Joe Hill - Horns

His mother and father were in the front room, fighting with each other again. Or, really, his father was sitting with a beer and Sports Illustrated and not replying while Kathy stood over him, yattering at him in a low, strangled voice. Lee had a little flash of the perfect understanding that had come over him when he was big enough to fix the moon, and he knew that his father went to The Winterhaus every night, not to drink, but to see a waitress, and that they were special friends. Not that either of his parents said anything about the waitress; his mother was furious about a mess in the garage, about him wearing his boots into the living room, about her work. Somehow, though, the waitress was what they were really arguing about. Lee knew, too, that in time-a few years, maybe-his father would leave, and he would not take Lee with him.

It didn’t bother him, the way they were fighting. What bothered him was the radio, on in the background, making a clashing, dissonant sound: like pots thrown down a staircase, while someone hissed and sputtered, like a teakettle coming to the boil. The sound of it grated on him, and he swerved toward the radio to turn it down, and it was only as he was reaching for the volume that he recognized it was that song “The Devil Inside.” He had no idea why he’d ever liked it. In the weeks to follow, Lee would discover he could not bear almost any music running in the background, that songs no longer made sense to him, were just a mess of aggravating sounds. When a radio was on, he’d leave the room, preferred the quiet that went with his own thoughts.

He felt light-headed climbing the stairs. The walls sometimes seemed to be pulsing, and he was afraid if he looked outside, he might see the moon twitching in the sky again, and this time he might not be able to fix it. He thought it might be best if he lay down before it fell. He said good night from the stairs. His mother didn’t notice. His father didn’t care.

When Lee woke the next morning, the pillowcase was soaked with dry bloodstains. He studied it without alarm or fear. The smell, an old copper-penny odor, was especially interesting.

A few minutes later, he was in the shower and happened to look down between his feet. A thin thread of reddish brown was racing in the current and whirling down the drain, as if there were rust in the water. Only it wasn’t rust. He lifted a hand absently to his head, wondering if he had cut himself when he fell from the fence the night before. His fingers prodded a tender spot on the right side of his skull. He touched what felt like a small depression, and for a moment it was as if someone had dropped a hair dryer into the shower with him, a hard jolt of electricity that made the world flash, turn into a photographic negative for an instant. When the sickening shocked feeling passed, he looked at his hand and found blood on his fingers.

He did not tell his mother he had hurt his head-it didn’t seem important-or explain the blood on his pillow, although she was horrified when she saw the mess.

“Look at this,” she said. “This is ruined! Completely ruined!” Standing in the middle of the kitchen with the blood-soaked pillowcase in one hand.

“Lay off,” said Lee’s father, sitting at the kitchen table holding his head between his hands as he read the sports. He was pale and bristly and sick-looking but still had a smile ready for his boy. “Kid gets a nosebleed, you act like he killed someone. He ain’t murdered anyone.” His father winked at Lee. “Not yet anyhow.”

LEE HAD A SMILE READY for Merrin when she opened the door, but she didn’t appreciate it, hardly looked at him.

He said, “I told Ig I had to be in Boston today for the congressman, and he told me if I don’t take you out someplace for a nice dinner, he won’t be my friend anymore.”

Two girls sat on the couch watching TV, the volume turned up on a rerun of Growing Pains. Piled between them and at their feet were stacks of cardboard boxes. Slants, like Merrin’s roommate. The roomie sat on the arm of a chair, hollering cheerfully into her cell. Lee didn’t think much of Asians in general, hive creatures fixated on phones and cameras, although he did like the Asian-schoolgirl look, black buckled shoes and high socks and pleated skirts. The door to the roomie’s bedroom was open, and there were more boxes piled on a bare mattress.

Merrin surveyed this scene with a kind of wondering hopelessness, then turned back to Lee. If he had known she was going to be as gray as dishwater, no makeup, hair unwashed, in her baggy old sweats, he would’ve skipped a visit. Total turnoff. He was already sorry he’d come. He realized he was still smiling and made himself stop, felt for the right thing to say.

“God, are you still sick?” he asked.

She nodded absently and then said, “Want to go on the roof? Less noisy.”

He followed her up the stairs. They didn’t appear to be going out to dinner, but she brought a pair of Heinekens from the fridge, which was better than nothing.

It was going on eight o’clock, but still not dark. The skateboarders were down in the road again, their boards clattering and banging on the asphalt. Lee walked across the roof deck to look over the edge at them. A couple had fauxhawks and wore ties and button-down shirts that were buttoned only at the collar. Lee had never been interested in skateboarding as anything more than a look, because you came off as alternative with a board under your arm, a little dangerous, but also athletic. He didn’t like falling, though; just the idea of falling made one whole side of his head go cold and numb.

Merrin touched the small of his back, and for just a moment he thought she was going to push him over the side of the roof, and he was going to twist and grab her by her pale throat and pull her with him. She must’ve seen the shock on his face, because she smiled for the first time and offered him one of the Heinekens. He nodded thanks and took it and held it in one hand while he lit up with the other.

She sat on an air-conditioning unit with her own beer, not drinking it, just spinning the wet neck around and around in her fingers. Her feet were bare. Her little pink feet were cute anyway. Looking at them, it was easy to imagine her placing one foot between his legs, her toes gently kneading his crotch.

“I think I’m going to try what you said,” she told him.

“Voting Republican?” he asked. “Progress at last.”

She smiled again, but it was a morose, wan sort of smile. She looked away and said, “I’m going to tell Ig that when he goes to England, I want to take a relationship vacation. Like a trial breakup, so we can both see other people.”

Lee felt as if he had tripped over something, even though he was standing still. “When were you planning to lay this on him?”

“When he gets back from New York. I don’t want to tell him on the phone. You can’t say anything, Lee. You can’t even hint.”

“No. I won’t.” He was excited and knew it was important not to show it. He said, “You’re going to tell him he should see other people? Other girls?”

She nodded.

“And…you, too?”

“I’ll tell him that I want to try a relationship with someone else. I’m not going to tell him anything more than that. I’ll tell him that whatever happens while he’s away is off the books. I don’t want to know who he’s seeing, and I won’t be reporting in to him about my relationships. I think that’ll…that’ll make things easier all around.” She looked up then, a rueful amusement in her eyes. The wind caught her hair and did pretty things with it. She looked less ill and wan out under the pale violet sky at the end of day. “I feel guilty already, you know.”