London Calling Read Online Free PDF Page A

assessment.
    MANETTITHEMAN: Shut up, Pinak.
    PINAKC: You shut up.
    JMARTINC: Do you guys want to hear this or not?
    MANETTITHEMAN: Yeah. Shut up, Pinak.
    JMARTINC: Uncle Bob is my dad’s brother. He lives in Newark now, and he works at the airport.
    MANETTITHEMAN: Is he a pilot?
    JMARTINC: No. He’s a baggage handler.
    PINAKC: Shut up, Manetti.
    MANETTITHEMAN: You shut up.
    JMARTINC: But about seven years ago, he lived with us. He was really depressed—on medications, under a psychiatrist’s care, the whole thing. My dad was trying to help him get back on his feet. He moved into my bedroom, and I had to double up with Margaret. I don’t remember too much else about him until this one day, around Halloween. We were all out front raking leaves. My uncle took a bunch of pills, jumped out of his bedroom window, and landed headfirst on the ground.
    MANETTITHEMAN: Wow. Was he dead?
    JMARTINC: No. Not even close. Just a broken collarbone. The doctor said he was so heavily medicated that his body became totally relaxed, too relaxed for anything else to break.
    MANETTITHEMAN: Awesome.
    PINAKC: That is terrible. Was he hospitalized?
    JMARTINC: No. But he was basement-ized. My parents had walls put up in the basement to make a bedroom for him. Uncle Bob stayed until his collarbone healed, but then he left. He’s up in Newark now. My dad’s up there with him. Before that, my dad lived in the basement, too. Until he passed out one night and nearly set it on fire.

    I didn’t usually write personal family stuff like that, and I regretted it immediately. A long pause followed. Even Manetti drew the line at making fun of my dad. I finally typed in “Gotta go,” and the session mercifully ended.
    Later, I did my duty and walked up to the Acme supermarket. It was about three blocks from our house. The sun really did hurt my eyes. The traffic sounds hurt my ears. The smells in the store hurt my nose. Everything seemed gross and exaggerated to me. Maybe Margaret was right; maybe I was depressed. It was a good thing I lived down in the basement.

    The day ended much the way that it began. I went to sleep right after sundown. The phone rang and I answered it, half-awake, half-asleep. It was from the same phone number as before, but a different voice came through the line. “Martin?”
    “Yes.”
    “It’s Aunt Elizabeth, Martin. Is your mother there?”
    “Yeah. I think so.” I waited a moment; then heard the sound of the phone being picked up.
    “Hello.”
    “Mary? It’s Elizabeth.”
    “Elizabeth? Oh no. Is there something wrong?”
    “Yes. I’m sorry to say there is. Mother is gone.”
    “Oh my God! What happened?”
    “She died in her sleep sometime this afternoon. I got a call at the hospital. The home health worker checked on her at four and found her dead. She said she looked very peaceful.”
    “Oh my God.”
    “It was for the best, though, Mary. She had slipped a lot this month. She had gotten so frail.”
    “I know. I know she had. It’s just . . . so hard to believe.”
    “It is. But believe me, she is gone.” Aunt Elizabeth then added, assuming I would have no idea what she meant, “This time, she is really gone.”

A TRAIN INTO THE PAST
    Nana’s death touched me deeply, though I wouldn’t let anyone know it. I had always felt a mystical connection with her, and I had always sensed that Mom and Aunt Elizabeth disapproved of that connection. The long-term effects of Nana’s death would remain hidden from me for a time, but the short-term effect was clear and immediate. I would have to leave my basement hideout to travel to her funeral with Mom, Margaret, and Dad.
    But first we drove out to the eight a.m. Sunday mass at the All Souls Chapel. Mom fussed at Margaret and me all the way there about what clothes to pack for our trip to Brookline. She was concerned that if we looked shabby in front of Aunt Elizabeth, she’d think that Mom was a secretary, which she was, and that we lived in poverty, which we