Antsy Floats Read Free

prison.
    â€œThe good Lord works in mysterious ways,” my mother said when she heard, “but more so, the IRS.”
    Long story short, Howie’s dad was now in some super-experimental prisoner-only treatment that involves baboon glands. So far it’s had a high success rate in lab rats, but his family is understandably stressed. All that, plus his mom’s spectacular failure in anger management therapy, has left Howie one taco short of a basket case.
    For these reasons, Howie must be handled with less abuse than we normally give him. I usually don’t mind hanging with Howie when there’s someone else around, but one-on-one, he’ll drive a person nuts.
    â€œSpending quality time with Howie is a mitzvah,” Ira once said. “Like giving soup to lepers.”
    Still, the idea of Howie turning up on my doorstep every morning was not my idea of the perfect summer experience—but clearly neither of us was going anywhere.
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    I got indigestion even before dinner that night, thinking about yet another summer with nothing to do. To be honest, my stomach hasn’t been right since spring break, when I visited some classmates in Sweden. Who knew not to drink the water? So now, thanks to my own personal “Stockholm syndrome,” my rumbling stomach registers on the Richter scale, and I half expect the guy from Caltech with the bowl haircut to come on TV and announce the magnitude.
    Anyway, it was while we were eating dinner that night that everything changed, and all because of my father. See, usually my father is a straightforward kind of guy, like me. He says what he thinks, even if it’s moronic and causes him a world of pain. My mom, on the other hand, has got this internal filter that screens out the stuff she’d eventually regret saying. I think Frankie and Christina inherited the filter gene, but I didn’t—which I guess has left me in a special bonding situation with my father. We spend so much time together in the doghouse, we can never get a dog because there’d be no room, except for maybe a Chihuahua, but have you ever seen those things? They’re vicious. Our neighbor got one, and it scares off the Dobermans.
    My dad’s neither a Doberman nor a Chihuahua. He’s more like a German shepherd. Smart, loyal, doesn’t take anything from anybody, but does not get subtlety, and is easily manipulated.
    So that being the case, Mom was totally unprepared for what Dad did at dinner that night.
    Dinner was going along fine until about halfway through the meal, when my dad reached up and scratched his chest right in the middle. It was such a slight gesture, you’d never notice it, unless of course you were my mother, who, like an eagle, can spot a sardine from a treetop a mile away and then intentionally ignore it because sardines are disgusting.
    She didn’t say anything about it the first time, or even the second time—but the third time my dad touched his chest, she said, “What’s the matter, Joe? You want me to get you some water?”
    â€œIt’s nothing,” Dad answered too quickly. “I’ll be fine.” He cleared his throat, coughed a little, and shrugged.
    â€œDid you take your pill?” Mom asked.
    â€œWhat am I, a child? I don’t need you to remind me to take my pill.” He sounded irritable. My dad rarely sounds irritable over such little things—and this was another red flag for my mom.
    Through all of this, Christina and I were looking back and forth between them, wondering where this was going. Frankie, who loses brain function while eating, just shoveled down his chicken tetrazzini, oblivious to the unfolding drama.
    Dad took a few more bites of food, then put down his fork and looked at his hand, clenching his fingers into a fist a few times—kinda the way you might if you felt your fingers going numb.
    â€œJoe, you’re scaring me,” Mom