"Well, for starters, I drove down in the pouring rain to see you. I been waiting out in this friggin' car for over four hours. Maybe I am am in the mood." in the mood."

"Dominick, what was I supposed to do? Just tell my manager, 'Oh, sorry, but my boyfriend decided to show up unexpectedly so I guess I can't work the rest of my shift'?"

"No, you didn't have to tell them that. All's you had to do was act like you were at least half-glad to see me."

"I am am glad to see you," she said. "I'm just keyed up. You know how I get working here. And then with this thing with my father. I mean, I glad to see you," she said. "I'm just keyed up. You know how I get working here. And then with this thing with my father. I mean, I am am an adult, right? I an adult, right? I do do get to make my own decisions. But, God, when your mother finds your birth control pills-" get to make my own decisions. But, God, when your mother finds your birth control pills-"

"Do me a favor, will you?" I said. "Just shut up about your parents!" The car filled up with silence.

After a while, I sat up and opened the door. Got out and went into the backseat. "Hey," I said.

No response.

"Hey, you?" I tried again.

"Hey me what?"

"Come back here."

She didn't move for a minute or so. Then she climbed over the seat and into the back, flopped down next to me. Wrapped her arms across her chest, as tight as tourniquets. "As if his his relationship with my mother is some kind of great model," she said. "You should see the way she has to ask him for household money every morning at breakfast. She tells him what she needs, accounts for every penny, and then if he's satisfied, he reaches into his wallet and counts twenty dollar bills into her hand. It's disgusting." relationship with my mother is some kind of great model," she said. "You should see the way she has to ask him for household money every morning at breakfast. She tells him what she needs, accounts for every penny, and then if he's satisfied, he reaches into his wallet and counts twenty dollar bills into her hand. It's disgusting."

I fumbled at the opening of her pants, reached up inside her blouse. She wasn't wearing a bra, but there was something covering her nipples. "What's this?" I said.

"What?"

"This." I took one of her breasts in my hand, rubbed my thumb where the nipple was supposed to be.

"Band-Aids," she said. "You put them on so your nipples won't 337 337.

show. That's the last thing I'd need with the animals I wait on."

I pulled up her shirt, peeled off the Band-Aids. Started kissing her breasts. If she wasn't in the mood, well, I was horny enough for both of us. I shifted a little, got us both down onto the seat. I pried her legs apart with my knee, rubbed her a little.

"Hey, you know what, Dominick? I already told you, I'm just not . . ." Shut up, shut up, Shut up, shut up, I thought, undoing myself. "I'm just too keyed up right now. I don't feel like-hey, I thought, undoing myself. "I'm just too keyed up right now. I don't feel like-hey, stop stop it!" it!"

But stopping didn't seem like an option. I'd been out in that car for hours. She owed me something. And she was right, now that I thought of it: how dare dare that rich fuck of a father tell her to aim her sights higher than me. that rich fuck of a father tell her to aim her sights higher than me.

I started dry-humping her. Her not being wet seemed like a kind of stubbornness. Stupid rich girl. Stupid rich girl. I reached down and grabbed myself, rubbed it against her. I reached down and grabbed myself, rubbed it against her.

I kissed her hard. "I fuckin' love you," I said. Kissed her again.

Pushed myself inside of her. She grunted a little. I heard her telling me to stop it-saying it hurt, that I was scaring her. But what I I needed was stronger than her fear, and when she tried to get out from under me, I wouldn't let her. "I love you," I told her each time I hammered into her. "I needed was stronger than her fear, and when she tried to get out from under me, I wouldn't let her. "I love you," I told her each time I hammered into her. "I love love you. I you. I love love you. I you. I love love you." But my head was filled with hatred: what right did Dessa's fucking father have to assume he was better than you." But my head was filled with hatred: what right did Dessa's fucking father have to assume he was better than me me? . . . I might as well have been swinging that scythe out at the reservoir. Rattling that pinball machine down at Tepper's Bus Stop. I only realized she was trying to fight me off when she stopped stopped fighting. Just lay there and took the fuck. fighting. Just lay there and took the fuck.

