The Book of Joe

tight bun, and her thin, colorless lips crinkle and purse as she squints into the darkness.
    “It’s just me, Mrs. Hargrove. Joe.”
    “Joseph Goffman?” she says, walking into the room. “What on earth?”
    “I’m just bringing Wayne home,” I say. “He needed a little help.”
    She looks down at Wayne, who hasn’t budged since I lay him down, and seems about to move forward with the intention of straightening his blankets and then, as if she’s thought the better of it, stops and remains standing where she is, her hands folded rigidly against her chest. “He has no business being out and about like that,” she says with a frown.
    “He just wanted some fresh air.”
    “Fresh air,” she repeats, raising her eyebrows scornfully.
    Then she notices the book I’m holding. “So, you’re a famous author now,” she says in the same tone she might have used to say “So, you’re a convicted pedophile.”
    “I guess so,” I say.
    “Well,” she says disdainfully. “You won’t find me reading that trash.”
    “If you haven’t read it, how do you know it’s trash?”
    “I heard about it,” she declares gravely. “And believe me, hearing was plenty.”
    “Well,” I say, placing the book back on the shelf and heading for the door, “I guess that’s my cue.”
    I head down the stairs, now noticing the crucifix and assorted Jesus artwork that occupies every available bit of wall space. Wayne’s mother follows behind me, muttering something quietly to herself. As I reach the front door, she calls my name softly. I turn to face her. “Yes?” I say.
    “I’m praying for your father,” she says.
    “And what about your son?”
    She frowns and looks heavenward. “I pray for his soul.”
    “He’s not dead yet,” I say. “I think he could use a little less praying and a little more compassion.”
    “He has sinned against the Lord. He’s paying the price.”
    “And I’m sure the Bible has nothing but praise for the woman who denies her suffering child a mother’s love in his final days.”
    She flashes me a dark look, her eyes filled with the defiant
    righteousness of the dogmatically pious. “When was the last time you read the Bible, Joe?”
    “You won’t catch me reading that trash,” I say. “I’ve heard about it, and believe me, hearing was plenty.”
    I need a Band-Aid. It’s just past two-thirty in the morning when I finally stagger into my father’s house, reeling and bone-weary from what feels like the longest day of my life. I locate some Neosporin and gauze wipes in the medicine chest in the downstairs bathroom, but there are no Band-Aids to be found, and the cut on my left temple is stinging and wet in the open air. Then I remember that Band-Aids were always kept in the medicine cabinet above the hamper in my parents’ bathroom, and this simple recollection unleashes a flood of half-formed images from my youth that leave me disoriented and short of breath. I pause for a few seconds, waiting for the chaos in my belly to abate, and then head upstairs.
    My father’s bedroom hasn’t changed very much, with its oak bedroom set and dirt-colored carpet, the faded velvet reading chair buried under stacks of old magazines and newspapers. My mother’s dressing table sits in its place, her assorted moisturizers and perfume bottles still standing on the small oriental tray against the mirror, untouched for over twenty years. If I were to open the drawers of her dresser, I know I would find her blouses, scarves, and undergarments neatly folded and waiting for her. I know that because in the first few years after her death, I visited those drawers frequently, occasionally taking out one of her scarves to smell the lingering traces of her perfume. There is no reason to think my father has emptied her dresser in the intervening years. His house has become a tomb in which the solitary remains of what was once a family are preserved, untouched by time and the various other elements that ripped us to shreds.
    Band-Aids are best applied by somebody else. There’s something about pulling off those white plastic tabs by myself that always feels pathetic, seems to emphasize the fact that there’s no one in the world to do it for me. With a sigh, I lean into the mirror to plant the adhesive strip on my skull, and something reflecting behind me catches my eye. In the corner of the mirror, I can see the door to my father’s bedroom, half closed, and on the back of it hangs a framed