House of Blues

think all that was true, pretty much, throughout
our childhood and adolescence, but all bets were off when The Thing
happened.
    Everyone was so miserable then, hardly anyone raised
his voice for a long, long time. This was disconcerting, because we
were a family that yelled.
    The Thing was possibly the seminal event of my
childhood; the single most important event in it. The reason,
perhaps, that I am a poor scribe instead of a rich lawyer or banker.
It is always in the back of my mind, or just under my skin, or
crawling around in my belly. It is always there, whatever else I am
doing.
    The Thing is there when I go out to get my morning
paper and wave to my neighbor.
    It is there as I sip my coffee.
    It is there as I make phone calls, trying to scare up
a freelance gig, something to pay the rent for yet another month. It
is there if I have lunch with an old friend.
    It is there if I have two drinks before dinner and
two after.
    It is there when I make love.
    It is with me when I walk into the House of Blues,
though often, while I listen to the music, I can forget it
completely.
    It is with me when I walk out.
    Increasingly, it is there when I write.
    I cannot lose it, I cannot forget it. It wants to
come out.
    It is trying to worm its way onto the paper.
    It is a beast inside me struggling to get out.
    And I will let it out.
    This means something. When something is this
persistent, this strong inside oneself, it means a creative leap. I
know that.
    I don't know how I know it, but I do. If I can write
about this, my writing will take a turn, I am sure of it. I've been
nibbling at the edges of it for a long time, standing on a
metaphorical precipice, and this stunning new fact may push me over.
This grotesquely amazing thing.
    The fact that Evie, my sister, has killed our father.
Is that possible?
    It has occurred.
    Now I have written it. If only I could assimilate it,
could make myself believe it.
    Events, thoughts, are turbid within me; old memories
take on new meanings.
    A funny thing, though. That softball thing, the thing
where Evie flailed and jumped up and down, I think that was on
Easter. The Thing certainly was.
    We were all dressed up, I remember it well; we had
been to church.
    The girls and I fought in the car. Reed had a hat and
I think I jerked it off her head and threatened to throw it out the
window. She cried, and Mama slapped me.
    It was a beautiful day, a
perfect day, the reason pagans celebrate the spring, and I guess the
reason Christians do too. We had been to church . . .
    * * *
    Grady stopped, realizing he had already written that.
He exed it out and wrote, "Reed had a hat . . . before he
stopped again. His skin felt prickly and the back of his neck was
damp. His stomach crawled with venomous snakes. He felt a furrow in
his forehead as deep as a ditch. His jaw locked so hard his teeth
hurt. '
    Wait. Breathe deep.
    He brushed sopping hair from his face.
    It'll be okay.
    Nausea roiled in his groin and began to travel to his
solar plexus.
    Get up and walk around.
    As he got up, he began to flail the air, recognizing
in the gesture something of what he'd written about his sister. He
walked and flailed, stretched a few times, and then threw himself on
his bed, still breathing deeply, until the terror and hatred had
passed. Can you be phobic about a day in your life?
    Maybe.
    But I don't think I am. This isn't a phobia, it's a
parasite chewing on me. It had to go, The Thing had to go.
    And for the first time, he thought he could get it
out, pull the worm from beneath his skin, all twelve miles of it, or
three thousand miles of it, whatever was in there.
    He thought it would come out soon.
    But not now.
    As soon as he was breathing normally again, he would
shower off the sweat and go to the House of Blues.
 
    19
    Skip woke up to the sound of a yipping puppy. But the
outside noise was nothing compared to what was going on in her head.
This Dennis development had her reeling.
    She had hoped that when she found Dennis, she'd find
Reed, Sally, and all the answers. Instead it seemed she'd only opened
a can of worms wriggling at something approaching the speed of light.
    One of those wriggling worms was called Tricia, but
she figured that was something she'd have to deal with later. Right
now, life was throwing things at her like one of those machines that
serves tennis balls.
    Dennis, Dennis, Dennis, do I believe you?
    She had no choice.
    That was the practical consideration, but there was
also another.