The springs squeaked, the whole car rocked with what I needed, and then I came, cursing and clutching her, my one hand slapping the upholstery.

I was sorry before I was even soft again. Before I could even catch my breath. "Oh, Jesus," I said. "That was intense. I guess I got kind of carried away."

Dessa burst into tears. She was shuddering against my shoulders and chest.

"Hey, really. I'm sorry. I'd just been waiting out here so long.

338 338.

Drinking vodka and-" When I reached up to stroke the side of her face, she slapped my hand away. Punched me.

"I couldn't help it, Dessa. I'm sorry. I just wanted you so bad, I got a little wild."

"Shut up!" She punched me again. "Get off of me!"

I reached down to put myself back together again. Dessa did the same and climbed back in front.

"Is it really that that bad?" I said. "That I went a little out of control because I wanted you so much?" bad?" I said. "That I went a little out of control because I wanted you so much?"

"You know what 'wanting me' like that is called, Dominick?" she said. "Rape."

"Yeah, right. It's not like you and me. . . . Look, I would never-"

"You just did, did, you jerk!" She started to cry again. you jerk!" She started to cry again.

"Hey, hold on a second. That's not fair."

"I have had such a horrible week," she said. "And now this this happens." happens."

"Hey, you know what?" I said. "I've had a really horrible week, too. Did you ever think to ask me me what kind of a week what kind of a week I've I've had?" had?"

She started the car. "I'm going to drive you home," she said. "Then I'm going to go home myself. Take a hot bath and wash off this little 'experience' we've just had. Just do me a favor, all right? Just stay in the back and don't talk to me. Just don't say anything."

"You accuse me of raping you and I'm not even supposed to defend myself? Well, fuck that, Dessa! Fuck you you!"

I got out of the car and slammed the door. Opened it and slammed it again. I started hoofing it away from her-out of the parking lot, onto the road. I jabbed my thumb at a passing car.

She rolled up next to me. The whirring sound of the power window was in my ear. "Come on. Let's not do this, okay? Just get in and I'll take you home. We both need to cool off and get some sleep."

"Just go, go, " I told her. "You wouldn't want a rapist in your car." " I told her. "You wouldn't want a rapist in your car."

"All right, I'm sorry," she said. "That was a little strong. It's just that after my last relationship, I'm kind of-"

I started screaming at her. "I am nothing nothing like that guy! Don't you like that guy! Don't you ever ever . . . I am nothing like that guy at all!" . . . I am nothing like that guy at all!"

339339.

The power window went whirring up again. She gunned it. Just drove away. That's when I remembered my bike, stuck in her mother's trunk like a dead body.

I got home two hours and three rides later-relieved, for once, to be back there. I walked through the dark house and up the stairs.

Dropped my clothes on the floor and climbed up into my bed.

When I rolled over, I heard crinkling paper. I lay on my back, squinting in the dark at whatever it was-trying to decide whether or not to get up and look at it. Another couple of minutes later, I had to take a leak anyway. I jumped down from the top bunk and made my way to the bathroom.

All these years later, I still remember what that note said. Can still see see it, even-this weird version of his regular handwriting. He'd addressed it to it, even-this weird version of his regular handwriting. He'd addressed it to Dominick Birdsey, Traitor. Dominick Birdsey, Traitor.

Do you think it's easy having your sleep stolen every night? Do you think it's fun to feel the wings of the Holy Ghost fluttering against your think it's fun to feel the wings of the Holy Ghost fluttering against your throat? throat?

Sincerely, One Who Knows I stood there, squinting at it in the bathroom light, trying to make it make some kind of sense. He's nuts, I told myself. Told it to the mirror in front of me. He's fucking nuts. Then I balled up his stupid note, tossed it into the toilet, and pissed on it-pushed it around and around the inside of the bowl. Flushed it away.

