The Son of Someone Famous

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Book: The Son of Someone Famous Read Online Free PDF
Author: M.E. Kerr
invented,” my grandfather said. “I’d celebrate that day, all right.”
    The White House scene was off the screen and there was a story about a train wreck being televised. My grandfatherwent into the kitchen for another beer. I sat there watching the train wreck without really seeing it. I was thinking about my father. I wondered what my father said to people like the President and the Vice-President. I wondered if he ever interrupted them by saying, “Hell, that’s manifest knowledge, don’t bore me with it,” as he often said to me; or, “Don’t mouth other people’s opinions. Form your own!”
    When the telephone rang, I made no effort to answer it. A lot of people in Storm pestered my grandfather by calling him up to recite the symptoms of their cats and dogs. That way they decided whether or not the symptoms were serious enough to warrant a visit to Dr. Cutler. My grandfather was always polite and helpful, but I think it hurt him a lot. He never blamed Cutler outright for anything; he never said Cutler had stolen his practice, though that was the rumor in Storm. Marlon Fredenberg had told me that much the first week I was there. All my grandfather ever said about Cutler was that he had his reasons for not wanting anything to do with Cutler, and that included talking about Cutler. Marlon Fredenberg said the least Cutler could have done was ask my grandfather to assist him, but Cutler just bought him out; that ended that.
    â€œPhone’s for you!” my grandfather called from the kitchen.
    I went out to answer it, figuring that if it was my father asking me to guess where he was calling from, I’d just say, “I suppose you’re at Buckingham Palace, or the Kremlin, or the White House,” to sort of take the wind out of his sails. I don’t know why I wanted to do that, particularly. I just did.I wasn’t much of a loving son. I should have been glad he’d call me at all.
    â€œA.J.? How would you like a visitor for Christmas?” It wasn’t my father. It was Billie Kay calling from New York City.
    â€œYou mean you’d come here?” I said. I was really glad to hear her voice, but in a way I couldn’t picture Billie Kay in Storm. She liked luxury too much. I couldn’t see her in my grandfather’s house.
    â€œI’ll stay at the hotel,” she said. “Will you and your grandfather invite me for Christmas dinner?”
    â€œWell, I don’t know about that,” I said. I knew Billie Kay would expect this gala feast; she was very big on holidays and celebrating. I didn’t see how I could ask my grandfather to spend the money on a turkey and all the trimmings, and my own allowance was too small. Then too, I remembered my grandfather’s last call to Late Night Larry. He’d told Late Night Larry Christmas wasn’t even celebrated in the early days in New England, because it was a feast day of the Church of England, against which the Pilgrims and Puritans were in rebellion. In 1659 a law was passed imposing a fine on anyone celebrating Christmas. (“You don’t say!” Late Night Larry had responded. My grandfather had said, “I do say! Thanksgiving was the important day! Not this phony Christmas!”)
    â€œLet me talk to my grandfather,” I told Billie Kay. I put my hand over the mouthpiece so she wouldn’t hear our conversation.
    â€œIt’s Billie Kay,” I said. “She wants to make a big dealover Christmas, but I’d just as soon tell her we don’t go in for phony holidays.”
    â€œWe don’t go in for fancy holidays,” my grandfather said, “but we’ll cook up a meal she won’t forget. Tell her to come, A.J.”
    â€œAre you sure?” I said.
    â€œIs the Pope Catholic?” he said.
    â€œBillie Kay,” I said, “we’d love to have you.”
    â€œGreat, A.J. I’m bringing Janice. I hope you
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