Read Online Mr. Bones by Paul Theroux - Free Book Online

out most evenings. At the other, smaller house we’d moved from, he was always at home after work, and in the early days of this new one—the bigger house that Mother hated—he was usually in his chair, dressed in flannel pajamas and a fuzzy bathrobe, reading the
Globe
under a lamp in the corner. But after that first night, with “Mandy,” and then the jokes, and the tambourine, as Mr. Bones, he was out at night, sometimes didn’t come home for supper, or if he did, it was “Pass the mouse turd” or, holding the pepper shaker, “This is how I feel, like pulverized pepper—fine!”
    â€œThe oil burner’s back on the fritz,” Mother said.
    Any mention of a problem with the house these days made Dad smile his Mr. Bones smile and roll his eyes.
    â€œHeard about the King of England? He’s got a
royal
burner.”
    â€œWe’ll have to get Mel to look at it.”
    â€œTambo is a busy man, yes he is. Says to me, ‘What is the quickest way to the emergency ward?’ I says, ‘Tambo, just you stand in the middle of the road.’”
    Mother did not react, except to say, “It’s giving off a funny smell.”
    â€œGiving off a funny smell!” Dad said, and put one finger in the air, what I now recognized as a Mr. Bones gesture—he was about to say something and wanted attention. “Mr. Interlocutor, what is the difference between an elephant passing wind and a place where you might go for a drink?”
    â€œI don’t think you understand,” Mother said in a strained voice. “This house hasn’t been right since the day we moved in. First it was the roof, then the paint, then the plumbing. Now it’s the heat. We’re not going to have any hot water. Everything’s
wrong.
”
    Dad held his chin in his hand, as I’d seen him do at the store. He thought a moment, then looked around the table and said, “Mr. Interlocutor, the difference between an elephant passing wind and the place where you might go for a drink is—one is a barroom and the other is a
bar-rooom!
”
    He said it so loud we jumped. He didn’t laugh. He drew his chair next to Mother and sang.
    Â 
Rosie, you are my posie,
You are my heart’s bouquet.
Come out here in the moonlight,
There’s something sweet, love,
I want to say.
    Â 
    Mother looked awkward and sad. She wasn’t angry. In a way, by clowning, Dad took her mind off the problems of the house. She could not get his attention. And who was he anyway? He had a different voice, a jaunty manner.
    It wasn’t any kind of joking I’d heard before from him. His teasing was more like mocking and bullying. He wouldn’t call Mel Hankey anything but Tambo, and John Flaherty was Lightning. They had never been close friends before—he had no friends—but now he had Tambo and Lightning and Mr. Interlocutor.
    â€œMorrie Daigle said he’d help you fix the roof.”
    â€œMr. Interlocutor is too hot to do that. He is so hot he will only read fan mail.”
    That was how we found out who Mr. Interlocutor was.
    â€œHave you lost your wallet?” Dad said to Floyd.
    â€œNo,” Floyd said, and clapped his hand to his pocket.
    â€œGood. Then give me the five dollars you owe me.”
    Floyd made a face, looked helpless, thrashed a little. It was true that Dad had given him five dollars, but he had not brought it up before this.
    Dad said, “Hear about the Indian who had a red ant?”
    I didn’t understand that one at all. I pictured an Indian with an insect. It made no sense.
    There was something abrupt and deflecting in his humor. He made a joke and seemed to expand, pushing the house and his job aside. He’d been at the new job for six months now and never mentioned it. I had seen him in the store, not working but sitting in the chair where the shoe customers were supposed to sit, and instead of waiting on them, or