Centuries of June by Keith Donohue

still be doing so had not a sudden clunk, like a chair losing a leg or a Tlingit woman staving my father’s skull, sounded in the room over my head.
    The urge to flee tugged at the hem of my bathrobe, but I ignored it as one might a pestering child. This is my home after all, and I was determined to figure out what was happening here. Moreover, I had the dim sense that I was missing someone else in the house, someone dear to me, whom I should protect from harm. I could not quite place her name at the moment, but my short-term memory may have been hampered by the concussion. Someone I love may have been at risk, so I screwed on my courage and marched to the stairwell, now shrouded in darkness again, with the switch at the top stuck in the middle position.
    More comfortable in the shadows, I took the steps in pairs and reached the top in no time. All doors leading off the landing were closed; behind each, dead silence. I thought of one other clock and entered my office, sat down at the desk, and pushed the start button on the computer. The flash of light and trumpeting notes that the machine played as it came to life nearly scared me to death, and I momentarily wondered if the noise had awakened anyone else in the house. A blue screen gave way to corporate graphics, and the icons popped into view like blooming flowers. In the corner, the time remained fixed, and though I could not fathom why it was still 4:52, I was pleased to know that all of the clocks in the house were in sync.
    Laughter from the bathroom filtered through the ventilation ducts, a disembodied titter that sounded like a happy memory, and upon opening the bathroom door, I discovered its source. Dolly sat on the edge of the tub and standing inside, behind her, the old man ran a brush through her long black hair. Mild surprise registered on their faces foran instant when they saw me, but then they resumed without the slightest show of modesty. He appeared to be taking some sensual pleasure with each stroke, and she relaxed under his gentle attentions. Pangs of envy poked at my stomach.
    “Was there an accident?” I asked. “There was a thump a while ago, like a chair that toppled over.”
    “A chair would be a provident addition to this room,” he said, and now caressed her hair with his fingers. “Where have you been all this time? Dolly here was regaling me further with the erotic version of the ‘Woman Who Married an Octopus’ and other tales of her Tlingit cousins.” As he spoke, his eight arms encircled her and withdrew when he came to the end of his sentence.
    She opened her eyes, and on her night-black irises, two moons rose and arced across the sky, changing phases from waxing to full to waning to no moon at all. “Old stories are best,” she said, “for love and truth.”
    “I’m not sure what to make of your story,” I said.
    The old man stepped out of the bathtub and interjected himself between the girl and me, and then he laid a fatherly hand on my shoulder to walk us a few paces farther. She began to sing in her native language a kind of chant that, while confined to a repetitive rhythm and scale, possessed a certain hypnotic charm. Under the sound, he spoke in a confidential whisper. “I wouldn’t bring up the matter of personal tragedies, Sonny. She’s been brooding over a grave injustice forever, and it’s quite a grudge.”
    I replied in a soft voice, “But what’s that got to do with me?”
    “Best to change the subject.” When he winked, a third eye appeared on the shut lid. Not a working eyeball, but rather a crude approximation in the thick line drawn by an eyebrow pencil or similar crayon. “Follow my lead, if you please.” He ushered me back to the toilet, and we resumed the positions of our initial encounter, the sole exception beingDolly’s presence on the bathtub edge to my father’s left. She finished her chant to polite applause. “You were telling me,” he spoke in a loud, artificial voice, “about the