that old lech?”
“I need to find him.”
“Finding him ain’t never hard, darlin’. Standing him more’n an hour’s the trick.”
“Do you know where he is?”
“If he ain’t passed out drunk out back of Charlie’s, he’s second room on the right, third floor, third house down. But I’m way better company than old Twinkles and I like ’em young and big like you. Come on. Let old Shirl show you a good time.”
“Thank you,” he said and stepped back onto the sidewalk and turned to walk away.
“Suit yourself,” she said. “Indian.”
THE HOUSE LEANED BACK TOWARD THE SHORE so that in the encroaching dark it seemed to hover there as though deciding whether to continue hugging land or to simply shrug and surrender itself to the steel-grey muscle of the river. It was a three-storey clapboard and there were pieces of shingle strewn about the yard amid shattered windowpanes and boots and odd bits of clothing and yellowed newspapers that the wind pressed to the chicken-wire fence at its perimeter. There were men on the front verandah and as the kid climbed the steps that led to it they stopped their chatter and watched him. He tried the door but it was locked and when he turned, three of them stood up and faced him.
“Eldon Starlight,” he said evenly.
“Who the hell are you?” the tallest one asked and spit tobacco juice at the kid’s feet.
“Franklin,” he said. “Starlight.”
“You his kid?” the one beside the tall one asked. He had a lazy eye and it made the kid check over his shoulder.
“Yeah,” the kid said.
“Never knew Twinkles had a kid,” the tall one said.
“Neither’d Twinkles,” a fat one said from behind them and they all laughed.
“Hell, kid, have a drink,” the tall one said and motioned for him to lean against the verandah rail.
“No,” the kid said. “Thanks, but no.”
“Damn. Polite and he don’t drink. Can’t be Twinkles’ kid,” the fat one said, and they laughed again.
The kid watched while they passed a gallon jug of wine around and when they’d all had a drink the fat one sat forward on the lawn chair he occupied and took a draw on his smoke. He breathed it out in a long stream and scratched at his chin with a big-knuckled hand.
“What brings you here, kid?” he asked.
“I’m aiming to see him.”
“He ain’t right.”
“I heard.”
“Not all of it, you didn’t.”
“Guess I’ll see.”
“I guess. But just so you know.”
“I heard,” the kid said.
The fat one rose and waddled to the door. He was tall but equally rotund and the boards of the verandah sagged and creaked with the weight of him. When the kid stepped to pass he blocked the kid’s view of the street. He had a sour smell of old tobacco, stale whisky, and unwashed feet. The kid moved back a step and the man grinned.
“You get used to it,” he said.
“Don’t expect to.”
“Your pap’s no better.”
The fat one unlocked the door and pushed it open with one wide arm and held it for the kid, who looked at him and nodded. The man nodded back and when he eased the door closed behind him he farted, loud and wet, and the men on the verandah laughed and the kid strode quickly to the shabby stairs across the small foyer. He stood there a moment and looked around. It was drab. There were low lights in the ceilings and they served only to add a level of shadow to the murk of the decor. The walls were panelled a cheap laminate brown and the threadbare carpets had faded from pumpkin to a sad, mouldy orange and the newel of the staircase was split and cracked. He could smell cooking and hear the jump of fat in a fry pan. Spiderwebs. Dust. An old cat slunk out of the corner and eyed him warily, and when he turned to the stairs it hissed and arched its back and the kid shook his head at it and began to climb.
There were men sounds coming from every room. Belches, curses. The pale blue light of televisions seeped through the cracks of half-closed doors and it gave his movements a spooky, out-of-time feel. He could hear a man’s raised voice. It was something addressed to a woman and the kid was embarrassed to hear it and when he came around the corner he tried to creep by but the door was open and the man who spoke turned to look at him. He kept rambling loudly. He stared straight at the kid and his eyes were crazed and the bush of his beard was mottled with tobacco and he had no teeth so the words were garbled some and crazy-sounding. As the kid eased past he saw into the room and there was no one else there. The man laughed suddenly, sharp like a bark, and he stood and shook his fist at the kid and stepped forward to slam the door.
He came to his father’s room. The door was shut. Across the hall a tall, skinny man stood at a hotplate, turning baloney in a fry pan. He looked at the kid flatly and eased a foot up and pushed the door closed. The kid pressed an ear to his father’s door. He could hear murmuring voices and for a moment he thought it was a television or a radio but there was a guttural laugh and then a woman’s voice and the glassy thunk of a bottle set hard on the floor and the complaint of bed springs. He knocked. Silence. He heard whispers and scurried movements.
“Well, come in, dammit.”
The kid turned the knob and eased the door open. The room was bare except for a dresser, a wooden chair, and the bed, where his father lay with a woman leaned against his chest. There were empty bottles lined along the dresser mirror. Clothes had been flung and were scattered every which way along with empty fast-food boxes and old newspapers. There wasn’t a square foot of open floor in the entire room. The closet door dangled off its hinges and there were tools hung on nails and piled on the shelf. Saws, hammers, wrenches, a chainsaw, a rake and a shovel, and looped yards of electric cable. There was an old bicycle sitting up against the far wall partially disassembled with the wires and gears of it strewn around the back wheel and a rusted scythe with its hook bent up to the ceiling. The hot plate was crusted with grease and dribbles, and a coffee can overflowed with butts and ashes and a few jelly jars stuffed full of the same. A black-and-white television was tuned to a snowy channel. The man in the bed just stared at him and the woman eased her chin down and looked at the kid through the top of her eyes and batted her eyelashes.
“Well?” the man asked and raised a bottle to his mouth.
“I’m Franklin,” the kid said.
“Jesus,” was all he said and took another pull at the bottle. “Got big, didn’t ya?”
His father’s face was slack, the skin hanging off the bones like a loose tent, and there were lines and creases deep with shadow. There was stubble on his chin. His hair was weedy, gone to grey, and curled at his neckline, with bangs combed over one eye. He grinned and