I stayed awake until dawn, coming up with dozens of arguments about why I wasn't wasn't a rapist. Why a rapist. Why not not being Thomas's roommate was something I deserved. being Thomas's roommate was something I deserved.

I dozed off watching the first watery gray light coming through the venetian blinds.

340 21.1969.

It was after two the next afternoon by the time I woke up. My head ached. The room smelled sour. I reached down to scratch an itch and felt my own stiff jiz. The night before-what I'd done to Dessa-hit me like a fist in the gut.

"Hey?" I yelled down the stairs on my way to the bathroom. "Anyone home?" The silence was a relief. I needed to get on the phone with Dessa to repair the damage and didn't want anyone overhearing me.

I stuck my face in the sink and splashed cold tap water, put my mouth to the faucet to sluice out the sour taste. Pissing into the toilet, I suddenly remembered that goofy note of my brother's. Do you Do you think it's easy having your sleep stolen? Feeling the wings of the Holy think it's easy having your sleep stolen? Feeling the wings of the Holy Ghost against your throat? Ghost against your throat? What the hell was wrong with him, anyway? First that typewriter crap. Then that stunt out there at the reservoir. . . . I got halfway under the shower, then got out again and went dripping down the hall and back to our room. I stood there, staring at Thomas's unmade empty bed. What was going on? What the hell was wrong with him, anyway? First that typewriter crap. Then that stunt out there at the reservoir. . . . I got halfway under the shower, then got out again and went dripping down the hall and back to our room. I stood there, staring at Thomas's unmade empty bed. What was going on?

340.

341 341.

Back in the shower, soap and hot water helped wash away the night before. Dessa and I had just had a misunderstanding, that was all-a communications misfire. She usually wanted it as much as I did.

Maybe if I'd just slowed down a little. My bike in the trunk of her mother's car gave me an opening. Maybe she could drive it over and we could talk-straighten things out. Pack a picnic and go out to the Falls, maybe, if we were both feeling in the mood. Undo the crap from the night before. God, I needed a car.

I wrapped a towel around myself and went into Ma and Ray's room to use the phone. In the mirror above Ma's bureau, I started shadowboxing with Dessa's old boyfriends, letting punches fly at my own reflection. I dropped to the floor and did some push-ups. I was edgy. Couldn't stop whistling. I told myself I was feeling good-feeling "up and at 'em"-but it was nerves. The fear that I'd blown it with the best person I'd ever known in my whole stupid, sorry life.

I dialed the Constantines' number and waited. Looking around, I suddenly saw Ma and Ray's bedroom the way Dessa might see it.

Her parents' room was three times this size. It had wall-to-wall carpeting, a couch, a mural painted right onto the friggin' wall. My mother and Ray had a worn linoleum floor and pull-down window shades, Ray's collection of ceremonial weapons, Ma's Holy-Roller stuff: crucifix, Mary statue, praying hands on this sorry little wooden shelf that Thomas had made in junior high shop class. The afternoon sun highlighted the dents in the wood where his hammer had missed, the nail hole he'd forgotten to wood-putty. In that same shop class, I'd made an end table with a built-in record rack to hold LPs. Mr. Foster had put it in the spring showcase where he put the best stuff. He'd placed a philodendron plant on top of it and some of his own records in the rack. My project gets put in the showcase, but what does Ma save? Put up in her bedroom? Thomas's piece-of-shit shelf.

Why wasn't Dessa answering? Where was she? . . .

I looked over at Ma's holy picture of the Resurrection-Jesus, his Technicolor heart aglow, his eyes as forlorn as a basset hound's.

