the sounds from the house:
"Fucking God, " the man says. Something
falls and breaks, and then it is quiet. He imagines Victor Kopec’s
head, cut halfway off.
His uncle turns away from the window and lights
another cigarette. "You can’t tell your old man nothing, never
could," he says.
Peter doesn’t answer.
"He’1l stand there, just like you, listening
to somebody as long as they want to talk, and then go do exactly what
he was gonna do anyway. You can’t tell him a thing because he
thinks he already knows everything you know anyway."
He feels his uncle pulling him into his side of an
argument now; he holds himself out. His uncle shakes his head, then
looks again out the window.
"You know what it is?" he says. "He’s
got to be the one that decides. He’s always got to be the one
decides .... "
He pulls at the cigarette and finishes the beer; the
smoke simply disappears inside him. He drops the cigarette into the
mouth of the bottle; Peter hears it hiss as it hits bottom.
"You got another beer?"
He gets him another beer; his uncle lights another
cigarette. Except for the sounds of the television and his uncle
inhaling the cigarette, the room is quiet.
"How old are you, anyway?"
"Eight."
"You supposed to be up . . ." He turns his
wrist and lifts his hand to check the time. "Nine-thirty,"
he says. "You supposed to stay up till nine-thirty?"
Peter shrugs; an ash drops off the cigarette onto his
uncle’s shirt. "You’re lucky," he says. "Your Aunt
Theresa don’t let Michael stay up at all."
Michael is Peter’s cousin. He is a year younger
than Peter, and he climbs out of the window of his room onto the roof
sometimes while the families are visiting and, holding on to the
window frame, pisses onto the sidewalk.
Peter has been farther out on the roof of Michael’s
house; he has walked to the edge and unzipped his pants and then
looked back over his shoulder at his cousin’s face and seen the
excitement inside him.
Michael has tried to get him to jump.
There is a tuning fork going inside his cousin all
the time.
"Right after he done his schoolwork, it’s up
to his room," his uncle says. He looks around the room, reminded
of something. "You got homework?"
Peter doesn’t answer. He does his work at the
school. The nuns go over the same arithmetic every day, the same
reading words, and he does the problems they give him to take home
while they are teaching; sometimes he even knows what they will give
the class to do later. Peter doesn’t memorize things; he sees them,
the way they are put together. A kind of second sight that is so
natural he hardly notices it is there.
No one knows that, it is one of his secrets.
"You got to keep up with your books," his
uncle says, repeating something he has heard; talking now only
because he is uncomfortable with the silence. He looks at the
television set and watches Ed Norton making an onion sandwich. "You
don’t do your books, you end up like that .... "
His uncle finishes the beer and walks upstairs to the
bathroom and urinates without closing the door. The sound stops and
starts; he pisses a little at a time, like he was emptying his
pockets. The toilet flushes and then his uncle is back on the stairs.
"Your father’s got a nice house here," he
says. He stops on the stairs and looks at the ceiling, shakes his
head in an admiring way. "They didn’t built the houses on Two
Street like this—there ain’t no cracks in the walls, right?"
Peter shakes his head.
"Big rooms like this," his uncle says, "a
nice park right across the street . . ." He comes the rest of
the way down the stairs and then stops again, looking outside.
"Your father must sleep like a baby," he
says.
Again he doesn’t answer.
"You like your neighbors?" he says. "I
bet you got neighbors in this place, you want to borrow a cup of
sugar, the lady next door don’t say, ‘Fuck you,’ from behind
the door, am I right?"
He surveys the room, smiling.
"Dentists live in houses like this
"Fucking God, " the man says. Something
falls and breaks, and then it is quiet. He imagines Victor Kopec’s
head, cut halfway off.
His uncle turns away from the window and lights
another cigarette. "You can’t tell your old man nothing, never
could," he says.
Peter doesn’t answer.
"He’1l stand there, just like you, listening
to somebody as long as they want to talk, and then go do exactly what
he was gonna do anyway. You can’t tell him a thing because he
thinks he already knows everything you know anyway."
He feels his uncle pulling him into his side of an
argument now; he holds himself out. His uncle shakes his head, then
looks again out the window.
"You know what it is?" he says. "He’s
got to be the one that decides. He’s always got to be the one
decides .... "
He pulls at the cigarette and finishes the beer; the
smoke simply disappears inside him. He drops the cigarette into the
mouth of the bottle; Peter hears it hiss as it hits bottom.
"You got another beer?"
He gets him another beer; his uncle lights another
cigarette. Except for the sounds of the television and his uncle
inhaling the cigarette, the room is quiet.
"How old are you, anyway?"
"Eight."
"You supposed to be up . . ." He turns his
wrist and lifts his hand to check the time. "Nine-thirty,"
he says. "You supposed to stay up till nine-thirty?"
Peter shrugs; an ash drops off the cigarette onto his
uncle’s shirt. "You’re lucky," he says. "Your Aunt
Theresa don’t let Michael stay up at all."
Michael is Peter’s cousin. He is a year younger
than Peter, and he climbs out of the window of his room onto the roof
sometimes while the families are visiting and, holding on to the
window frame, pisses onto the sidewalk.
Peter has been farther out on the roof of Michael’s
house; he has walked to the edge and unzipped his pants and then
looked back over his shoulder at his cousin’s face and seen the
excitement inside him.
Michael has tried to get him to jump.
There is a tuning fork going inside his cousin all
the time.
"Right after he done his schoolwork, it’s up
to his room," his uncle says. He looks around the room, reminded
of something. "You got homework?"
Peter doesn’t answer. He does his work at the
school. The nuns go over the same arithmetic every day, the same
reading words, and he does the problems they give him to take home
while they are teaching; sometimes he even knows what they will give
the class to do later. Peter doesn’t memorize things; he sees them,
the way they are put together. A kind of second sight that is so
natural he hardly notices it is there.
No one knows that, it is one of his secrets.
"You got to keep up with your books," his
uncle says, repeating something he has heard; talking now only
because he is uncomfortable with the silence. He looks at the
television set and watches Ed Norton making an onion sandwich. "You
don’t do your books, you end up like that .... "
His uncle finishes the beer and walks upstairs to the
bathroom and urinates without closing the door. The sound stops and
starts; he pisses a little at a time, like he was emptying his
pockets. The toilet flushes and then his uncle is back on the stairs.
"Your father’s got a nice house here," he
says. He stops on the stairs and looks at the ceiling, shakes his
head in an admiring way. "They didn’t built the houses on Two
Street like this—there ain’t no cracks in the walls, right?"
Peter shakes his head.
"Big rooms like this," his uncle says, "a
nice park right across the street . . ." He comes the rest of
the way down the stairs and then stops again, looking outside.
"Your father must sleep like a baby," he
says.
Again he doesn’t answer.
"You like your neighbors?" he says. "I
bet you got neighbors in this place, you want to borrow a cup of
sugar, the lady next door don’t say, ‘Fuck you,’ from behind
the door, am I right?"
He surveys the room, smiling.
"Dentists live in houses like this
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