The Gospel of the Knife | Page 6

on the bed, two bounced off. You bend down to get them. Under the bed, away from the door, as far from Tish and George as possible, is the cardboard box with your comics. You have a new Nick Fury, Agent of S.H.I.E.L.D. with amazing psychedelic art by Steranko that you've only read five or six times.
So you read it again. Maybe you can't be a super-spy with a foxy girlfriend and a fast car who is always saving the world. You would happily spend your life drawing stories about one.
That reminds you of your notion for a drawing. You get out a sketchbook with a cover filled with doodles of peace signs and marijuana leaves. Most of the pages are full, but you accidentally skipped a few in the middle, so you flip there and start sketching the Kid on a motorcycle, flipping the bird to a dozen rednecks packed into a pickup like the Keystone Cops.
But when you add square-framed glasses to one redneck, you think of Black Glasses looking at you as he crawled from the pond.
You grimace, crumple the drawing up, throw it away, and start another. In this one, in a pool as dark as tar, a scared boy clings to a branch. His eyes and mouth are calm, as if he'll accept anything that happens next. You can't tell if he's rising or sinking.
You stare at the drawing. It isn't a redneck who fell in a pond. It's a boy trapped by something he can't understand. He doesn't look like Black Glasses. He looks like someone you should recognize.
You hear a knock and Dad's voice. "Christopher?"
You slam your sketchbook shut. "Come in."
The door opens. Dad steps in, leaving a hand on the knob. "Tish says you've got homework."
"Uh-huh. I'm doing it."
He looks around the room, at your schoolbooks on the bed, the comics scattered beside them, the sketchbook on the desk. "It's your turn to mow."
"I'll do it tomorrow. First thing."
He looks at the turntable. The singer pleads soulfully, "Don't bogart that joint, my friend, pass it over to me."
Dad looks at you. "You said that yesterday."
"I got busy."
"You got busy the day before yesterday, too."
You grin. "What can I say? I'm a busy guy."
He doesn't smile. "Your mother works hard so the rest of us can go to school."
"I know."
"When she comes home, she likes the place to look like humans live here."
"I'll come straight home tomorrow and do it."
"Like you were going to today?"
"Uh-huh." Since he doesn't turn away, you add, "Something came up."
"Uh-huh."
If he would ask, you would tell him about the rednecks, but you can't mention them as an excuse. Dad hates excuses. You say, "It's not a big deal."
"What your mother wants isn't a big deal?"
Bad move. You try: "She won't care if it's one more day."
"She shouldn't have to decide if she cares." Dad nods. You think he's going to leave. The record ends. You want to get up and turn it over, but you and Dad have taken positions. Any movement now is weakness or a challenge.
He lets go of the door, looks at the hall, then looks back at you. "What're you working on?"
"Reading, writing, 'rithmetic."
He walks over to you. The rubber soles of his engineer boots make no sound. He reaches for the sketchbook. His hand is big, square, shaded with black hair on brown leather skin, capable of crushing bricks. You think the only things you got from him are big hands. Your fingers are as long as his, but they're thin, goofy, freckled, and pink with sunburn.
He flips open the sketchbook, riffles forward through blank pages, and stops at the last drawing. "What class is that for?"
He found a lovingly detailed pen-and-ink of a woman carried through the jungle by a gorilla while a man swings on a vine to her rescue. A tattered bit of her skirt and a shredded shirt sleeve are all that remain of her clothes; they don't hide her breasts or butt. Her hair is black and shoulder-length, like Cindy Hurly's. Her muscled rescuer wears a tiny tigerskin loincloth. His hair is as light and as long as yours.
You shake your head. Your face burns. You're blushing, and you hate that.
"Go start mowing," he says quietly.
You should've yanked the sketchbook away when he reached for it. "Now?"
"If it gets too dark, we'll turn the porch light on."
"But supper-"
"You eat when you're done."
"No."
You thought you said it loudly, but he asks, "What?"
You stand. "I'm not your goddamn slave! I've got rights!" Your fists are tight at your side, like you learned in karate class, so tight you feel the pressure on your fingertips.
Dad looks at your hands. You let them open. You're too close to him. He could grab you or hit you easily. But backing away would show