When Dad Came Back Read Online Free Page A

drop of water from the sprinkler, or a bead of sweat—Gabe wasn't sure which—splashed onto the pavement. The wet speck spread to the size of a dime and almost immediately began to evaporate in the sun. Gabe regretted his outburst.
    â€œI'm sick,” his dad claimed, with a faint, pitiful whine in his voice. “It's my stomach.” His dad gritted his teeth, deepened his grimace, and pressed a hand against his stomach.
    Out of the corner of his eye, Gabe saw a security guard behind the glass doors flip the closed sign to open. He heard the jingle of keys and the lock open with a clunk-clunk. The homeless crowd, gray as a pool of pigeons, began to gather at the door. They were hurrying to get on the Internet or locate the choice seats in the magazine alcove. They were thirsty and ready for the drinking fountain.
    â€œYou're lying,” Gabe braved, when he returned his attention to his dad. “You just need a bath. That's your problem.”
    Gabe's dad said, “See what I have raised—a mean child.”
    â€œYou didn't raise anyone!” Gabe snapped. Surprised by his own anger, he spouted, “You don't know me. I bet you don't even know my birthday.”
    â€œGabe, please.”
    â€œWhen is it?” Gabe challenged.
    â€œGabe, come on, give me a chance,” he pleaded.
    â€œYou don't even know when your son was born. And you call yourself a father.”
    â€œI know, I know,” he agreed, his hands clasped together, as if in prayer. The long sleeves of his shirt fell back to reveal thin forearms.
    They stood in silence, face to face, in the shade of the library. Against his will, Gabe felt himself starting to soften. He wondered where his dad bedded down at night. Was it the Rescue Mission? In the courthouse park, or in an alley in Chinatown? Or maybe he squeezed himself between low-life transients near the freeway, where encampments lined a frontage road?
    â€œI quit drinking, Gabe. I've changed.”
    Gabe folded his arms across his chest—he didn't want to hear any of it.
    His dad again clasped his hands. “Gabe, I made mistakes.” He was in Alcoholics Anonymous, he said, AA. It wasn't a glamorous group. Some of the men were like him, homeless, and there were women, too. But they were all trying to stay sober.
    â€œWhere are you staying?” Gabe asked. Like the polar caps, the ice in his heart had begun to melt. His dad was pathetically dirty—grime filled the lines on his neck. And his shoes? They didn't even match. He could see that his dad needed help. Would it cause too much trouble if he brought him home and let him take a shower? He could fix a sandwich for him and pour him a glass of ice tea.
    â€œPlaces,” his dad answered, in a near whisper. “They're not pretty.” His praying hands had fallen to his side, where his shirt cuffs hid them—the shirt had belonged to a bigger man.
    His dad's cheeks were sunken, his eyes weepy, his skin yellowish, and his hands trembling like leaves. He waved a hand, turned, and began to walk away. Gabe heard him mutter, “Where I'm staying, no one should stay.”
    Gabe was uncertain whether his dad was truthful. Was he really sick, deathly sick? Was it cancer, leukemia, or possibly AIDS? The ice around his heart continued to melt with a steady drip. His dad was destitute, with all his worldly possessions in that suitcase he dragged along like a shadow.
    Gabe thought of calling him, of saying, “Dad, don't go.” But words failed him.
    His dad walked away, shoulders slouched, and Gabe entered the library. He felt jittery. He got a drink of water at the fountain, and found a free computer monitor in the reference room. He looked up “cancer” on the Internet. He read the definition, which didn't say whether you lived or died from it. He looked up AIDS and TB—the photos were frightening.
    Remorseful, Gabe left the library, determined to find him. He waited in the