air almost five feet before bouncing across the floor. He staggered to his feet and backed up to the far wall. Again he flung himself at the front of the house with no success. He was crying by now, sobbing. Peeling skin dangled from his arms. I couldn’t help but cheer him on.
You can do it,
I thought as he readied himself for another go.
Penetrate! Penetrate!
Part of me rejoiced each time ones like him showed up, kids who refused to believe in a house that couldn’t be knocked down or even hurt, a house that looked like it was giggling, like it was shuddering with delight when they threw themselves at it.
Do it,
I’d whisper to myself as they charged.
Do it!
Harder and harder they banged into those walls:
whump! WHUMP!
And with such hatred in their faces, as though that house contained the very hex of their lives.
Sometimes, seeing these children leap and plow into the walls, I would think about Gay. His room was down the hall from mine, and every now and then in the middle of the night I’d hear him scream in his sleep, howl and shriek until Edward finally shook him awake. Gay was tough, but watching the walls fling child after child back down to the floor, I had to wonder if there weren’t things out there more resilient than he. Bad things. I did not want to know what they were.
One evening, about a month into our friendship, there was a commotion in the Happy Fish, Plus Coin. I was talking to Gay about Nancy over dinner, but by this time, I was running out of things to say about her. I could feel my imagination stalling, circling back over the same territory. But this only made my talk about Nancy more insistent and compulsive, more desperate. Lately, I’d been waking up with a hint of the taste of that spoon in my mouth. By the time I sat up and searched for it with my tongue, though, it had always disappeared.
That night at the Happy Fish, Plus Coin, I was telling Gay about how I was sure I’d seen Nancy’s brother’s car trolling around the parking lot the night before.
“I know it was him because of the fact that one of his headlights flickers on and off,” I said. “I could see it winking around out there. And I thought I saw an arm holding a bat hanging out the window.”
“You better call her,” Gay said distractedly.
“Call her? Gay, are you listening to me?”
“What? Oh, I meant call the police. L.J., do you hear something?”
I listened: somewhere in the restaurant, a girl was crying softly to herself.
“I don’t hear anything,” I said. “So you really think I should call the cops?”
“L.J., someone is upset. Can you see who it is? They’re right behind us.”
I craned my neck to see. A few booths back from ours, a girl was crying. She looked about nineteen and was tall with muscular shoulders and arms. Her face was mannish, made even more so by her hair, which she wore in two fist-like buns. She was rummaging through a tote bag with the name of a radio station on it. I recognized her from around the motel. She had come with a singing troupe that had stayed at the Shores for an a capella convention the previous weekend. Gay and I had heard them practicing through the doors to their rooms, their voices weaving in and out of each other. Looking at the girl now, I recalled seeing her argue with the troupe leader in the parking lot one evening when I was out on my balcony. She’d been crying then, too.
“It’s nothing,” I said to Gay. “She’s fine. Listen, I think that calling the police on Nancy is the wrong move.”
“Let me see what’s going on. Turn me around, L.J.,” Gay said, but I made no move to do so.
A waiter approached the girl, but this only made her more upset.
“Hey, behind me!” Gay yelled, sitting there in our booth, limp as a puppet. “Excuse me!”
“Gay, the waiter’s got it under control,” I said. “Gay! I’m talking to you!”
The waiter continued to speak to the girl, until she said, “Fine! Of course!” She threw some money on
You can do it,
I thought as he readied himself for another go.
Penetrate! Penetrate!
Part of me rejoiced each time ones like him showed up, kids who refused to believe in a house that couldn’t be knocked down or even hurt, a house that looked like it was giggling, like it was shuddering with delight when they threw themselves at it.
Do it,
I’d whisper to myself as they charged.
Do it!
Harder and harder they banged into those walls:
whump! WHUMP!
And with such hatred in their faces, as though that house contained the very hex of their lives.
Sometimes, seeing these children leap and plow into the walls, I would think about Gay. His room was down the hall from mine, and every now and then in the middle of the night I’d hear him scream in his sleep, howl and shriek until Edward finally shook him awake. Gay was tough, but watching the walls fling child after child back down to the floor, I had to wonder if there weren’t things out there more resilient than he. Bad things. I did not want to know what they were.
One evening, about a month into our friendship, there was a commotion in the Happy Fish, Plus Coin. I was talking to Gay about Nancy over dinner, but by this time, I was running out of things to say about her. I could feel my imagination stalling, circling back over the same territory. But this only made my talk about Nancy more insistent and compulsive, more desperate. Lately, I’d been waking up with a hint of the taste of that spoon in my mouth. By the time I sat up and searched for it with my tongue, though, it had always disappeared.
That night at the Happy Fish, Plus Coin, I was telling Gay about how I was sure I’d seen Nancy’s brother’s car trolling around the parking lot the night before.
“I know it was him because of the fact that one of his headlights flickers on and off,” I said. “I could see it winking around out there. And I thought I saw an arm holding a bat hanging out the window.”
“You better call her,” Gay said distractedly.
“Call her? Gay, are you listening to me?”
“What? Oh, I meant call the police. L.J., do you hear something?”
I listened: somewhere in the restaurant, a girl was crying softly to herself.
“I don’t hear anything,” I said. “So you really think I should call the cops?”
“L.J., someone is upset. Can you see who it is? They’re right behind us.”
I craned my neck to see. A few booths back from ours, a girl was crying. She looked about nineteen and was tall with muscular shoulders and arms. Her face was mannish, made even more so by her hair, which she wore in two fist-like buns. She was rummaging through a tote bag with the name of a radio station on it. I recognized her from around the motel. She had come with a singing troupe that had stayed at the Shores for an a capella convention the previous weekend. Gay and I had heard them practicing through the doors to their rooms, their voices weaving in and out of each other. Looking at the girl now, I recalled seeing her argue with the troupe leader in the parking lot one evening when I was out on my balcony. She’d been crying then, too.
“It’s nothing,” I said to Gay. “She’s fine. Listen, I think that calling the police on Nancy is the wrong move.”
“Let me see what’s going on. Turn me around, L.J.,” Gay said, but I made no move to do so.
A waiter approached the girl, but this only made her more upset.
“Hey, behind me!” Gay yelled, sitting there in our booth, limp as a puppet. “Excuse me!”
“Gay, the waiter’s got it under control,” I said. “Gay! I’m talking to you!”
The waiter continued to speak to the girl, until she said, “Fine! Of course!” She threw some money on
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