to his vast punk record collection. Maria is not allowed, not even to get at the black hole of the bathroom.
When Joe Jr. was around twelve, he began spending time in The Lair. While it hurt to be replaced as the preferred parent, I knew it was only fair. Iâd been tightly and intricately attached to Joe Jr. I never sent him to daycare or preschool. When he started kindergarten, I used to lie on the living room floor for the entire two and a half hours, imagining all the calamities that could transpire while he was out of my sight. Earthquake. Fire. Gunman walking in spraying bullets. Pedophile lurking in a bathroom stall. Out-of-control car careering through the playground. Somewhere, some rogue state firing off something nuclear. I believed that if I worked through each of these scenarios, they would be less likely to happen because, statistically, the chance of thinking of a bad thing happening before the bad thing actually happens is much smaller than a bad thing happening. More people are killed in car accidents than people who think they might be killed in car accidents. Needless to say, it was a trying year.
Downstairs, the racket started as Rachel and I loaded the dishwasher in tandem. âI could hardly look at that poor boy,â she said.
âSimon?â
âIt nauseates me.â
âHis acne or his ears?â
She grimaced. âAcne is natural. Self-mutilation isnât.â
I nodded. âUgly is the new beautiful.â
âAgain,â she sighed. âThey never learn. Look at Joe. His ears are in tatters from all those pins. Is he a physician or an embattled tomcat? Iâm sure his patients laugh at him behind his back.â
âI donât think so. Theyâre probably just happy to see him after the six-hour wait.â
She nudged me. Simon had come up the stairs. He gawked at us brieflyâwell, meâthen disappeared down the hall, returning a moment later with an enormous boot in each hand. Before closing the basement door again, he cast me a backward glance.
I felt annoyed by his attention now. The grey-haired Shaughnessy matron mimed a finger down her throat. âAt least they didnât tattoo themselves back then,â she went on. âYou remember Silly Putty?â
âSure. Itâs still around.â
âJoe used to push it onto the Saturday comics, then stretch it out of shape. Thatâs what those tattoos are going to look like in fifty years. These kids donât realize theyâre going to be old one day.â
And I thought: maybe theyâre not.
A new song started up downstairs. Soundproofing spared us the lyrics, but we could hear that one of the three chords was different from the three chords in the last song.
âDoes Joey have a tattoo?â Rachel asked.
I hated to tell her. It was a sore point for me too. âA very small one. Tiny. Joe went with him to get it. To make sure about the needle. Anyway, all this is wonderful for Joe. Itâs the dream of every punk rocker who ever sold out. His offspring is picking up the torch.â
âI guess.â
Then they called us, so we dried our hands and started down the stairs to where the walls are painted black and the light bulbs red. âRachel?â I said, before I lost the chance. âDid you see the article?â
She turned around on the stairs and, under the light, looked drenched in blood. âThatâs why I came so early. I thought you might want to talk. But you seemed distracted. Iâve been waiting for you to say something.â
âIâm sorry, Rachel.â
âAre you all right?â
âYes, but I didnât get the chance to read it. It didnât mention me, did it?â
âNo.â
âI feel better now. Thanks.â
âAll that was a long time ago, Jane.â
âI know,â I said.
Itâs a gallery of album covers down there: D.O.A., Pointed Sticks, The Clash, The Ramones, The
Lawrence Block
Samantha Tonge
Gina Ranalli
R.C. Ryan
Paul di Filippo
Eve Silver
Livia J. Washburn
Dirk Patton
Nicole Cushing
Lynne Tillman