The Gospel of Winter by Brendan Kiely

Author:Brendan Kiely
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Margaret K. McElderry Books

CHAPTER 8

I was mid dream when I woke up with a start. My head was dropped back onto the couch, resting on top of Mark’s shin. The television still blinked, but the voices I heard weren’t coming from it, they were coming from the kitchen. They were shouting for Mark, and they entered the room before I could really move and process what was happening.

Mike Kowolski swelled into vision, a lavender polo shirt drifting in front of the television. “What the hell is going on?”

Barbara came into the room a moment later and let out a yelp of shock. Mark quickly squirmed into a sitting position and tried to blink himself awake. Sunlight blasted in through the windows. I still had on my jacket, and a film of sweat stuck to me beneath it. Barbara stooped and grabbed the bottle of Midori that stuck out of my pocket. I hadn’t realized it was still there, and I didn’t remember us finishing as much as we did, but its syrupy aftertaste coated my mouth. She held it in the air and showed her husband.

“Pathetic,” he said.

“Dad,” Mark began.

“I don’t want to hear one excuse. I don’t want to hear what happened. Look at the two of you—Jesus Christ, Mark, where the hell are your pants? What are you doing?”

Mark blushed deeply and threw the blanket back over his waist. “No, but Dad—”

“No. Bullshit, bullshit, bullshit. That’s all you have to say for yourself right now. Bullshit. The car is a mess, and you parked it up on part of the lawn. You are lucky to be alive. What a waste. That’s what you want—to waste it all away?”

“Michael,” Barbara said, but she stopped when he looked at her. None of what he was saying was how I remembered it. At the time I thought we had managed all right. I turned to look at Mark, to see how we should respond, but my neck hurt too much.

“Dad,” Mark said again.

“I don’t want to hear it! I don’t want to know how you embarrassed yourself, your name, and mine. This is what I worked for all my life? So you can bring your deadbeat friend to my house and parade around in your underwear? Is that what you think? That you can squander it all away and shit on everything I’ve done?”

“Michael!”

“Dad!”

“Enough,” he said to Mark, and he thrust his stubby forefinger at him.

Barbara stepped over me and sat on the arm of the couch, next to Mark. She put an arm around him and whispered into his ear, “You can tell me what happened, honey. I’ll try not to get too mad.”

Mike paced and muttered. “Completely disrespectful. Completely.” He shook his hand and balled it into a fat fist, and Barbara rocked her son gently.

Mark gazed wide-eyed at the floor. His hands were in his lap, his thumb twitched slightly, and his mouth was drawn into a comatose, flat line. Shouting behind me, Mike asked me to hurry up, and Barbara nodded along, but their protests didn’t scare me as much as Mark’s distance.

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