Free American Boy by Larry Watson

landing hard. And then he pushed himself up onto his hands and knees just in time to throw up a foul, purple, potato chip-flecked liquid.
    “Oh, shit!” exclaimed Louisa.
    Johnny’s back arched over and over with the force of his retching. Finally, the coughing and convulsing stopped. He almost pitched forward into his own vomit, but somehow he managed to roll over onto his back.
    “Oh no you don’t,” said Louisa. “Sit up! Up, up!” She reached for him, and Johnny lifted his arms toward her limply.
    She grabbed his wrists and pulled him up roughly. Then she let go of Johnny slowly, waiting to see if he’d collapse again. He didn’t.
    “How about you?” Louisa asked me. “You going to lose your lunch, too?”
    The fetid stench of vomit filled the air, but my stomach held. “Not me.”
    “Hey,” said Johnny, “I missed the basket.”
    “You sure did,” I replied. “But you hit damn near everything else.”
    “If you think you’re finished,” Louisa said to Johnny, “I’ll go get the bucket and mop.”
    “I am ... finished,” Johnny said with the gesture of an umpire calling a runner safe.
    “Why the hell,” Louisa said, pinching her nostrils, “did I ever let myself think I was done cleaning up puke?”
    “I know where the mop is,” I said. “I’ll go get it.”
    “Forget it,” said Louisa, heading toward the stairs. “I’m still in practice.”
    She started down the steps, then stopped suddenly. I could hear the attic door creak open.
    “I thought I heard something up here.” It was Dr. Dunbar.
    Louisa must not have been very drunk, for she seemed to ascend the steps backward without any difficulty. At the top, she continued to back up, situating herself in such a way as to block Dr. Dunbar’s view of his drunken son. She wrapped the cardigan around herself as she did so.
    Wearing a hat and overcoat still, the doctor stepped up into the attic. “Celebrating 1963 a little early, are we?” he said with a laugh.
    His smile vanished, however, once he saw the overturned baby carriage and smelled the vomit and cigar smoke. Dr. Dunbar peered around Louisa into the darkness, where his son now sat on his haunches under the attic’s low ceiling. “Johnny? What the hell is going on up here?”
    “Hap-Pee New Year!” said Johnny.
    As if he knew immediately that his son would not be able to provide a coherent explanation for what had happened, Dr. Dunbar turned to Louisa and me.
    “I was on my way to get something to clean up the mess,” Louisa said meekly.
    That left me to explain, but Johnny saved me by struggling to his feet just in time.
    “Are you all right?” Dr. Dunbar asked his son.
    “I will be,” Johnny said, listing unsteadily from side to side.
    It made me dizzy to watch Johnny teetering, and I had to look away.
    Dr. Dunbar walked over to the carriage and lifted it upright. He rolled it back and forth a few feet, as if it were important to make certain it was still operating properly. Then he walked the length of the attic slowly, like a general inspecting his troops. He stopped and stared down at the record player, as if it—rather than the beer cans or brandy bottle or brimming ashtray—would provide some final answer.
    He tilted his hat back and then turned abruptly. “I have to drive out to the Preston place. That’s why I came home. Mr. Preston called and said his wife is having abdominal pains. Louisa, can you help Johnny get into bed?”
    She nodded.
    “And Matthew, you won’t be spending the night here. If you’re not sober enough to walk home, I’ll give you a ride.”
    “I can walk,” I said.
    “You might want to tell your mother about this little escapade. She’ll hear about it in any case. I’ll be talking to her tomorrow. So think very carefully about what you say.”
    “Okay.”
    My response must have sounded flippant. “Okay?” the doctor replied. “You’re damn right it’s ‘okay.’ Now get the hell out of here. Your New Year’s