My Father More or Less

Начало книги

I had a dream the night before last in which I had already made the trip to London and had unwittingly got into a fight with my father at Customs. We had both bought souvenir penknives from an airport shop and as a joke, as what I thought was a joke, were slicing the buttons off each other’s jackets. He gets angry for no apparent reason — I had done nothing he hadn’t done first — and he says, Tom, I’m going to teach you a lesson you’ll remember for as long as you live. I say I’m sorry, but he jabs me with the knife, ripping a fist-size hole in the side of my jacket. The knife withdraws with a rosebud of blood at its point. You’ve gone too far, I say, astonished at the blood. He shuffles around, taunting me with the knife, saying, Come on, come on, let’s see what you’re made of. Although I am angry, I mean only to defend myself, not to strike back. When he thrusts his knife at my heart — it’s as if he really means to kill me — I spear him in the back of the hand, the blade sticking, snapping off at the handle. It seems not to bother him and he comes at me again, slashing the air, pricking me in the thumb, the blade of my knife lodged like a wing in the back of his hand. You shit-faced son of a bitch, he yells. His thrusts are without force, are easily defended against. At some point I notice that the front of his shirt is thick with blood. I think, How will I get back to America if the old man dies.

Читать дальше →