The Whore's Child

sets—whole streets that were mere facades, doors that led into empty space—and he suspected something of this sort about his father’s apartment.
    The barbershop was quiet except for the snicking of Tony’s scissors and the occasional turning of a magazine page, so Lin was able to hone in on the ceiling and listen for the sound of his father’s footfalls, some sign that reality and not illusion was up there above the shop. After his haircut, with lime-scented cologne stinging the back of his neck, Lin waited outside for his mother and studied the second floor’s unshaded windows and the dark doorway around the corner that led upstairs. Just inside, at the foot of the stair, was a broken beer bottle, which proved that his father didn’t live up there, not really. The fact that his mother never even glanced at the entryway when she returned from her errands suggested the same thing.
    They walked home in silence, Lin trying to think how to ask his mother if she, too, sometimes doubted the actual existence of places and things she’d heard about but never seen. Perhaps it was because he was so deeply involved in this metaphysical query that he felt the world tilt when they turned into their street. There, high up on a wooden ladder and dressed in his painting clothes, Mr. Christie was scraping the eaves of their house, and again Lin registered a ghost scene in which worlds merged dangerously.
    â€œGood morning, Evelyn,” Mr. Christie called down when he heard them climbing the porch steps below. “How you doing, Linwood?”
    And there it was—the same expectant hesitation that occurred on Sunday mornings when Mr. Christie leaned down the pew with the offering basket, implying some other hoped-for thing.
    â€œYou’ve got a lot done already,” his mother observed, holding a hand up to shield her eyes from the sun.
    â€œThe worse the peeling, the easier the scraping,” Mr. Christie said, as if to suggest that the worse something looked, the easier it was to correct. “The back’ll go slower.”
    â€œWhere’s your partner?”
    â€œPaul? Oh, he came down with some bug or other. Don’t worry, though. You won’t be charged for two men unless two men are here.” Then to Lin, “That’s some haircut you got there, Linwood.”
    Lin could feel himself blush at being observed so closely.
    â€œHe hates going to the barber lately,” his mother said, and this made him redden even further. Next would she explain why? That he hated sitting in the chair and thinking that maybe his own father was right overhead?
    â€œBe glad you have to go,” Mr. Christie said, confusingly until Lin remembered that under his Red Sox cap, he was bald. “You should come to one of Lin’s games, Evelyn,” he then said, and Lin could feel his mother bristle. She didn’t like people making suggestions about what she should or shouldn’t do, especially after his father moved out, an event that caused a lot of people to voice their opinions. “Lin’s our star second baseman.”
    â€œI would, but Carling Field’s so far,” his mother said, “and I don’t have transportation.”
    â€œOh,” Mr. Christie said, as if anticipating this excuse. “I could swing by and pick you up. I think there’d be room for all three of us in the truck.”
    â€œWell, it’s certainly nice of you to offer,” she said, starting inside, as Lin wondered why, if it was such a nice offer, she wouldn’t even entertain it.
    Upstairs, after lunch, Lin watched Mr. Christie from behind the sheer curtains of the front window and tried to imagine the missing ghost scene. Had his mother hired Mr. Christie over the phone or had he called her to ask for the job? And why hadn’t she mentioned that the house needed painting? Outside the window, Mr. Christie’s paint-splattered boots were so close that if the screen hadn’t been there, Lin could’ve reached out to untie them. Strange, he thought, to be so close to another person when that person had no idea you were even there. From where he crouched, he could hear every swipe of the scraper as the paint flecks rained down, many of them coming to rest on the sill. Each time Mr. Christie reached out from the ladder, he made little grunting sounds, and once he said, “There. Gotcha, you little devil.” At that moment Lin realized he