open and he walked briskly down the hallway into the boy’s living room.
It was dark—there was only the gray light from the television and the sound of a woman’s voice speaking in French. Denim legs entwined on the couch; Walter realized the Sanskrit boy was lying with someone else. The boy glanced behind him, lazily holding out a twenty-dollarbill. His eyes widened as he recognized Walter, and he jumped up.
“Can I use your bathroom?” Walter sputtered.
“No,” the boy said, “I thought you were the pizza guy. That’s why the door was—”
“Oh, let him,” the other boy said. He had a long soulful face and was sitting up now in the lotus position. “It’s at the end of the hall.”
There was a film around the hole in the toilet and a lacy frost on the sink spigot. The shower curtain hung off the rod and a little jade Buddha lay facedown in the soap dish. He heard the two boys arguing as he flushed the toilet and ran water into the sink.
Outside the bathroom, Walter felt himself sucked down the hallway and onto the boy’s bed. He lay in the dark, the comforter cool against his body, watching snow fall into the alley over the silver radiator. He heard footsteps and the overhead light flipped on and the Sanskrit boy’s face was red with rage.
“What the fuck are you doing?”
Walter was going to sit up and say that he felt better now, that he had a condition the doctors could never quite diagnose, part low blood sugar, part narcolepsy. But insteadhe just closed his eyes and pretended to sleep. The boy stood there a minute and then pressed the numbers on his cell phone and spoke into the receiver. The other boy came and stood beside him, and both stared down.
Walter slit his eyes just enough to see the pale orb of the Sanskrit boy’s head.
Snow was slanted against the windows of the parsonage kitchen and the little yard was blanketed; just the tips of the azalea bush pressed up over the full line of snow. Walter still smelled of piss and his arm ached from where the Sanskrit boy had yanked him up off the bed. He walked with his glass of ice water and stood in the living room. There was a shape on the couch and at first he thought his eye was superimposing the scene from earlier tonight, Sanskrit boy and brown-haired boy melded together on the couch.
“Father, my mother kicked me out,” Junot said, sitting up. “Mary said I could sleep here.”
“That’s fine,” Walter said. “Are you warm enough?”
Junot motioned to the blanket Mary had gotten from the hall closet. “It was awful, Father,” he said. “She said I was just like my dad. She kept saying
‘Arbol que crece torcidojamás su tronco endereza
—
cuando algo empieza mal, termina mal
,’ and that I was a crook and a bloodsucker.” The boy’s white T-shirt glowed in the dark room. And Walter saw out the window how snow was piled up on the boxwoods so that they looked like angel food cakes. “She threw my boom box out the window and said I was going to hell.” Junot’s teeth were white as sour cream and the expanse of his eyes was a liquid black.
“It sounds terrible.”
“I guess I give her problems,” Junot said sadly.
“Get some sleep now,” Walter said as he moved up the stairs. He wore only his underwear, and his cock was getting hard. An ice cube in his drink cracked. “In the morning, we’ll shovel.”
“Thank you, Father,” Junot said.
Walter rolled over, pressed himself into the mattress and covered the back of his head with a pillow.
Junot’s lips, his eyebrows, the baby hairs at the nape of his neck. The way his jeans rode low on his hips
. His skin was milky brown and he smelled like Carlos, crème soda and black pepper. Walter couldn’t take it anymore and stood up by the side of his bed. He put his hands on his hips. Snow rushedpast the window, the darkness offsetting the chaotic pattern of rushing white.
Walter kneeled down and pulled out the enamel canister. The lid stuck at first, but by
It was dark—there was only the gray light from the television and the sound of a woman’s voice speaking in French. Denim legs entwined on the couch; Walter realized the Sanskrit boy was lying with someone else. The boy glanced behind him, lazily holding out a twenty-dollarbill. His eyes widened as he recognized Walter, and he jumped up.
“Can I use your bathroom?” Walter sputtered.
“No,” the boy said, “I thought you were the pizza guy. That’s why the door was—”
“Oh, let him,” the other boy said. He had a long soulful face and was sitting up now in the lotus position. “It’s at the end of the hall.”
There was a film around the hole in the toilet and a lacy frost on the sink spigot. The shower curtain hung off the rod and a little jade Buddha lay facedown in the soap dish. He heard the two boys arguing as he flushed the toilet and ran water into the sink.
Outside the bathroom, Walter felt himself sucked down the hallway and onto the boy’s bed. He lay in the dark, the comforter cool against his body, watching snow fall into the alley over the silver radiator. He heard footsteps and the overhead light flipped on and the Sanskrit boy’s face was red with rage.
“What the fuck are you doing?”
Walter was going to sit up and say that he felt better now, that he had a condition the doctors could never quite diagnose, part low blood sugar, part narcolepsy. But insteadhe just closed his eyes and pretended to sleep. The boy stood there a minute and then pressed the numbers on his cell phone and spoke into the receiver. The other boy came and stood beside him, and both stared down.
Walter slit his eyes just enough to see the pale orb of the Sanskrit boy’s head.
Snow was slanted against the windows of the parsonage kitchen and the little yard was blanketed; just the tips of the azalea bush pressed up over the full line of snow. Walter still smelled of piss and his arm ached from where the Sanskrit boy had yanked him up off the bed. He walked with his glass of ice water and stood in the living room. There was a shape on the couch and at first he thought his eye was superimposing the scene from earlier tonight, Sanskrit boy and brown-haired boy melded together on the couch.
“Father, my mother kicked me out,” Junot said, sitting up. “Mary said I could sleep here.”
“That’s fine,” Walter said. “Are you warm enough?”
Junot motioned to the blanket Mary had gotten from the hall closet. “It was awful, Father,” he said. “She said I was just like my dad. She kept saying
‘Arbol que crece torcidojamás su tronco endereza
—
cuando algo empieza mal, termina mal
,’ and that I was a crook and a bloodsucker.” The boy’s white T-shirt glowed in the dark room. And Walter saw out the window how snow was piled up on the boxwoods so that they looked like angel food cakes. “She threw my boom box out the window and said I was going to hell.” Junot’s teeth were white as sour cream and the expanse of his eyes was a liquid black.
“It sounds terrible.”
“I guess I give her problems,” Junot said sadly.
“Get some sleep now,” Walter said as he moved up the stairs. He wore only his underwear, and his cock was getting hard. An ice cube in his drink cracked. “In the morning, we’ll shovel.”
“Thank you, Father,” Junot said.
Walter rolled over, pressed himself into the mattress and covered the back of his head with a pillow.
Junot’s lips, his eyebrows, the baby hairs at the nape of his neck. The way his jeans rode low on his hips
. His skin was milky brown and he smelled like Carlos, crème soda and black pepper. Walter couldn’t take it anymore and stood up by the side of his bed. He put his hands on his hips. Snow rushedpast the window, the darkness offsetting the chaotic pattern of rushing white.
Walter kneeled down and pulled out the enamel canister. The lid stuck at first, but by
Similar Books
