Farewell Navigator Read Online Free Page B

goose. To where?
    Central Asia.
    Horace burbles, An enchanting travel destination, to be sure. All the crime, the heat, and the outdoor plumbing you could ask for! What’s your brochure gonna say— Visit Kyrgyzstan, because it’s cheaper than Belgium?
    I, for one, am proud of you, Mom says. It’s an exciting opportunity.
    If you want exciting, says my brother, you should’ve seen my class this week. Man, I’m telling you—the action never stops. First we’ve got a roller-coaster ride of a story entitled “The Final Waltz,” the heartwarming saga of a woman who slow dances with her Alzheimer’s-ravaged husband. Really innovative material, and so freshly imagined—nary a cliché in sight! Next we’re treated to the joy of “Oops I Did It Again and Again,” a comical look at twenty-four hours in the life of a teenage slut. How many lacrosse players do you reckon a girl can pleasure in twenty-four hours? Mom, you first.
    Horace, please .
    No, no, come on, give it a go. Two? Five? Ten? Nay, eleven this girl manages. The narrator informs us, in no uncertain terms, that such promiscuity is the result of low self-esteem and an absent father. I like a story that spells out its message, don’t you? Not quite as subtle as a greeting card, perhaps, but—Fortunately for all, we had our esteemed instructor on hand to lead us in the critique. Know what she said? Know what she told the jellyfish brain who wrote that tale? He slurps anotherbeef slice off his fork. The way you describe her crouching alone in the janitor’s closet, pulling her panties back up, is very moving .
    Maybe it was, I say.
    And maybe I am the next Joyce J. Beckett.
    Mom asks, What has she said about your stories?
    Nothing.
    Why not?
    Because I have turned none in. I haven’t been inspired to finish anything. The instructor is not what you’d call inspiring. More like aspiring . To be what, I couldn’t say. While the rest of us are slowing expiring from lack of—
    Shall we change the subject? says Mom.
    And I forgot to tell you, there’s going to be a reading. In, like, early December. The last week of class.
    Oh! That’s lovely. Are your sister and I invited? Mom’s face creaks with the same terrible optimism it did when Horace told her Duke had gotten him a job at the video store. She had no way of knowing my brother would last a total of three days at Slick Flix.
    Family and friends, apple juice and cheddar nips, the works . The yellow-eyed queen of false encouragement wants us to share our literary bounty with those we love.
    On Thanksgiving morning, once the turkey’s in, we watch Mom make sweet-potato pie. It was Dad’s favorite. He composed a song to sing while it baked: Yammy, yammy, golden yammy, tell me why you taste so yummy. Every Thanksgiving since he died, one of us has sung it instead. It’s an embarrassing song and no longer even reminds me of my father. I associate the yams with Horace’s amplifier, which exploded the year he tried to accompany my voice with electric guitar. The amp blew out on the first yummy and a wire of sparks flew across the airand our mother screamed so hard she began to hyperventilate. Horace stalked off to his room—he was living at home that year—to smoke a bowl, leaving me to get our mother breathing again.
    Whose turn is it? Mom asks, sliding the pie onto the rack above the turkey.
    I have a sore throat, says Horace.
    That must make you a little hoarse , I say.
    They stare back at me.
    Get it? Horace—hoarse— get it?
    Got it, unfortunately, my brother says.
    The night of the first Thanksgiving after we moved to the town of few stoplights, he was pulled over at three in the morning. One cop circled the car, dragging the nose of his gun against its sides, while the other cop prepared a breathalyzer.
    Can you, um, not do that? Horace said.
    The cop kept walking very slowly around the car. The gun squeaked along the metal. Horace took his mouth off the nozzle and said, You’re gonna scratch