A Certain Slant of Light by Laura Whitcomb Page B

my feet. He seemed terrified. I must've looked like a monster, covered in mud, tearing at the grass. He held a hand out to me, but I didn't want to pull him in.
       He dropped to his knees and tried to clutch at me with both hands, looking panicked when he couldn't. Finally he threw him self on me, and I couldn't help but embrace him. Don't let me pull him down with me, I was praying. A moment later the wind had softened to a mild hiss.
       Kneeling beside me, he waited until I looked at him, then he slowly rose and began to move backward toward the small blue house, one foot behind the other, like a tightrope walker. I rose as well, concentrating on the wind ruffling his hair. With my other salvations, it had always been clear, the uniting of spirit and host. This felt different. I followed, so weak I felt as if all the color had been drained from the world. He climbed the porch stairs back ward, one step at a time, and I followed. I kept my eyes on his face, perfect as a sculpture. He opened the door and backed in, then moved to one side and beckoned me to enter, as I had longed for Mr. Brown to do. I followed him into the house, and he closed the door.
       It was only then that I noticed the noise. There was loud music and many voices, much smoke, and little light in the small living room. A dozen men and women, all holding bottles of beer and burning cigarettes, moved about in unsteady, sweating clusters, swearing and laughing and taking little notice of James. Only one of them, a strong, tattooed man with no shirt, looked over.
       "Where'd you go?" he called.
       "Nowhere." He had to yell to be heard over the din.
       "Do your homework," the man called.
       "It's Friday."
       "What?" The man frowned, holding his beer-bottled hand to one ear.
       "Okay!" yelled James. He ducked down the tunnel of the hall. He stopped at a door with a hole as big as a baseball almost bro ken through it. He opened the door and waited until I had glided in before closing it. It was a small room, lit with a dim overhead light. There was a large square bed, far too big for the cramped space, a tiny desk and chair cluttered with magazines, clothes and cans, and the walls were almost completely covered with pictures, mostly from magazines, but there were also some larger pictures pinned and taped up, even on the ceiling. Some pictures were of almost nude women, some were of guitars and musicians, some of cars, and a few of athletes caught in midjump. The space over the desk was papered, every inch, with cartoon drawings of dragons, insects, and monsters. Each was signed with the initials BB.
       I knew that these walls were full of color, but everything seemed gray. James watched me look about. He still seemed to be trembling, though the wind was far away now, only a tame howl outside the closed window. Even the overpowering squeal of mu sic from the other room was just a muffled hum. This space seemed so alien, I had to stare.
       "This is Mr. Blake's home," I said.
       "Did you leave him?"
       The truth was more that I had lost Mr. Brown than left him, but I didn't want to say it out loud. I felt a brick-heavy sorrow in my chest threaten to take me over, until James smiled.
       "Haunt me" he said, and he shrugged in such a light, odd manner, I felt instantly as if I must be taking myself far too seri ously.
       "Don't be foolish," I told him.
       He pulled his book bag off the desk chair and motioned me to sit.
       "I'm your host now, aren't I?" he asked.
       "I suppose that's true." My host. My James. "I don't know what to do now, I confess," I said. "It doesn't seem quite proper, this ..." I was at a loss.
       "I don't know much at all about anything," said James. "But I know we should be together, you and I. That's all I can be sure of."
       Together, he'd said. I wanted to know exactly what he meant.
       "How could we not?" he asked, sitting on the rumpled brown blanket on his bed. "It's as if we