“Whaddaya mean? It’s my book.”
“I’m gonna burn that shit.”
“You’re not burning anything.”
“I said give me that.”
Frank hid the book behind his back, and my father lunged forward, trying to snatch it from him. They tussled with each other, and Frank pushed my father away, causing him to stumble backward and fall on his ass. My father’s eyes turned wild with rage, and I thought for sure my brother wouldn’t make it out of the house alive.
“You son of a bitch!” My father struggled to lift himself from the floor, but before he could regain is balance, Frank ran out of the apartment, slamming the door behind him.
The old man’s face was beet red; I’d never seen him that angry. He charged for the front door, both hands struggling to open the spring lock and turn the doorknob at the same time, a simple maneuver any of us could have done blindfolded. After a few seconds, he ran back into the living room and made a beeline for the window. I jumped out of his way, barely avoiding getting mowed down.
He yanked down on the cord for the blinds with all his might—it wasn’t a “delicate instrument” this time. The blinds shot up with a clatter, and he threw the window open with a thud, rattling the casing. “You fuckin’ bastard,” he hollered down at Frank, “I’ll kill ya!”
I dashed into my parents’ bedroom, and from the window I watched Frank in the courtyard. He was looking up at my father, smiling and waving the book. My father’s image was reflected in the windows of the building across the courtyard. There he was, with his strap T-shirt and hairy chest, his head and torso leaning out the window, hands braced far apart on the outer sill above the huge flag. He looked like a crazed war veteran angry at the world.
A short distance away, a cluster of women sat on beach chairs and community benches, knitting sweaters and enjoying the afternoon sun. They were all gawking at my father, their mouths open in disbelief. When Frank noticed the onlookers, he got their attention and pointed up at the old man as if to say, Can you believe this lunatic?
“Scumbag! Scumbag!” my father shouted, his voice ratcheting up to an even higher level of rage. “Wait till I get my fuckin’ hands on you!”