Читать книгу The Vultures - Mark Hannon - Страница 16

11.

Pat scooped another shovelful of the wet, heavy snow, threw it onto the front yard and looked behind him. It’s March already. Gotta be the last snowfall of the year, he thought, another fifteen feet to finish shoveling the driveway. The streetlights came on, and he looked up into the darkening sky as another few snowflakes fell onto his face. He wondered if it would stop soon. He tugged the skier’s headband down farther over his ears and leaned on the shovel. I wonder where Tommy is, he thought, he should be home by now. Pat smiled, thinking about how the boys used to help him shovel the driveway. They had their own tiny orange shovels and would fling snow everywhere. Snowballs thrown and angels made, runny noses and Rita calling them inside for hot chocolate when they were cold and soaked. Rory will never shovel anything again, he thought, as a tear dropped onto his old leather glove.

The side door opened. Rita stuck her head out and, seeing him leaning on the shovel, waited.

“I’ve made some hot chocolate, Pat,” she said after a few moments.

Pat turned and looked at his wife, their eyes meeting. “Ok, mom. Just let us...I’ll finish the driveway and I’ll be in for some.” She waited a few seconds, watched until he turned back to the driveway and returned inside. He took a breath, gripped the shovel and resumed shoveling, the snow flying off the driveway now, faster and faster as he approached the street.

When he finished, Pat straightened up, leaned back to stretch and took a deep breath. Hearing footsteps crunching towards him, Pat looked over and saw his younger son Tom approach down the sidewalk, eyes downcast.

“Hi,” Tom said. They looked at each other in the dark, Pat taking in his son’s long black hair and unearned GI field jacket. Not carrying any books either, he thought.

“Mom’s just made some hot chocolate.”

“Uh-huh.”

They went inside silently, Pat stowing the shovel in the hallway, unzipping his rubber boots and putting them on a mat. Tom kicked the snow off his construction shoes and went through the door into the foyer hallway.

“Pat? Tom?” Rita inquired, knowing their sounds.

“It’s both of us, mom.” Pat said, unbuttoning his long brown overcoat and hanging it up on a hanger in the closet. He reached to take Tom’s coat.

“I got it,” Tom said, putting it on a hook.

“Dinner should be ready in five minutes,” she said. “And I’ve got hot chocolate for the both of you.”

“Great,” Pat said, following Tom through the dining room back towards the kitchen.

“Well,” Rita said, handing Tom a cup of hot chocolate. “How was philosophy today?”

“Irrelevant,” he answered, jutting his chin towards the TV playing in the den, where Dan Rather spoke into a microphone as GIs rushed across a rice paddy in the background. Pat thought about bringing up a story about a war correspondent he’d met in Europe during the war but figured it wouldn’t help and sat down at the kitchen table with the Buffalo Evening News sports page.

As Rita put the plates on the table, Tom sat down and Pat folded the paper and put it away.

“Ah, meat loaf, great for a cold night,” Pat said. Pat and Rita said grace quickly while Tom sat still. Knives and forks in hand, the parents began to eat while Tom poked at his meal.

“Everything ok at school, Tommy?” Rita asked.

“It’s ok. Classes are going fine.”

“How about your friends? We don’t see the kids from high school much anymore.”

“Yeah,” Pat said. “What’s Joey from the wrestling team doing these days? And how about Carmine and young Paul? It seemed like they used to live over here when you guys were in high school.”

“Mmmm, Joe’s working out in Hamburg now at the Ford Plant and those other guys are in school out of town.”

“You could bring some of your new friends over here from UB for dinner sometime, Tommy. They probably get sick of the cafeteria food at school,” Rita said.

“A lot of them live off campus in apartments around town.” He hesitated, then said, “I’ve been meaning to tell you, I’m going to be moving into an apartment with some friends. HR’s roommate George moved out last week and he’s got an empty room. They’re going to be coming by in a little while to help get some of my stuff.”

“Gee, Tommy. This is quick. Is anybody else living there?” Rita asked.

“Move? Move where, Tom?” Pat said.

“On Mariner Street, in Allentown. It’ll be my friend HR and his girlfriend Nancy. It’s cheap, but they could use some help with the rent.”

“Where on Mariner Street?” Pat asked, thinking of recent drug raids in that neighborhood.

“Near Virginia. It’s a brick apartment building, even has a fireplace.”

