Free Once You Break a Knuckle by W. D. Wilson Page B

tell me that if I broke into song he’d punch me in the ribs. I’d break into song. He’d punch me in the ribs.
    Mitch and I looked at each other. My old man’s cheek went bright red and his nostrils flared like a stallion’s.There was a maroon welt in the fleshy cove beneath his eye. He dabbed blood with his thumb.
    The bastard cat sagged off the couch and stood beside us. I grabbed a tissue from a box on the gimped coffee table my old man and I had accidentally split in two down the middle. The door opened and he stepped through and I offered him the tissue. He pressed it to the wound. The cat mewled. I’ve heard it said that cats talk to humans more than they talk to other cats, even in the wild, as an attempt to domesticate us. My old man blinked at the cat and growled; he would not be domesticated by the likes of that tom.
    Then: —Son.
    We hugged like men. He was leaner than I remembered and he didn’t squeeze very hard. Later I would realize the significance of that, of the open coat which, closed, would snug too tightly over his bruised chest. The duffle bag slid off his shoulder and he eased it down without bending his torso. When he removed his coat I saw his Kosovo Force T-shirt; it showed a bandana-wearing bulldog chained to a wrecked wall:
    KFOR
    If you can’t run with the big dogs, go sit in the food bowl.
    â€”How’s it going Mr. Crease, Mitch said. He extended a hand.
    My old man clasped it and he and Mitch stared at one another, eye to eye. To this day, Mitch is the only friend Ihave who will hold that gaze. —It’s still going, Mitch, my old man said. —How’s your dad?
    â€”He’s my dad.
    â€”Amen to that.
    â€”He wants to have you guys over, Mitch said.
    My old man held on. He and Larry got along well enough but they came from different worlds. —Well, you guys just let me know when.
    â€”Tomorrow night.
    â€”Alright.
    My old man tossed his coat onto his shoes and inspected the house. He remarked at the poor state of each room. In the den, fingerprints gummed the computer screen and the wood stove was grainy with charcoal. Did I even bother to vacuum? Is the cat still shitting behind the goddamned toilet? I told him I’d followed his instructions and not wrecked the house and what did he expect, leaving an eighteen-year-old in charge for six months?
    After the inspection he dug into his duffle bag and revealed two liquor bottles the size of champagne flasks. The corks were secured by duct tape and the bottle swam with the colour of morning sky. Inside each was a wooden cross, swollen so its ends brushed the glass and tink ed when my old man handled them. He hefted one in each fist.
    â€”Rakia, he said, pronouncing it rock-ya . He set one of the bottles above the fridge in the liquor cupboard. —You didn’t drink all my booze?
    â€”You told me not to.
    He unwrapped the duct tape from the second bottle and uncorked it. Then he fished three short glasses from the cupboard and lined them up.
    â€”Sorry, Mr. Crease, I don’t think my –
    â€”Have a drink with us Mitch, my old man said.
    The liquid he filled each glass with was the colour of watery eyes. It smelled vaguely like pears and churned with wood pulp. He handed one glass to me and one to Mitch and then he raised his own.
    â€”To coming home, he said.
    The rakia tasted like a pinecone dipped in rubbing alcohol. Mitch, poor Mitch, was red faced and coughing after just a sample. Mitch drank coolers if at all. I could feel the liquor all the way down and my old man told us the trick was to hold your breath and swallow at the last possible instant.
    â€”It’s bottled by nuns, he said as he downed what remained in his glass. He held up his index and thumb barely apart, as though pinching a nickel between them. —They put this little cross in each bottle and it swells. You’re both sissies.
    Later, after Mitch left, my old man and I sat on