Read Online Recovering Charles by Jason F. Wright - Free Book Online

shouldn’t legally be called that—to drown my arteries, an enormous box that held maybe eight or nine Milk Duds, and a large ice with Mr. Pibb sprinkled on top.
    The theater was almost empty.
    ~ ~
     
    The A-wing hallway was packed with hyper high school students. Teachers barked and prodded teens from one class to another. I had stopped at my locker just outside Mr. Balfe’s AP business class when I heard Dad’s voice coming from the direction of the front lobby.
    “Luke!”
    He was fast-walking down the hallway toward me.
    “Dad? What are you doing here? Everything OK?” Mom had been gone only a couple months and my counselor at school said Dad was still grieving. I guess we both were.
    He pushed past students in the crowded, narrow stretch of hallway and got close enough that I recognized his favorite sports bar on his breath.
    “Everything’s just fine. You want to break out of here?”
    “What?” I looked around me. “Dad, I can’t, I’ve got Balfe’s class. Are you OK?”
    “I’m great. Just bored. Took off early from work. Come see What About Bob with me downtown.”
    I looked Dad over. He was wearing sweat pants, a golf polo, and tennis shoes without socks.
    “A movie? I can’t, Dad.”
    He reached over and slammed my locker. His voice rose. “Come on, kiddo. Quit being so serious. Your grades are great. Everyone knows what we’ve been dealing with, right? Come on, let’s go have some fun together.”
    “Dad, I’ve got a quiz today. I really can’t.”
    A few of my friends at nearby lockers were tuned in.
    “Fine.” He looked broken. “See you at home.” He turned around and began walking away.
    “Wait, Dad.” I grabbed his sleeve. “Maybe you should sign me out and I’ll drive you home.” I stepped closer. “You can sleep this off—”
    “Hey, there’s nothing to sleep off. I’m good.”
    “Right. I’m sorry.” I noticed Mr. Balfe rounding the corner toward us. “Let’s go.”
    “Yes, yes, yes. Let’s see a matinee and make a memory.”
    “You’re doing a pretty good job of that already,” I whispered. I wasn’t sure which of us should be more embarrassed.
    As inconspicuously as possible, I pulled him alongside me and up the hall toward the office. I walked right past it and out the door.
    “Yes! Here we come, Bill Murray!”
    The Saab was parked in the fire lane. Dad handed me the keys, and I opened the passenger side door. I tossed my book bag in the backseat and got in the driver’s side. I hadn’t quite mastered the stick shift, and as I lurched and screeched out of the parking lot, I looked in the rearview mirror and saw a gaggle of kids watching from the terrace by the flagpole.
    Some of them laughed.
    Some of them knew.
    I don’t recall much about the movie itself. I do remember buying Dad peanuts and a soda and sitting where we always did no matter the theater: eight rows back, middle section. Dad liked to sit right next to me; I preferred a seat in between so we could spread out. That day I remember giving in and sharing the armrest with him.
    I also remember Dad crying.

 

    Chapter
10
     
    Traffic.
    This is why I don’t own a car.
    I reminded myself of this fact several times as I navigated toward the Holland Tunnel and out of the city. I hadn’t had to drive anywhere in over a year and hadn’t even owned a car since high school. At 6:30 am the city was already filling with cars and color-blind pedestrians.
    The buildings became smaller and the highway exits farther apart as I headed west on 78 into Pennsylvania. Not feeling suffocated by skyscrapers was refreshing, but by my first fill-up, I missed the energy of the city. For all its flaws, and there are many, New York is a photographer’s dream.
    Interstate 78 led me to 81 and I began to drive south through Maryland, West Virginia, and into the lush Shenandoah Valley of Virginia. The leaves were only threatening to begin their dance into fall colors, and I almost wished I could park on the side