The Sky Is Falling by Caroline Adderson Page B

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. I’d 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. “I could hardly look at that poor boy,” she said.
    â€œSimon?”
    â€œIt nauseates me.”
    â€œHis acne or his ears?”
    She grimaced. “Acne is natural. Self-mutilation isn’t.”
    I nodded. “Ugly is the new beautiful.”
    â€œAgain,” she sighed. “They never learn. Look at Joe. His ears are in tatters from all those pins. Is he a physician or an embattled tomcat? I’m sure his patients laugh at him behind his back.”
    â€œI don’t think so. They’re probably just happy to see him after the six-hour wait.”
    She nudged me. Simon had come up the stairs. He gawked at us briefly—well, me—then 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. “At least they didn’t tattoo themselves back then,” she went on. “You remember Silly Putty?”
    â€œSure. It’s still around.”
    â€œJoe used to push it onto the Saturday comics, then stretch it out of shape. That’s what those tattoos are going to look like in fifty years. These kids don’t realize they’re going to be old one day.”
    And I thought: maybe they’re 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.
    â€œDoes Joey have a tattoo?” Rachel asked.
    I hated to tell her. It was a sore point for me too. “A very small one. Tiny. Joe went with him to get it. To make sure about the needle. Anyway, all this is wonderful for Joe. It’s the dream of every punk rocker who ever sold out. His offspring is picking up the torch.”
    â€œI guess.”
    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. “Rachel?” I said, before I lost the chance. “Did you see the article?”
    She turned around on the stairs and, under the light, looked drenched in blood. “That’s why I came so early. I thought you might want to talk. But you seemed distracted. I’ve been waiting for you to say something.”
    â€œI’m sorry, Rachel.”
    â€œAre you all right?”
    â€œYes, but I didn’t get the chance to read it. It didn’t mention me, did it?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œI feel better now. Thanks.”
    â€œAll that was a long time ago, Jane.”
    â€œI know,” I said.
    It’s a gallery of album covers down there: D.O.A., Pointed Sticks, The Clash, The Ramones, The