Some sex life they must have with that thing hanging right over 342 342.

their bed. . . . I flashed on the long-ago day when she'd bought that thing, down at the five-and-ten. The same day that crazy guy on the city bus started touching her. Got off the bus when we got off and chased us. . . . I saw her sitting there on that bus seat across from us, scared to death, letting that guy's hand wander wherever it wanted.

She'd acted the way she always did when anyone pushed her around: just shut up and took it. Waited for Jesus to come to her rescue. If it was true that the meek were going to inherit the earth, then Ma was going to be a Rockefeller.

I thought about a discussion our political science class had had the semester before: about whether religion was or was not "the opi-ate of the people." . . . I hadn't bothered going to Sunday Mass once since I'd gotten home from college for the summer. I was making a statement about who I was now-how I'd changed-so I stayed in bed every Sunday morning. It was a sore point with Ray, especially now that he'd been made a big-deal deacon down at the church. I was pretty sure it was a source of pain for Ma, too. Not that she ever said anything. Not that she'd risk that. . . . that. . . . But, hey, it was But, hey, it was my my life, not theirs. Why go to church when God was just a big joke? A cheesy painting from the five-and-ten? I wasn't going to be a hypocrite about it like Ray. . . . Thomas still went every week, of course. life, not theirs. Why go to church when God was just a big joke? A cheesy painting from the five-and-ten? I wasn't going to be a hypocrite about it like Ray. . . . Thomas still went every week, of course.

Mr. Goody Two-shoes. Mr. Touched-by-the-Holy-Ghost. . . . I thought about Professor Barrett, my art appreciation teacher the semester before. Her and her abstract expressionism. She'd taken our class down to the Guggenheim Museum in New York. "Come here here! Let me show show you!" she'd said, leading me up the spiral to a wall full of drips and squibbles. She'd singled you!" she'd said, leading me up the spiral to a wall full of drips and squibbles. She'd singled me me out for some reason-had taken me by the arm and pulled me toward Jackson Pollock, her patron saint. "God is dead and Pollock knows it," she'd announced out of the blue one day in class, her profile lit eerily by the dust-flecked cone of light between slide projector and screen. Sondra Barrett: according to the rumor, she was hot to trot. Got it on with both famous artists and undergraduates. Had she been coming on to me that day at the museum? Could I have pursued it? If Sondra Barrett ever got a load of my mother's Jesus painting-fine art by 343 out for some reason-had taken me by the arm and pulled me toward Jackson Pollock, her patron saint. "God is dead and Pollock knows it," she'd announced out of the blue one day in class, her profile lit eerily by the dust-flecked cone of light between slide projector and screen. Sondra Barrett: according to the rumor, she was hot to trot. Got it on with both famous artists and undergraduates. Had she been coming on to me that day at the museum? Could I have pursued it? If Sondra Barrett ever got a load of my mother's Jesus painting-fine art by 343 343.

Woolworth's-she'd probably need oxygen or something. I tried to think of me and Sondra Barrett in some loft someplace, going at it.

Tried not to keep seeing that crazy guy who'd felt up my mother that day on the bus-his filthy coat, the lump on his forehead. The way he'd sniffed at my mother while he touched her. She'd done nothing, said nothing. . . . Maybe that was how Thomas and I had come into the world: maybe some miscellaneous motherfucker had jumped her in a dark alley someplace and she'd lain there. Done nothing. Maybe that that was why our conception was some deep, dark secret. was why our conception was some deep, dark secret.

A breeze entered the room, flapping the window shades. Some of the rips in those stupid shades had been repaired with Scotch tape gone brown. What had Dessa's old man told her-that she'd be settling for less if she hooked up with me? I felt myself blush with the truth of it. Crooked the phone between my chin and shoulder and threw a few more sucker punches. Take Take this, this, you rich old fuck! I you rich old fuck! I been sneaking into your house all summer long. Making your daughter been sneaking into your house all summer long. Making your daughter scream from it. Fucked her one time on your bedroom floor, you prick, so scream from it. Fucked her one time on your bedroom floor, you prick, so take that! take that!

