Read Online Monday Mornings: A Novel by Sanjay Gupta - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Sanjay Gupta
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until dark and sometimes later. Football. Baseball. Basketball. Wrestling. It didn’t matter. There were constant tests of athletic skills, of toughness. And there were dares, usually from the older kids. Run across the yard with the Doberman. Ding Dong ditch Ed Dobierski, who was known to have a shotgun by the door. Sprint down the train trestle as the locomotive approached. Young George thrived on these and other challenges and spent most of his waking hours roaming the streets or playing in the park.
Villanueva couldn’t have gone home after school if he’d wanted to. His mother actually locked him out of the house until dinner. This prevented her rapidly growing son, whom she called Jorge until the day she died, from devouring all the food she was cooking. It also kept him from messing up her orderly house. Villanueva never imagined he’d live in the type of gargantuan home he and his now ex-wife purchased. Maybe that’s why he’d gone along with her. It was beyond his imagination—even if it was god-awful.
Villanueva turned his Jeep into the drive and pulled up to the front door. A thin film of sweat covered his face, and his head pounded from the previous night’s rum and Cokes at his favorite bar, O’Reilly’s. He had left alone, much to his chagrin, and he made a mental note that he needed to drop a few pounds. It was definitely hurting his mojo at the Irish pub. Villanueva had found the bar as his marriage was falling apart. It was close to the hospital, for one thing. Even more important, O’Reilly’s was small, dark, and unpretentious. There were no plants, and the decor consisted of plastic beer lights and other handouts from distributors, plus the odd knickknacks brought by customers. There were Michigan and Michigan State football helmets gathering dust on a shelf behind the bar. Assorted bumper stickers adorned the beer coolers below the bottles of hard alcohol. One read: YOUR PROCTOLOGIST CALLED, HE FOUND YOUR HEAD . And another: MY MIND IS LIKE A STEEL TRAP: RUSTY AND ILLEGAL IN 37 STATES . O’Reilly’s was the way a bar should be, in George’s view. It was the kind of place where the bartender didn’t blink if someone ordered a boilermaker and didn’t need to find a book to make a sidecar or some other cocktail from another era. Of course, George’s drink was simple enough, rum and Coke. He loved the Havana Club dark Cuban rum the best. Villanueva saw it as the perfect synergy of caffeine and alcohol. A little too perfect.
Toward the end of his marriage, Villanueva had come home so drunk a couple of times, he wasn’t sure which of the identical curving roads in the enormous, labyrinthine development was his own. They all had botanical names—Magnolia Lane, Azalea Circle, Ivy Trace—and he couldn’t read the signs in the dark in his inebriated condition anyway. They were all bracketed by nearly identical, imposing brick homes that screamed for all to see that the owners had “made it.” And they all ended in cul-de-sacs, with grassy round circles at the end for the children to play on if they ever got off the Nintendos or Xboxes or PlayStations and went outside. Cul-de-sacs . Even that got under Villanueva’s skin. “When I was growing up, we called ’em dead ends,” he would tell his ex when he wanted to get a rise out of her.
George rang the bell, hoping Nick was not on some computer game with the volume cranked. No answer. He rang again. No sign of Lisa. He guessed she was off shopping, making sure she spent every dime of the fifteen thousand in living expenses George paid each month. By arrangement of the court and the “his and hers” divorce attorneys Villanueva paid for, Sunday was George’s day with his son this week. Still no answer. George balled up his fist into the size of small ham and rapped on the door. He could hear the sound of the knock dissipate in the chilled, dead air.
George rubbed his throbbing temples and bent over to look through the window. He was
Villanueva couldn’t have gone home after school if he’d wanted to. His mother actually locked him out of the house until dinner. This prevented her rapidly growing son, whom she called Jorge until the day she died, from devouring all the food she was cooking. It also kept him from messing up her orderly house. Villanueva never imagined he’d live in the type of gargantuan home he and his now ex-wife purchased. Maybe that’s why he’d gone along with her. It was beyond his imagination—even if it was god-awful.
Villanueva turned his Jeep into the drive and pulled up to the front door. A thin film of sweat covered his face, and his head pounded from the previous night’s rum and Cokes at his favorite bar, O’Reilly’s. He had left alone, much to his chagrin, and he made a mental note that he needed to drop a few pounds. It was definitely hurting his mojo at the Irish pub. Villanueva had found the bar as his marriage was falling apart. It was close to the hospital, for one thing. Even more important, O’Reilly’s was small, dark, and unpretentious. There were no plants, and the decor consisted of plastic beer lights and other handouts from distributors, plus the odd knickknacks brought by customers. There were Michigan and Michigan State football helmets gathering dust on a shelf behind the bar. Assorted bumper stickers adorned the beer coolers below the bottles of hard alcohol. One read: YOUR PROCTOLOGIST CALLED, HE FOUND YOUR HEAD . And another: MY MIND IS LIKE A STEEL TRAP: RUSTY AND ILLEGAL IN 37 STATES . O’Reilly’s was the way a bar should be, in George’s view. It was the kind of place where the bartender didn’t blink if someone ordered a boilermaker and didn’t need to find a book to make a sidecar or some other cocktail from another era. Of course, George’s drink was simple enough, rum and Coke. He loved the Havana Club dark Cuban rum the best. Villanueva saw it as the perfect synergy of caffeine and alcohol. A little too perfect.
Toward the end of his marriage, Villanueva had come home so drunk a couple of times, he wasn’t sure which of the identical curving roads in the enormous, labyrinthine development was his own. They all had botanical names—Magnolia Lane, Azalea Circle, Ivy Trace—and he couldn’t read the signs in the dark in his inebriated condition anyway. They were all bracketed by nearly identical, imposing brick homes that screamed for all to see that the owners had “made it.” And they all ended in cul-de-sacs, with grassy round circles at the end for the children to play on if they ever got off the Nintendos or Xboxes or PlayStations and went outside. Cul-de-sacs . Even that got under Villanueva’s skin. “When I was growing up, we called ’em dead ends,” he would tell his ex when he wanted to get a rise out of her.
George rang the bell, hoping Nick was not on some computer game with the volume cranked. No answer. He rang again. No sign of Lisa. He guessed she was off shopping, making sure she spent every dime of the fifteen thousand in living expenses George paid each month. By arrangement of the court and the “his and hers” divorce attorneys Villanueva paid for, Sunday was George’s day with his son this week. Still no answer. George balled up his fist into the size of small ham and rapped on the door. He could hear the sound of the knock dissipate in the chilled, dead air.
George rubbed his throbbing temples and bent over to look through the window. He was
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