enough so he can’t hear the knocking,
and waits for them to leave.
Bandstand.
* * *
T he phone rings sometime
after dark.
He picks it up and presses the receiver against his
ear, cold and hard, and listens.
"Who’s this?" It is his uncle, something
in his voice.
"It’s Peter," he says.
"Your father there yet?"
Peter looks across the empty room to the front
window. There are lights outside, a policeman is still guarding
Victor Kopec’s convertible. Victor Kopec himself is gone now, he
watched them lift him out of the trunk.
"No."
"You tell him as soon as he gets in to call me,
all right? . . . You understand me? As soon as he’s in the door."
He hangs up the phone. The television set glows in
the corner, lighting the room, and the light changes with the scenes;
the whole room seems to blink. He thinks of the reporters who would
not go away. He thinks of them talking to each other, laughing on the
other side of the door.
He goes into the kitchen and makes himself a jelly
sandwich. As he eats it, he remembers one of the reporters who stood
in the front yard pointing at the house, arguing with the
photographers.
"Get a picture, get a fuckin’ picture .... "
Time passes. Outside a car engine races and stops,
not his father’s. A door slams. Peter goes to the window and sees
his uncle on the sidewalk. The streetlight throws a shadow across
half his face and makes the pockmarks deeper in the lighted side. He
imagines a pain which could cause such marks.
His uncle knocks as if he were in a hurry to get
inside. Peter opens the door and he steps through it without a word.
He looks around the room—a familiar gesture, but this time he is
not thinking he would like the place for himself.
"He ain’t home?"
He shakes his head.
His uncle closes the door as if it were his own house
and walks inside. "How come you got it so dark?" he says.
He smiles, but something is strained in his voice.
Peter shrugs. "It doesn’t matter to me,"
he says.
His uncle goes to the wall switch and the room is
suddenly filled with light.
"I think you spent too much time alone," he
says. Peter understands that is a joke, he doesn’t know what kind.
He shrugs again and his uncle bends over the
television set, and the sound of voices fills the room. Ralph and
Norton, planning to get rich. He knows the words by heart.
His uncle sits on the davenport and lights a
cigarette. "You got a beer in the icebox?" he says.
Peter nods.
His uncle watches him in a way Peter has seen
before—never when his father is there with them, though. "So?"
he says, "you gonna get me a beer or what?"
He walks into the dark kitchen and opens the
refrigerator door.
In the light he sees the jelly knife lying on the
counter, the open bag of Wonder bread. The bottles of beer are on the
bottom shelf, where the icebox is coldest, and he takes one of them
out. He finds the church key in the drawer next to the icebox,
holding the door open with his knee for light. He takes the bottle
and the church key to his uncle, and then wipes his hand against his
shirt.
His uncle lays the cigarette on the end of the coffee
table, the ash suspended over the edge, and opens the beer. In the
moment just before the glass touches his lips, Peter sees the
trembling in his hand.
"You got something to do?" he says after a
while.
Peter shakes his head. His uncle picks the cigarette
up between his thumb and middle linger, carefully choosing a halfway
spot, as if the ends could hurt him.
The boy sees it again, that his fingers are
trembling. He draws on the cigarette and holds the smoke inside a
long time, and then a trace of it appears under his nose and hangs
there for a moment like fog. He puts the cigarette back on the table
and stands up, taking the beer, and walks to the window to look at
Victor Kopec’s car.
"They said the guy’s head was cut halfways
off," he says. There is a tone of admiration in that, but it
passes even before the words are finished.
Peter thinks of
and waits for them to leave.
Bandstand.
* * *
T he phone rings sometime
after dark.
He picks it up and presses the receiver against his
ear, cold and hard, and listens.
"Who’s this?" It is his uncle, something
in his voice.
"It’s Peter," he says.
"Your father there yet?"
Peter looks across the empty room to the front
window. There are lights outside, a policeman is still guarding
Victor Kopec’s convertible. Victor Kopec himself is gone now, he
watched them lift him out of the trunk.
"No."
"You tell him as soon as he gets in to call me,
all right? . . . You understand me? As soon as he’s in the door."
He hangs up the phone. The television set glows in
the corner, lighting the room, and the light changes with the scenes;
the whole room seems to blink. He thinks of the reporters who would
not go away. He thinks of them talking to each other, laughing on the
other side of the door.
He goes into the kitchen and makes himself a jelly
sandwich. As he eats it, he remembers one of the reporters who stood
in the front yard pointing at the house, arguing with the
photographers.
"Get a picture, get a fuckin’ picture .... "
Time passes. Outside a car engine races and stops,
not his father’s. A door slams. Peter goes to the window and sees
his uncle on the sidewalk. The streetlight throws a shadow across
half his face and makes the pockmarks deeper in the lighted side. He
imagines a pain which could cause such marks.
His uncle knocks as if he were in a hurry to get
inside. Peter opens the door and he steps through it without a word.
He looks around the room—a familiar gesture, but this time he is
not thinking he would like the place for himself.
"He ain’t home?"
He shakes his head.
His uncle closes the door as if it were his own house
and walks inside. "How come you got it so dark?" he says.
He smiles, but something is strained in his voice.
Peter shrugs. "It doesn’t matter to me,"
he says.
His uncle goes to the wall switch and the room is
suddenly filled with light.
"I think you spent too much time alone," he
says. Peter understands that is a joke, he doesn’t know what kind.
He shrugs again and his uncle bends over the
television set, and the sound of voices fills the room. Ralph and
Norton, planning to get rich. He knows the words by heart.
His uncle sits on the davenport and lights a
cigarette. "You got a beer in the icebox?" he says.
Peter nods.
His uncle watches him in a way Peter has seen
before—never when his father is there with them, though. "So?"
he says, "you gonna get me a beer or what?"
He walks into the dark kitchen and opens the
refrigerator door.
In the light he sees the jelly knife lying on the
counter, the open bag of Wonder bread. The bottles of beer are on the
bottom shelf, where the icebox is coldest, and he takes one of them
out. He finds the church key in the drawer next to the icebox,
holding the door open with his knee for light. He takes the bottle
and the church key to his uncle, and then wipes his hand against his
shirt.
His uncle lays the cigarette on the end of the coffee
table, the ash suspended over the edge, and opens the beer. In the
moment just before the glass touches his lips, Peter sees the
trembling in his hand.
"You got something to do?" he says after a
while.
Peter shakes his head. His uncle picks the cigarette
up between his thumb and middle linger, carefully choosing a halfway
spot, as if the ends could hurt him.
The boy sees it again, that his fingers are
trembling. He draws on the cigarette and holds the smoke inside a
long time, and then a trace of it appears under his nose and hangs
there for a moment like fog. He puts the cigarette back on the table
and stands up, taking the beer, and walks to the window to look at
Victor Kopec’s car.
"They said the guy’s head was cut halfways
off," he says. There is a tone of admiration in that, but it
passes even before the words are finished.
Peter thinks of
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