shaking. Pike tipped back Cole's head, then blew hard and deep into Cole's mouth, once, twice, again.
Starkey said, "Hang on. Hang on."
She pressed harder on his wound, trying to hold the blood inside.
"Don't you die."
Pike blew. He blew deep and hard into Cole's mouth, and kept blowing, and did not look up even as the sirens arrived.
60
Elvis Cole's Dream
Death brought me home. Cool air came through the windows, carrying faraway calliope music and the scent of grilled hot dogs. The hour could not have been more pleasant in that perfect little house.
My mother called from downstairs.
"Wake up, you! Don't stay up there all day!"
My father's mellow voice followed.
"C'mon, son. We're waiting."
Our house was small and white, with a tiny front porch and velvety lawns. Lavender hedges snuggled beneath our windows, and a wall of towering cypress, each identical in height and width, trimmed the drive. The cypress stood like immaculate soldiers; protecting us from a light that was bright, but never harsh.
I rolled out of bed and pulled on some clothes. My room was upstairs, with windows looking out to the street. It was a terrific room, really just the best, but it was a mess-Spider-Man comics, toys, and clothes were scattered all over the floor, my shoulder holster hung from the bedpost, and my pistol was on the dresser. The bullets had fallen out, but I didn't take time to find them. I wouldn't need the gun for breakfast.
The shirt I wore yesterday was patchy with blood. I didn't want my mother to find it, so I balled it up, shoved it under the bed, and hit the stairs at a sprint. Man, I don't know how my folks stood it; I sounded like a herd of stampeding buffalo-BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! They were saints, those two; really just the best.
"Elvis!"
"COMING!"
We had this family tradition. Every Saturday, my Mom, my Dad, and I had a late breakfast together before starting our day. It was the best. We would share the good things that happened the past week and pick a movie we could see together on Sunday. After that, we would sit around, just being a family and enjoying each other.
Now, you have to understand, we had never done this before, but that day was the day. Before I died, my room was in a cheap apartment or a mobile home or at my grandpa's, conversations with my mother were always disturbing, and I had never met my father.
But that day was the day. I was finally going to meet the man, my mother would come to her senses, and we were going to be a real live All-American nuclear family, normal in every way. So, me, all anxious as hell, Mr. Anticipation, I crashed down the stairs, through the house, and skidded into the kitchen.
Mom was at the sink and Dad had his head in the refrigerator.
Dad, not looking up, said, "Milk or Schlitz, partner?"
"Milk."
"Good choice."
Mom, her back to me, said, "Did you wash off the blood?"
"Clean as a whistle."
"It looks so bad at the table."
"I know."
Me, rolling my eyes because that's what normal mid-American kids in normal mid-American towns always do; television said so, and television doesn't lie.
Neither of them turned.
My mother stayed at the sink, and my father stayed in the fridge. The kitchen drapes swayed, but their slight movement made the house feel still.
"Hey, I'm hungry. I thought we were going to eat."
Water burbled in the sink. Eggs fried in bacon grease on the stove. Outside, boys and girls chased the ice-cream man, and fathers and mothers laughed. Outside, the day was so beautiful you could hear sunlight and taste its joy.
My perfect house felt hollow.
"Dad? Daddy, look at me. You have to look at me. I'm supposed to know you! Hey, that's why we're here. That's why I made this place. I took it in the chest to know you1."
The man in the fridge grew milky and pale, and faded as he stood.
"Daddy!"
He stood, but it was too late. I told myself he tried. I told myself he wanted to know me, and would have if he could.
"Mama, don't let him go!"
He thinned until he vanished, and then she faded, too. The refrigerator swung open. The door bounced once, and was still. Cool air came through the windows, carrying faraway voices. The hour could not have been more pleasant in that perfect little house.
It isn't so bad, not knowing who you are. You get to make up whatever you want.