Jernigan by David Gates Page B

kid that plays bass? And he doesn’t like the band that he’s in and we were just going to get together and jam or something.”
    “Great,” I said. “I’m glad. Sure. By all means.”
    “And Clarissa can maybe sing,” he said, looking away. “Or I was thinking maybe about starting her on drums if we can’t get a real drummer.”
    “Well,” I said, determined to encourage, “at least you could have her shake a tambourine or something.”
    “Do you think it’d be okay if we turned up kind of loud? I mean not real loud, but it would sound better if we could have it a little loud.”
    “Okay by me,” I said. “You might want to keep the windows shut so old Mr. Howard doesn’t call the cops on you.” (Cop with holster sitting at the kitchen table: This is a normal thing to you?) “He doesn’t strike me as a heavy metal kind of guy.”
    “It’s not metal , Dad. You know, it isn’t anything yet. Dustin’s into the Smiths and stuff.” Whoever the fuck the Smiths were. “I mean it probably won’t even work out or anything. I never even played with this kid, okay?”
    “Well, whatever,” I said, ignoring the tone. “Mi casa su casa . I mean, obviously. Now, should I call and tell the power company they might have a brownout in the area of Heritage Circle?”
    He looked at me. “Is that a joke?”
    “Yes,” I said. “Hope it amused you.”
    “Sorry,” he said.
    “One more thing,” I said. “If you plan on smoking dope—of which I firmly disapprove—do it in your bedroom or something, so when the cops do come about the noise you don’t end up in the hoosegow.”
    He raised his eyes like a persecuted saint.
    I heard a door close upstairs, and down came Clarissa. She drifted into the living room, stinking of pot smoke. When she noticed me, she shrank back, but she couldn’t very well turn tail. So she just stood and blushed. Which was something, to see that pale face go red.
    “Sorry, Mr. Jernigan,” she said. “I thought you went to work already.”
    “What can I say?” I said. “Sometimes your mind will play tricks with you, you know? What we used to call your my-yind.” Smalltime cruelty, I know, I know. I wasn’t her father, thank God, so it wasn’t up to me to come down on her. But she might as well know I wasn’t an idiot.
    “We’re gonna be late, babe,” said Danny. Though only after saying this did he take his eyes off Clarissa to look at his watch. “Got everything?”
    She had nothing but a purse the size of a wallet, black leather with silver studs, dangling at her hip from a disproportionately long shoulder strap.
    “’Bye, Ma,” she called. (“ ’Bye, honey,” from far away.) Dannytook her hand and led her out the door. I checked my watch. So much for the 8:04.
    Back upstairs, I found Martha under the covers with only her head sticking out. Oh surprise surprise.
    “It’s seven forty-five,” I said. “Do you know how smashed your daughter is?”
    “Oh shit,” she said. “I knew she’d been backsliding a little on the weekends.”
    “Well,” I said, “I’d hate to be in her little Reeboks when they get to quadratic equations.”
    “I don’t think they have anything like that this year,” she said. “But I take your point.” She smiled what was meant to be a wicked smile. “And speaking of taking your point …” She lifted one arm free of the covers and kitchy-kooed. And what do you know? The arm was bare to the shoulder!
    I sat down on the edge of the bed. “Is this something we should be doing something about?”
    “Not right now,” she said, trying to preserve a mood clearly slipping out of her control. She writhed a come-hither writhe.
    “Don’t you ever wonder,” I persisted, “what goes on in that room?”
    This made her sit up, not caring anymore whether I saw breasts or not. “What?” she said. “My little girl’s corrupting your little boy? Is that what you’re worried about?”
    “I worry about both of them,” I