The Gospel of the Knife | Page 5

skeleton, legs and arms bent like it's dancing. Three pumpkins sit on the step: Mom's, Tish's, and George's. Dad thinks holidays are silly. You decided years ago that Halloween is for kids.
The house makes you think of work you hated doing and work you'll hate having to do. You helped paint the walls pink, Mom's second-favorite color. You helped turn the carport into the parents' bedroom by walling it with plywood, then painting the outside brown, Dad's favorite color, and the inside red, Mom's favorite. Parked on the lawn next to the house is a big red Chevy van. You helped convert it from a bread van into a camper by building shelves and beds and chair platforms, then painting the inside and outside red, like a barn on wheels. You don't know what project Dad will find for you next, but there will be one when you least expect or want it.
A pink bike with a chipped white wicker basket and a black bike with a silver banana seat and chopper handlebars lie in the yard-Tish and George are home. The racing bike and the station wagon are missing-Dad's still at school and Mom's still at work.
The grass needs mowing. If you start now, Mom and Dad will think good things about their industrious son. You look at the shed where Dad keeps a push mower. He says it's the "four Es": economical, environmental, and excellent exercise. That means he bought it at a yard sale for four dollars. Its wheels jam every eight feet, so you have to stop to yank grass out of the axle. It only cuts one blade out of four, so you have to go back and forth if you don't want the lawn looking like a goat wandered through it.
As you yank open the screen door, Tish calls over the blare of the TV, "Better start mowing, Chris!"
She and George are on the old green sofa with a steel mixing bowl full of popcorn between them. Neither of them look away from the black-and-white screen where Quick Draw McGraw is transforming into his secret identity of El Kabong.
You want to tell Tish she had better start cleaning the living room, but the room looks as good as a place full of secondhand furniture can. This is George's week to wash dishes and clean the kitchen, so you know it's already done. George always does what he's supposed to.
You say, "Better start minding your own business," and head down the hall.
Tish calls, "Chris? Did you do something? In school?"
You stop and look back.
"A man came by."
"We didn't let him in," George adds.
"He wanted to talk to you."
You ask, "Why?"
George shrugs, raising his thin shoulders almost to his ears. Tish says, "He didn't say."
Two days ago, you skipped PE to get high with the Beastman. Would they send someone to your house because you skipped PE? If they knew you'd gotten high, wouldn't they send a cop? "What'd he look like?"
"A man," George says, then laughs at his cleverness and your scowl.
"A man in a suit," Tish says. "He looked like a minister."
You point at your neck. "With a-"
She shakes her head. "He just looked like a minister."
George sings, "Man in black comes, comes to marry, comes to bury, man in black comes, better hide."
Tish says, "He said he would try again after dinner."
You say, "I didn't do anything in school," and keep walking.
Tish calls, "You better get mowing! Dad excused you yesterday!"
"And he can excuse me again today!" You grab your door, and as you slam it, you hear George say quietly, "Oh oh."
You open the door, shout, "I've got homework! Don't bug me!" and slam the door harder.
You toss your books on the bed and see the red and white portable record player Mom found at the Salvation Army, undoubtedly because its previous owner realized it was too heavy to be portable and too ugly to keep. The Easy Rider sound track is on the turntable. You click it on, twist the dial as high as it goes, set the needle on "Born to Be Wild," throw your arms wide, and whirl around the room. You're a rock and roll god, adored by women, envied by men. You're a lone rebel biker, cruising crowded freeways and lonely country roads. You crank the bike's throttle, you slam power chords on an electric guitar, you pound a bank of drums. You jump from the floor to your bed and back again. You could dance everywhere and anywhere without a care for what anyone thinks. You could fight armies of rednecks, cops, and soldiers. You could walk up to Cindy Hurly and ask her if she wanted to see a movie.
The song ends. You turn the player down and look at your schoolbooks. When you jumped