Read Online The Unthinkable Thoughts of Jacob Green by Joshua Braff - Free Book Online

each of us what we’re grateful for this week. In the past it’s been easy to say the right thing: I’m grateful for Mom, for Dad, for the weekend, for the food Mom made for dinner. But lately he’s been disappointed if our answers are what he deems “thoughtless.” Asher says he’s grateful for his skateboard for three straight weeks in October. My father calls him into his bedroom after dinner. He explains how ridiculous it is for someone to be grateful for a piece of fiberglass on wheels. “I’m grateful for my
skate
board,” my father mimics as he removes his cuff links. “I’m grateful for the little wheels and the little stickers I put on it. I got a question for ya,” he says. “What do you think Anne Frank would be grateful for?”
    “Anne Frank?”
    “Yes, Anne Frank. If she didn’t die of typhus in Bergen-Belsen and had the chance to be grateful?”
    “I have no idea.”
    “Well, try.”
    “I don’t know.”
    “You think she’d say something as moronic as a skateboard? Do you? You think she’d take the time to acknowledge the . . . the . . .
wheels
and . . . all the new stickers. Somehow I don’t. I just don’t see it.”
    I begin thinking of what I might say from the time school lets out on Fridays. I’m grateful for Anne Frank. I’m grateful for Jerusalem and Israel Bonds. I’m grateful for synagogues and shank bones and the chills I get when Jews win Oscars. But I’m most grateful that neither of you know that I’m the stupidest person in the fourth grade. You see, Mom and Dad, if Moishe eats 4 pieces of bacon on Monday and 12 shrimp on Tuesday and 48 links of sausage on Wednesday and 612 oysters on Thursday and 8,000 Christ wafers on Friday and—
    “Jacob?”
    “Yes?”
    “It’s your turn,” my father says, resting his chin in his palm. “Tell us what made you grateful this week.”
    “I’m grateful it’s the weekend . . . and . . . for you and Mom.”
    “Thank you for that. What else?”
    “And, I’m grateful that I made a new friend so fast. In Piedmont.”
    “Jonny, right?” my mom says.
    “Yeah.”
    “He’s a sweetie.”
    “Okay,” my Dad says. “Anything else?”
    “No. That’s it.”
    “Asher?” my father says.
    My brother shifts in his chair but says nothing.
    “Asher,” he repeats.
    I glance over at him. He’s got his cloth napkin wrapped around his hand.
    “Uh,” he says. “Let’s see.”
    How about the Unthinkable? I ask him in my mind. He’d have so much to say: Um. Right. Hi. I’m supergrateful that neither of you know that I store about twenty mock firearms in the tunnels of our new air-conditioning system. In Rock-ridge I had to keep them buried in a box in the yard so this is really lucky. If you were to remove the grate in the floor of my room and reach your arm down and to the right, you’d feel the handle of a fake 357 Magnum with laser sighting. I also own three pump rifles, a BB gun with an attachable scope and over ten high-powered water pistols that can shoot up to thirty-five feet if it’s not too windy. And Jesus fucking Christ I’m grateful neither of you know how many porno mags I keep in the removable headboard of my bed frame. I’m also grateful you don’t know that I let Jacob look at them and that we read the filthy articles out loud to each other and laugh our asses off at all the variations of the words
penis, breast,
and
vagina.
Did you know that breasts are also known as fun-bags, honkers, headlights, and bezongas? So, I’m grateful I found a way to own the weapons I’m forbidden and I’m supergrateful for the publishers that print
Skank
,
Beaver Hunt
,
Cans,
and
Coozey Digest.
    “I guess . . . I’m grateful it’s the weekend,” he says with his head lowered, nudging his fork.
    My father reaches for Asher’s wrist and lifts his hand away from the silverware. “Can you just
leave
it?” he says with a hint of fury, and nods to show he’s still listening.
    “Mommy, I’m hungry,” Gabe says, his