“Gees, Tom, are you sure you want to do this? You’re walking distance to school here, you don’t have to fix your own meals, you’ve got your own room...” Rita asked.

“Nah, I’ll be able to swing it. I’ve got the job at A.M. & A’s and can catch the bus up Main to school.”

“There’s a lot of junkies down there these days, breaking into houses and cars, mugging people just for what’s in their pockets,” Pat said.

“I know, dad, I can handle it.”

“Does this place have a laundry room, Tommy?” Rita asked.

“Yeah, it does,” he said, thinking of the old washer he’d seen in the basement which HR said never worked.

The doorbell rang, and Tom jumped up to get it.

“Hey man, you ready?” the tall, blonde-haired kid at the door asked.

Pat and Rita got up and walked to the door.

“Hey, howya doin’? I’m HR,” the blonde-haired kid said with a smile, sticking out his hand. Rita shook it, then crossed her arms in front of her chest.

“Pat Brogan.”

“Good to meet you!” the kid said. Pat gave him the once over. Hair parted down the middle, hooded sweatshirt with jean jacket, black dungarees and Army boots. Reddened eyes.

“So, HR, you live down on Mariner Street?” Pat said.

“Yeah, right in the heart of Allentown.”

“You from Buffalo, HR?” Pat continued.

“No...my folks live in White Plains.”

“I see. What do you take at UB, HR?” Rita asked.

“History.”

“You working?” Pat said.

“Uh, not right now. I’m lining up a job over at Markel Electric.”

Tom came down the stairs, an olive-green duffel bag thumping behind him. HR picked up a cardboard box filled with books.

“Mom, dad, I gotta go. I’ll be back for some more of my stuff later. Bye!” and he went out into the driveway, throwing the duffel bag into the rear of the Volkswagen bug.

“Tom! Have you got your all your books?” Rita shouted.

“Yeah mom, I got enough. I’ll get the rest later,” Tom shouted back as the VW backed out.

“I don’t think I like this idea, Pat.”

“That HR kid’s high,” Pat answered. “I’ll go over there tomorrow, check the place out and talk to Tommy. If we’re paying for his schooling, he can’t be sitting around getting high with a bunch of doped up hippies.”

“And who’s this girl that’s living there? Tommy says it’s that HR’s girlfriend.”

“Yeah. He’s been getting good grades, he’s got the job over at the warehouse, but this could really foul him up. I’ll go over there and lay down the law to him.”

As Pat and Rita returned to the table, they caught another report on the TV.

“Communist rockets today destroyed a C-130 landing supplies at the air force base at Pleiku...”

The draft will get him if he doesn’t pass his classes, Rita thought with a shiver.

In the car headed over to the west side, HR couldn’t stop talking.

“This is going to be great, man. We can all ride to school together and hang out in Allentown.”

“Yeah,” Tom said. “It’ll be great. I should have brought my albums with me.” Tom thought about the records and the clothes his parents had bought him this last Christmas, all smiles as he opened his packages. The Stones’ “Let It Bleed” and Jefferson Airplane’s “Volunteers” albums. They didn’t have clue what they were about.

HR waved his hand. “Don’t worry about that, man. Between Nancy and me we’ve got plenty of music. You can get that stuff later.”

“Yeah, later,” Tom said, thinking when and how he could get in and out of the house without seeing his father. He was glad they got out of there as quick as they did, if HR and dad had gotten talking, and HR had found out his dad was a cop…

“You ok with your folks on this, Tom?

“Ennh, not great. They’ll get used to it.”

“What’s your old man do, anyway?”

Tom stiffened. “Uh, he used to work for the city. Now he works for the county.”

“Huh. Petit bourgeois, like my folks. I guess it’ll take some time to get them to understand the world’s changing,” HR said, digging a joint out of his pocket and passing it for Tom to light. They toked carefully as they negotiated traffic downtown.

“When are you going to join the party, man?” HR asked.

Holding the smoke in his lungs a moment more, Tom replied, “Ahh, I’m not into the politics so much,” thinking HR and the World Worker’s Party were pretty far out there. “But I’m with you on stopping the war, man. It’s just insane,” he said, the images of the bodies at My Lai coming to mind and… I wonder what Rory looks like, what he’s feeling now? They got him into this with all the talk about duty and now he’s hurt bad. He used to show me all the moves on the basketball court and got me into wrestling. Now he’s a cripple, and for what?