Savior Read Online Free PDF Page B

starting towards Ricky.
    Hey, you too. Take care of yourself.
    Al walked down to where Ricky was standing. For a fifteen year old he was tall, almost as tall as Al; but inside, where it counted, he was still a little boy.
    Looking good, kid.
    That was my best one.
    I almost stood up. I feel like I'm almost there.
    Yeah. Just got to keep working at it, Dad.
    Ready for breakfast?
    Yeah.
    They walked back down the beach to the road. The tide was starting to go out. Al thought that a few more days and they would forget they'd ever been anywhere else. Hunger was making him almost delirious, though. He thought of Mary and said a prayer to himself for her.
    Your Mom would be proud of you, Ricky.
    I know, Dad. She didn't care that I wasn't playing football. She was proud of me for standing up to you on that.
    You're right. She was. And you were right not to play. Although I think you would have found it a worthwhile and rewarding challenge.
    Dad. Don't start.
    Well, you brought it up.
    They were silent. The ugly subject of football had reared again. Now it would take a while. Al thought he should have just let it go. Next time Ricky brought it up, just not say a thing. First he'd been angry with Ricky for not going out for the high school team in ninth grade. As an eighth grader he'd been the leading rusher for the program, primed for high school success. Mary, of course, had backed her son up in his decision to take a couple of years and find out what he really loved to do. The day in ninth grade he'd said football was boring, Al had exploded on him and accused him of being a quitter. The worst thing he'd ever called his son and the worst insult he could think of. Al's passions sometimes got the best of him. Why did he care so much? Had he no life? Probably because his son's triumphs in his former arenas lit some vicarious flame in the hippocampus region, the circuitry charred out in the extended adolescence of American males, stuck in some Johnny Unitas loop of positive stimuli. Self-doubt settled like a filter in the air, a momentary pall on the day. How absurd could he be, a middle-aged man pretending to master a sport for boys half his age so that he could relate to his son? It was preposterous and made him into a half-pretentious nitwit. But then, he thought, it was fun. F. . .U. . .N, the three letters that justified any pursuit. This was the de facto philosophy of the street he argued against sometimes with Ricky. How fun was not enough. But as a defining concept, a rule of thumb. . . , it was good, as long as you didn't hurt anybody. As long as basic needs had been met, so you were basically talking about a higher pursuit. Interchangeable concepts. Fun. Good. The smiling grace of the Puritan heartland. Fun. The someday over the rainbow, the prettiest girl you ever saw, the Higgs inside the Higgs Boson.
    A hot shower calmed him down. Afterwards he sat in a chair and saw himself wasting the rest of the day in a lazy funk. The sound of the water running as Ricky took his turn reminded him that Ricky was still brooding, sunk in his own thoughts.
    The thing about Ricky was his soul was better, more refined by the waves of time. That was the way with sons. They were generally improved versions of their fathers, and it was what eventually made everything all right. As a father, he could officially just relax and spend some time in a chair, half-dressed, because Ricky would take care of business, kick his ass into shape , and get them up to the corner to do the shopping they needed to do.
    Dad, come on. I'm hungry.
    The town was within walking distance. It consisted of a crossroads deli market run by German hippies, the Yoga Institute further up in the hills, various bodegas along the road in both directions, north and south, the Computer Center where you apparently could connect with your social media, and various tourist restaurants and hangouts such as the Gilded Iguana, which advertised Live Music Tonite in neon-colored,