Free The 25th Hour by David Benioff Page B

will strip-search him, and they will fingerprint him – again.
    Monty doesn’t mention Otisville or the Corvette or the principle of sway to his father. Instead, he says, ‘I didn’t hear you complaining when you were borrowing money. Not a word back then.’
    ‘No. You’re right. That was a mistake.’
    Mr Brogan remembers when Monty was an infant, red-skinned and kicking. The boy would squeeze his eyes shut and pound on the blue blanket he lay on, wailing weakly – short, stuttered cries – in the months before his lungs were strong enough for true volume. His mother would pick him up from the crib, one hand supporting his head; she would walk with him and sing to him. She could never hold a tune but Monty did not seem to mind; he watched her obsessively, his green eyes locked on her green eyes. Or she would read to him from a picture book while his fuzzed head rested on her breast. She would read to him and he would listen quietly, long before he knew what the words meant: Goodnight stars, goodnight air, goodnight noises everywhere . And Mr Brogan would stand in doorways, always a little apart. Not jealous exactly, but maybe a little jealous, always conscious that this was an alliance to which he could only be witness.
    There was something fierce about the boy’s love for his mother and her love for him. They were a beautiful pair. Later, when they marched down the street together, his handclutching hers, people turned to watch them, smiling. What a darling boy . She had insisted on naming her son after Montgomery Clift, her favorite actor, and she got her wish over her husband’s objections. Back then Mr Brogan felt uneasy about the name; he thought it was bad luck to name their only child after a fallen movie star. But Montgomery it was, and Mr Brogan was glad to see that the boy looked like his mother: the same rich black hair; the same small, even teeth; the same straight nose; the same eyes, so green as to be unsettling. He was a beautiful boy and he grew into a beautiful man, and Mr Brogan was always proud to have such a handsome son. Now, though, he wishes Monty were a little less handsome.
    ‘I’ve got to get going, Dad. I’m meeting the boys in a few minutes.’ The veal chop sits half eaten on Monty’s plate.
    ‘I’ll be there tomorrow,’ says Mr Brogan. He removes his wallet from the inside pocket of his jacket.
    ‘Tomorrow? What for? I get on a bus and I’m gone.’
    ‘Forget the bus. I’ll drive you. It’ll take half as long.’
    Monty frowns, wiping his mouth with his napkin and backing his chair away from the table. ‘No, thanks, Dad. I’d rather say goodbye here.’
    Mr Brogan pulls a small photograph from his wallet and hands it to his son. ‘Take this. They’ll let you keep it.’
    Monty holds the picture carefully in his fingers. The three of them, the whole family, stand before a lavishly decorated tree. On the back, written in pencil: Christmas Eve , 1976. Monty at six, wearing yellow Mighty Mouse pajamas, holding his mother’s hand and staring at the floor. Mr Brogan remembers how they had pleaded with the boy to smile, had joked and coaxed and threatened, all to no avail.
    Mr Brogan tells the story and Monty nods, though he doesn’t remember any of it. But it hurts him to see how lovely she was, how young. Because he cannot remember her that way; he cannot remember her beautiful, only wasted and crooked on the hospital bed.
    Mr Brogan clears his throat. ‘She—;’
    ‘Don’t, Dad,’ says Monty, still looking at her face. ‘Not now.’
    Monty carefully inserts the photograph in his own wallet, lays down money for the check, stands, kisses his father on the forehead, and walks out of the restaurant. Mr Brogan closes his eyes and listens to his own breathing. He has one wife and she’s buried in Woodlawn; he has one son and he’s headed for Otisville.

Eight
    A faceless man knocks on the door in Naturelle’s dream, but the sound is all wrong, the knocks too