The green rectangles were for math class, a subtraction exercise. The boy moved on to the next equation: $20.00 – $11.75 = ? Next to the question were a dash and two decimal points over a horizontal line, a template for children to fill in by stacking the budget on top of the price, and then show their work. The boy skipped carrying the ones and instead went directly to coloring eight rectangles green and one of the four circles silver. Henry knew he was supposed to feel proud at the sight of his young son clicking through such calculations in his head, but his vision was shaded, gone grayer than the boy’s Timberwolf crayon. Along with the living room’s colors, sound got muted, too. He took a gulp and watched the boy breeze from one problem to the next. After finishing the second beer and grabbing a third and doing some arithmetic of his own, Henry asked how come they didn’t read a book instead, how about?

On the coffee table were empty Pall Mall packs and burnt-down tea candles, each tin cup sprouting a bouquet of cigarette butts. At the edge nearest to Junior’s mattress was a stack of library books, by now so long overdue that Henry was scared to return them and face the late fees. He plucked through the stack, pulling out his personal favorites.

“What do you say? We could do the giver tree, or the love you forever.”

He heard himself slurring and he didn’t care.

“Also got Horton and the egg, and here’s the give a cookie a mouse, too. Where’s the Alexander and his no good, really bad day one, huh? Your pick, bud.”

“Those are kids’ books. My teacher wants me reading chapter books.” The boy lifted a smaller book, fanning its pages into a taunt. “See? All words, no pictures.”

“Well, hey. Look at you. Come and read it to me on the sofa here.”

“I have to practice reading in my head.” The boy’s tone suggested only an utter moron could be ignorant to such a glaringly obvious duty.

The last of the third beer was lukewarm and sour and so was Henry. A red-hot wire was coiling around him. Constricting him, searing him. The little shit. How dare this uppity brat take such a condescending tone with his father. His pa. Yeah, sure, Henry might have done his fair share of questionable and flat-out stupid things, but he sure as shit didn’t deserve such derision, such contempt—especially not in his own home, especially not from his son. Yeah, sure, he might not know much, but even an utter moron like him knew that snatching the book—the chapter book—out of the boy’s hands and thrashing it against the wall, which he did just now, was rash.

The boy startled but shrugged it off. He retrieved the book, then locked himself in the bathroom.