Read Online Only Son by Kevin O'Brien - Free Book Online Page B

it dazed him for only a second. Then his father grabbed him by the hair. Carl could no longer hold back. Years of silent submission and powerlessness suddenly ended. He punched the old man back, a hard blow to his soft gut. He didn’t stop there. Without thinking, he hit him across the mouth with his fist.
    His father stumbled back into the table. Food, plates, and silverware toppled to the floor. He fell to his knees and held a hand over his mouth. As if in shock, he gazed at the blood on his fingertips.
    Carl stood there, paralyzed with fear. He could barely hear his mother, pleading for them to stop. He’d never seen his father look so angry.
    â€œI’ll show you,” the old man whispered. He grabbed a steak knife off the floor and got to his feet. “C’mon, football hero.”
    â€œNo, Walter…God, please…”
    Carl backed away until he bumped into the breakfront.
    Cutting at the air, his father came closer and closer. He jabbed the knife toward Carl’s face, but Carl lurched to one side. The old man took another swing with the blade. Carl put his hand up, and blood suddenly sprayed onto his father’s white shirt. He’d sliced a deep line across Carl’s palm.
    He came at Carl with the knife again.
    â€œ Fucking asshole! ” Carl kicked the old man in the balls. The knife flew out of his father’s hand. Carl didn’t even realize what he’d done until he blinked and saw his father curled up on the floor, writhing in pain, his hands cupped between his legs. He made a strange, choking sound as he gasped for air. Carl knew what it was like to have the breath knocked out of him.
    He grabbed a napkin and wrapped it around his bleeding hand. The cut would need stitching. It stung, worse than any burn. He looked down at his mother, now kneeling over the old man. “Mom?” Carl said. “Mom, can you drive me to the hospital?” The napkin was already soaked through, dripping blood. “Mom, please…”
    But she just shook her head helplessly, not moving from her place by the old man.
    Carl left them there together, and ran down the block to his friend, Timmy Monda’s house. He told them that his folks were gone for the night and he’d cut himself fixing dinner. Timmy and Mr. Monda drove him to the hospital. Carl gave the same story to the doctor who put six stitches into his hand.
    â€œIt’ll be sore for a couple of days,” the doctor told him. Then he squinted at Carl and touched his bruised cheek. “Say, you’ve got quite a shiner there. How did that happen?”
    â€œOh, well, after I—I cut my hand, I ran into a cabinet. Pretty stupid, huh?”
    â€œPut some ice on that cheek when you get home,” the doctor said.
    Carl nodded and looked away. Just once, he wished someone wouldn’t believe his lies.
    â€œYou’re Walter Jorgenson’s boy, aren’t you?”
    â€œThat’s right,” he murmured.
    â€œGive him my regards. He’s a fine man…fine man.”
    Carl spent the night at the Mondas’ house. He phoned his mother, and she said his father was packing for a business trip. It would be safe to come home the next morning.
    Never again would his father get the best of him. Carl put a swift end to every attack. He didn’t allow the old man to catch him vulnerable or unprepared. He bought a hinged padlock and screwed it to the inside of his bedroom door. He hid the lock and key inside an old pair of gym shoes at the back of his closet, and pulled them out before going to sleep. No more sneak attacks. Often, he’d wake up at night to the sound of his father beating against the secured door, the muted curses as he vainly tried to force it open.
    The knocking wouldn’t stop. Then the doorbell. Carl opened his eyes. He squinted at the shades drawn against the living room windows, and he threw the blanket aside. Climbing off the couch, he glanced at his