I heard footsteps on the stairs.

Thomas's.

Heard him close the bathroom door, take a leak, flush. I listened to his clomp-clomping back down the stairs. I realized I'd been holding my breath at the sound of his moving through the house.

Suddenly, the ringing in my ear came back to me. The phone over at Dessa's: on its fortieth or fiftieth ring by now. Why wasn't she answering?

Maybe she was out at their pool. Or standing right there, watching it ring. I banged the phone back down on the receiver, then picked it up and dialed again. If she'd just goddamned answer, I could explain myself. The night before had been a case of temporary insanity, that was all. It would never happen again. She was safe safe with me. with me.

Period.

End of subject.

344 344.

I flopped back onto Ma and Ray's bed. The sheets had been stripped, the mattress's imprint of coils and springs showing through from beneath. Brown stains dotted the middle. Maybe they flipped that Jesus painting over when they were in the mood. Shit, man: Ma having sex. And not just with Ray, either. Who was was my brother's and my biological father? Maybe he never even knew about us in the first place. Maybe she'd never had the guts to tell him he'd knocked her up. . . . I flashed on a long-ago afternoon down at the playground when Lonnie Peck told me that dirty joke. my brother's and my biological father? Maybe he never even knew about us in the first place. Maybe she'd never had the guts to tell him he'd knocked her up. . . . I flashed on a long-ago afternoon down at the playground when Lonnie Peck told me that dirty joke.

You know what happens when your father fucks your mother? The punch line had included a demonstration: one of Lonnie's cigarettes poking in and out of a circle he was making with his thumb and finger. Lonnie must have been in seventh or eighth grade at the time-lethally cool in the eyes of my friends and me. Lonnie's joke had simultaneously clarified for me the plumbing that went on between men and women and planted the dirty picture in my mind of Ray and my mother doing it up here in this bedroom. When I got home that afternoon, I first taunted my brother with my new knowledge and then burdened him with it, leading him into Ma and Ray's room and demonstrating the same way Lonnie had, using one of Ray's own Viceroys from the pack on his nightstand. Thomas told me I was a pig. "Maybe that's the kind of thing Gina Lollobrigida does," he said. "But not Ma." I kind of wanted to believe that myself, but I The punch line had included a demonstration: one of Lonnie's cigarettes poking in and out of a circle he was making with his thumb and finger. Lonnie must have been in seventh or eighth grade at the time-lethally cool in the eyes of my friends and me. Lonnie's joke had simultaneously clarified for me the plumbing that went on between men and women and planted the dirty picture in my mind of Ray and my mother doing it up here in this bedroom. When I got home that afternoon, I first taunted my brother with my new knowledge and then burdened him with it, leading him into Ma and Ray's room and demonstrating the same way Lonnie had, using one of Ray's own Viceroys from the pack on his nightstand. Thomas told me I was a pig. "Maybe that's the kind of thing Gina Lollobrigida does," he said. "But not Ma." I kind of wanted to believe that myself, but I didn't didn't believe it. And if believe it. And if I I was going to know, then Thomas was going to know, too. I needed to inflict the knowledge on him. So I held my little demonstration closer to his face and laughed and sped up the cigarette's jabbing motion. That was the thing about us, the difference: I was going to know, then Thomas was going to know, too. I needed to inflict the knowledge on him. So I held my little demonstration closer to his face and laughed and sped up the cigarette's jabbing motion. That was the thing about us, the difference: I knew knew that the world was basically a bad place-that life stunk and God was a joke, a cheap painting you could buy at the five-and-ten. I knew it; Thomas didn't. that the world was basically a bad place-that life stunk and God was a joke, a cheap painting you could buy at the five-and-ten. I knew it; Thomas didn't.

