types who sat around the campfire holding hands and singing “Kumbayah.” I hated that song.
“Thanks for picking me up.”
Marc pulled me into a hug. Damn my father.
“Let me know if there’s anything you need.”
I nodded and got out of his car. Before I reached the front porch, my mother flew out of the house like a drunken bee and hugged me. I hadn’t seen her move that fast since she got food poisoning from some bad chicken and dashed to the bathroom like Jackie Joyner.
“Oh baby, I’m so sorry,” she said. “Do they think you did it?”
“No, it looks like it was an accident,” I replied, not wanting to go into a long discussion about my true thoughts.
My father walked out, and I half-expected him to hug me too. To my relief, he didn’t.
“What are you guys doing here?” I asked.
“We thought maybe you didn’t want to be alone,” Dad said.
I would have settled for a hug from him if they’d leave. Both had that pained, concerned parent look, and I didn’t want them to suffer all day worrying about me. I could suck it up and deal with them for an hour or so.
As much as I loved my parents, they could be a royal pain in the ass. It wouldn’t be so bad if Dad was working but since he retired, he was always looking for something to do. Marc told me that he comes by his station every day, sometimes twice. If he had a hobby, it might occupy his time, but it was evident to my brother and I that we were his hobby. I might have to invest in buying him a model train set to keep him out of our hair.
* * * *
Joseph Dominick Marino was born during World War II. The son of Italian immigrants, he grew up in Revere, a heavily Italian community next to Boston, and put himself through Malden Catholic High School. After graduating, he enlisted in the Marines and went off to a place called Vietnam, where he liked it so much he volunteered for a second tour. Highly decorated for valor, he returned not to a hero’s reception but to protests and hippies calling him a “baby killer.”
I asked why he put up with it, and he said those people were “commie” plants sent to discredit the military. He didn’t want to give them ammunition by proving them right by smacking them around. To my father, everyone out of the mainstream in the sixties, from John Lennon to Jim Morrison, were communist plants.
When the military discharged him, he used his G.I. bill and entered what was then called Lowell State College. That’s where he met my mother, Karol Lee Kelly. That’s right, an Irish girl, Protestant to boot. Their parents were against it, but it was love at first sight and six months later Mom and Dad were married. A year later I was born. Soon after, the Lowell Fire Department hired him, so he dropped out of the university and spent the next thirty-three years on the city payroll.
While I was growing up, there were stretches where he would be gone for days down at the station. When he was home, he always made sure to spend quality time with Marc and me. We had some great whiffle ball games out in the backyard in the summer and snowball fights in the winter.
He also spent a lot of time talking to us about things like pride, honor and loyalty–personal attributes the Corps and his own father had instilled in him. I didn’t really understand what he was talking about at the time, but as I got older his lessons served me
“Please tell me you didn’t call Dad.”
“No, Mom. I figured they should know before they heard it somewhere else.”
At times like this, the benefits of living three thousand miles from family were appealing. We used to be a quiet little family that didn’t talk all that much, and that’s how I liked it. Somewhere along the way it all changed. I blamed it on my father who was made to take “people” classes as part of his professional development when he made captain in the fire department. Now he expected all of us to be touchy-feely types who sat around the campfire holding hands and singing “Kumbayah.” I hated that song.
“Thanks for picking me up.”
Marc pulled me into a hug. Damn my father.
“Let me know if there’s anything you need.”
I nodded and got out of his car. Before I reached the front porch, my mother flew out of the house like a drunken bee and hugged me. I hadn’t seen her move that fast since she got food poisoning from some bad chicken and dashed to the bathroom like Jackie Joyner.
“Oh baby, I’m so sorry,” she said. “Do they think you did it?”
“No, it looks like it was an accident,” I replied, not wanting to go into a long discussion about my true thoughts.
My father walked out, and I half-expected him to hug me too. To my relief, he didn’t.
“What are you guys doing here?” I asked.
“We thought maybe you didn’t want to be alone,” Dad said.
I would have settled for a hug from him if they’d leave. Both had that pained, concerned parent look, and I didn’t want them to suffer all day worrying about me. I could suck it up and deal with them for an hour or so.
As much as I loved my parents, they could be a royal pain in the ass. It wouldn’t be so bad if Dad was working but since he retired, he was always looking for something to do. Marc told me that he comes by his station every day, sometimes twice. If he had a hobby, it might occupy his time, but it was evident to my brother and I that we were his hobby. I might have to invest in buying him a model train set to keep him out of our hair.
* * * *
Joseph Dominick Marino was born during World War II. The son of Italian immigrants, he grew up in Revere, a heavily Italian community next to Boston, and put himself through Malden Catholic High School. After graduating, he enlisted in the Marines and went off to a place called Vietnam, where he liked it so much he volunteered for a second tour. Highly decorated for valor, he returned not to a hero’s reception but to protests and hippies calling him a “baby killer.”
I asked why he put up with it, and he said those people were “commie” plants sent to discredit the military. He didn’t want to give them ammunition by proving them right by smacking them around. To my father, everyone out of the mainstream in the sixties, from John Lennon to Jim Morrison, were communist plants.
When the military discharged him, he used his G.I. bill and entered what was then called Lowell State College. That’s where he met my mother, Karol Lee Kelly. That’s right, an Irish girl, Protestant to boot. Their parents were against it, but it was love at first sight and six months later Mom and Dad were married. A year later I was born. Soon after, the Lowell Fire Department hired him, so he dropped out of the university and spent the next thirty-three years on the city payroll.
While I was growing up, there were stretches where he would be gone for days down at the station. When he was home, he always made sure to spend quality time with Marc and me. We had some great whiffle ball games out in the backyard in the summer and snowball fights in the winter.
He also spent a lot of time talking to us about things like pride, honor and loyalty–personal attributes the Corps and his own father had instilled in him. I didn’t really understand what he was talking about at the time, but as I got older his lessons served me
Similar Books
