Free A Lost King: A Novel by Raymond Decapite

then?”
    â€œCut it open and taste it.”
    Regas laughed and laughed. Along with everyone he was laughing when that joke was forgotten. I started to slip out of the house like a thief and walk over to Scranton Avenue to meet Sam Ross. Laughter in the alley went a little hard with mockery and seemed to follow me everywhere. It followed my father closer. He was brooding until he turned completely against that job. Just about then I surprised him by going downtown to pay the semi-annual tax on the house. It came to ninety dollars. He thought it over and held it against me as though I had moved to undermine his remaining power and authority. He sat on the porch and blew up a cloud of pipe smoke when he saw me coming from work with a watermelon lifted like a prize in the palm of my hand.
    Day after day I brought watermelon home. I brought quarters and halves and then for Sunday I brought a whole one. The refrigerator was loaded. I tried to eat as much as I was bringing. I would have a big smiling cut of it for supper. After cleaning the kitchen I played the harmonica. Music gave me a taste for more melon. I ate another piece and it washed me so fresh and clean inside that I played the harmonica again. Before going to bed I ate another piece of melon. Around three in the morning I woke to eat again. It was like a spell on me. My shirts and trousers and underclothes were stained with juice. I found seeds in my pockets and shoes. It seemed that whenever I turned around my father was watching me spit seeds idly into the garbage pail in front of my chair. There were times in the evening when the only sound was the tick of seeds against the sides of that metal pail. Toward the end I think my father was coming awake at three in the morning to stare in the dark and listen to the dry tick of seeds.
    My talk failed to help the situation.
    â€œThis piece isn’t bad,” I would say. “It’s better than the one I had yesterday. Still, the one I had Monday was best of all. I wish I could find another melon like that. I was eating and wondering what was missing. I was eating and wondering and eating and wondering. And then it was gone and I knew what was missing. The piece was perfect and it was the rest of the melon that was missing. … Have we got time for some music before supper? It’ll do you good.”
    My father turned sullen. He didn’t talk much and to spite me he wouldn’t eat any watermelon. He would open the refrigerator and stand there with eyes blazing and that pipe aiming straight from his mouth. One afternoon I came into the yard with half a melon held high in my hand. He was sitting in the rocker on the porch. He was holding the sides of that chair as though to keep it from falling apart. His knuckles bulged into white marbles.
    â€œWhat’s that?” he said, though he could see it plain.
    â€œHalf a melon. It’s a beauty, Pa.”
    â€œWe don’t have enough yet?”
    The next afternoon I came home with another half. He was waiting for me in the kitchen. I started talking to cheer him after his lonely day. I wanted to tease him just to hear his quick sour laughter.
    â€œSam says I’m doing fine,” I said. “He may raise my salary. One thing sure, he’ll be giving me a whole watermelon every night. He says he’ll stay ahead of us if it’s the last thing he ever does. Not a half or a quarter, Pa. It’ll be a whole one every day. But I don’t want you to worry. I’ve got it all figured out. I’ll take a day off work every week to eat and catch up with him.”
    I opened the refrigerator. Watermelon bulged from every shelf.
    â€œWe should buy another refrigerator,” I said. “Now let’s eat a piece of melon before putting this piece in. I’ll take a half out to make room for this half. But I see you didn’t eat any today. What a naughty boy you are. Do you know a strange thing is happening to me? It