Pacing the room, I stopped to finger the stuff on top of Ma's chest of drawers: Avon cologne, dusting powder, jewelry box, family pictures. I'd given Ma the jewelry box for Christmas the year I was a high school freshman. When I opened it, that song "Beautiful Dreamer" plinked away underneath the small satin compartments, 345 345.

same as it always had. It was Thomas who'd spotted the jewelry box first, downtown in the window of the Boston Store. He told me he had decided to save up for it for Ma even before before he'd known it played her favorite song. He seemed to marvel at the coincidence. Then a snowstorm had put shoveling money in my pocket while Thomas sat around all day watching TV, and I'd gone downtown late that afternoon and beaten him to the punch. I was always doing that to him when we were kids: letting him know which of us was smarter, stronger, faster on the draw. Maybe he'd known it played her favorite song. He seemed to marvel at the coincidence. Then a snowstorm had put shoveling money in my pocket while Thomas sat around all day watching TV, and I'd gone downtown late that afternoon and beaten him to the punch. I was always doing that to him when we were kids: letting him know which of us was smarter, stronger, faster on the draw. Maybe that that was why he was acting so wacky these days. Maybe I'd finally made him crack. I'd had no idea was why he was acting so wacky these days. Maybe I'd finally made him crack. I'd had no idea "Beautiful Dreamer" was Ma's favorite song. If I'd ever thought about it at all, I would have probably guessed "Hot Diggedy, Dog Diggedy" or "Ricochet Romance," two of the tunes I remembered her singing along with the radio when we were little. In the kitchen with us, with Ray out of the house, Ma sometimes let her hair down. Risked being silly.

I don't want no ricochet romance I don't want no ricochet love If you're careless with your kisses Find some other turtle dove I snapped the jewelry box closed again. Hey, if it was true that I'd pulled a dirty trick or two on my brother, I reassured myself, it was just as true that I'd saved his ass plenty, too.

Ring, ring. . . . Answer, goddamnit! I Answer, goddamnit! I knew knew she was home. she was home.

Playing games.

One by one, I studied Ma's framed photographs: Ray, young and skinny in his Navy uniform; Thomas and me, kindergartners in bow ties and sideburned high school seniors; Billy Covington in his Superman pajamas. The largest photograph-the one in the heaviest, fanciest frame-was a brown-tinted portrait of Ma's father, whose gravestone I'd been trimming and weeding around all summer long.

Domenico Tempesta. "Papa." The greatest griefs are silent. The greatest griefs are silent.

346 346.

I'd asked Ma about the significance of that gravestone inscription. However she'd answered me, it had been a non-answer.

"Did he he have that put on there, Ma? Or did have that put on there, Ma? Or did you you?"

"What? . . . Oh, he did. He made all his own arrangements a couple years before."

"So what's it mean: ' the greatest griefs are silent the greatest griefs are silent'?"

She'd never answered that question. Or the other question I'd had: why he and his wife-my grandmother-had been buried on opposite sides of the cemetery. According to the date on his stone, "Papa" had died the summer before Thomas and I were born. Had he he known about us-that his unmarried daughter was pregnant with twins? In the framed photograph, Domenico's eyes seemed guarded and suspicious-as if he didn't quite trust whoever was taking the picture. I looked over at Jesus' eyes on the adjacent wall. Compared the two. Jesus was a sad sack; Domenico was a son of a bitch. known about us-that his unmarried daughter was pregnant with twins? In the framed photograph, Domenico's eyes seemed guarded and suspicious-as if he didn't quite trust whoever was taking the picture. I looked over at Jesus' eyes on the adjacent wall. Compared the two. Jesus was a sad sack; Domenico was a son of a bitch.

This is ridiculous, I thought. I'm wasting an entire Saturday afternoon listening to a fucking phone ring. Still, I couldn't quite hang up yet. She could be just getting home from someplace, throwing open the front door, and rushing to pick up. Or, if she was playing games, then fine, I'd outlast her. Sit there and let it ring until she weakened.