again, drinking whiskey downstairs at Sally’s in Livingston while the dark, nameless beast of love waited between the stubby legs of a half-breed Canadian whore up those long carpeted stairs, a night already paid for by my dead father, the girl not much older than me just waiting to sing “Happy Birthday.” Of course, by the time I got up the stairs, I was whiskey-drunk and scared stupid. But she fixed all that.
On my fourteenth birthday, the family lawyer gave me an envelope my Dad had left with him. Inside, the title and keys to the Dodge Power Wagon moldering in the three-car garage, a savings account passbook, and a note. “Hey, sprout,” it read, “if I’m not around to watch you turn fourteen, Happy Birthday. There’s a prepaid night at Sally’s. It’s hard enough being a teenager without confusing sex with love. They are both fine, son, but they’re different.” Then a P.S.: “Don’t tell your mother about the savings account. She knows about the pickup. I’m sorry about the will.” My mother had forced my old man to bind his estate in a trust that I couldn’t touch until I was fifty-three.
That next morning, draped over the toilet as the girl giggled from the bed, “I hope this isn’t your first time, kid,” I first began to have a notion that my father’s death had not exactly been an accident, but it took me another twenty years to figure out his suicide.
“Jesus,” I whispered, waiting in front of Molly McBride’s door, “get a fucking grip, old man.” But still my knock was as hesitant as a teenager’s.
Molly McBride had opened the sliding glass door to her balcony, and the room was full of moonlight. She still wore her prim suit, as if we were to have a legal conversation over drinks, but she had removed her blouse and bra, I realized as I held out the bucket of bar ice like a cheap gift. I noticed because her suit coat swung open as she plunged her hands into the ice, then rubbed her neck and without a word reached inside her coat to hold her cold hands under the weight of her dark-tipped breasts. In her heels she looked me straight in the eye, and in the hard moonlight her eyes glittered madly, her smile seemed grim rather than seductive, and the black stone hanging over her heart glistened like an obsidian blade.
“I’m glad you came,” she purred. “I was afraid you wouldn’t.” Then she touched my neck with her cold fingers. Which was too much for me. I must have stiffened and turned.
“I’m sorry,” I said, shoving the ice bucket against her naked chest. “Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. Maybe I should go.”
And I might have. But she shoved the bucket back to me, burst into tears, then ran to the closed bathroom door, where she paused to glance over her shoulder, her face twisted with pain and grief, before she quickly slammed it. Leaving me holding the damn ice bucket, half in the room, half in the hallway.
* * *
After the first drink, I calmed down. And after the second, I was ready for anything. It was one of those crazy nights when anything seemed possible. The west wind had scoured the star-studded sky, and the slice of moon seemed white-hot and as sharp as a skinning knife against the night as I waited, leaning into the soft breeze on the balcony rail of Molly’s room. I had found glasses and the Scotch on the small table outside, and convinced myself that a little Scotch couldn’t make things any crazier. In spite of the traffic murmurs from all sides of the hollow, I imagined I could hear Blue Creek rushing over the low water crossing below, could even hear the artesian gush of the huge spring that joined the creek at the dark base of the hollow cupped in the limestone bluff that glistened, unfortunately, like the bits of Billy Long’s skull bones on the flocked wallpaper. Surely it was the drugs and some sort of delayed midlife madness, I hoped, not something permanently engraved on my nights.
The bathroom door creaked quietly behind me,
On my fourteenth birthday, the family lawyer gave me an envelope my Dad had left with him. Inside, the title and keys to the Dodge Power Wagon moldering in the three-car garage, a savings account passbook, and a note. “Hey, sprout,” it read, “if I’m not around to watch you turn fourteen, Happy Birthday. There’s a prepaid night at Sally’s. It’s hard enough being a teenager without confusing sex with love. They are both fine, son, but they’re different.” Then a P.S.: “Don’t tell your mother about the savings account. She knows about the pickup. I’m sorry about the will.” My mother had forced my old man to bind his estate in a trust that I couldn’t touch until I was fifty-three.
That next morning, draped over the toilet as the girl giggled from the bed, “I hope this isn’t your first time, kid,” I first began to have a notion that my father’s death had not exactly been an accident, but it took me another twenty years to figure out his suicide.
“Jesus,” I whispered, waiting in front of Molly McBride’s door, “get a fucking grip, old man.” But still my knock was as hesitant as a teenager’s.
Molly McBride had opened the sliding glass door to her balcony, and the room was full of moonlight. She still wore her prim suit, as if we were to have a legal conversation over drinks, but she had removed her blouse and bra, I realized as I held out the bucket of bar ice like a cheap gift. I noticed because her suit coat swung open as she plunged her hands into the ice, then rubbed her neck and without a word reached inside her coat to hold her cold hands under the weight of her dark-tipped breasts. In her heels she looked me straight in the eye, and in the hard moonlight her eyes glittered madly, her smile seemed grim rather than seductive, and the black stone hanging over her heart glistened like an obsidian blade.
“I’m glad you came,” she purred. “I was afraid you wouldn’t.” Then she touched my neck with her cold fingers. Which was too much for me. I must have stiffened and turned.
“I’m sorry,” I said, shoving the ice bucket against her naked chest. “Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. Maybe I should go.”
And I might have. But she shoved the bucket back to me, burst into tears, then ran to the closed bathroom door, where she paused to glance over her shoulder, her face twisted with pain and grief, before she quickly slammed it. Leaving me holding the damn ice bucket, half in the room, half in the hallway.
* * *
After the first drink, I calmed down. And after the second, I was ready for anything. It was one of those crazy nights when anything seemed possible. The west wind had scoured the star-studded sky, and the slice of moon seemed white-hot and as sharp as a skinning knife against the night as I waited, leaning into the soft breeze on the balcony rail of Molly’s room. I had found glasses and the Scotch on the small table outside, and convinced myself that a little Scotch couldn’t make things any crazier. In spite of the traffic murmurs from all sides of the hollow, I imagined I could hear Blue Creek rushing over the low water crossing below, could even hear the artesian gush of the huge spring that joined the creek at the dark base of the hollow cupped in the limestone bluff that glistened, unfortunately, like the bits of Billy Long’s skull bones on the flocked wallpaper. Surely it was the drugs and some sort of delayed midlife madness, I hoped, not something permanently engraved on my nights.
The bathroom door creaked quietly behind me,
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