day, and in his ears he heard the phantom echo of the monkey’s cymbals: Jang-jang-jang-jang, who’s dead, Hal? Is it Terry? Dennis? Is it Petey, Hal? He’s your favorite, isn’t he? Is it him? Jang-jang-jang—
“Put that down!”
Petey flinched and dropped the monkey, and for one nightmare moment Hal thought that would do it, that the jolt would jog its machinery and the cymbals would begin to beat and clash.
“Daddy, you scared me.”
“I’m sorry. I just... I don’t want you to play with that.” The others had gone to see a movie, and he had thought he would beat them back to the motel. But he had stayed at the home place longer than he would have guessed; the old, hateful memories seemed to move in their own eternal time zone.
Terry was sitting near Dennis, watching The Beverly Hillbillies. She watched the old, grainy print with a steady, bemused concentration that spoke of a recent Valium pop. Dennis was reading a rock magazine with Culture Club on the cover. Petey had been sitting cross-legged on the carpet goofing with the monkey.
“It doesn’t work anyway,” Petey said. Which explains why Dennis let him have it, Hal thought, and then felt ashamed and angry at himself. He felt this uncontrollable hostility toward Dennis more and more often, but in the aftermath he felt demeaned and tacky... helpless.
“No,” he said. “It’s old. I’m going to throw it away. Give it to me.”
He held out his hand and Peter, looking troubled, handed it over.
Dennis said to his mother, “Pop’s turning into a friggin schizophrenic.”
Hal was across the room even before he knew he was going, the monkey in one hand, grinning as if in approbation. He hauled Dennis out of his chair by the shirt. There was a purring sound as a seam came adrift somewhere. Dennis looked almost comically shocked. His copy of Rock Wave fell to the floor.
“Hey!”
“You come with me,” Hal said grimly, pulling his son toward the door to the connecting room.
“Hal!” Terry nearly screamed. Petey just goggled.
Hal pulled Dennis through. He slammed the door and then slammed Dennis against the door. Dennis was starting to look scared. “You’re getting a mouth problem,” Hal said.
“Let go of me! You tore my shirt, you—”
Hal slammed the boy against the door again. “Yes,” he said. “A real mouth problem. Did you learn that in school? Or back in the smoking area?”
Dennis flushed, his face momentarily ugly with guilt. “I wouldn’t be in that shitty school if you didn’t get canned!” he burst out.
Hal slammed Dennis against the door again. “I didn’t get canned, I got laid off, you know it, and I don’t need any of your shit about it. You have problems? Welcome to the world, Dennis. Just don’t lay all of them off on me. You’re eating. Your ass is covered. You are twelve years old, and at twelve, I don’t ... need any ... shit from you.” He punctuated each phrase by pulling the boy forward until their noses were almost touching and then slamming Dennis back into the door. It was not hard enough to hurt, but Dennis was scared—his father had not laid a hand on him since they moved to Texas—and now he began to cry with a young boy’s loud, braying, healthy sobs.
“Go ahead, beat me up!” he yelled at Hal, his face twisted and blotchy. “Beat me up if you want, I know how much you fucking hate me!”
“I don’t hate you. I love you a lot, Dennis. But I’m your dad and you’re going to show me respect or I’m going to bust you for it.”
Dennis tried to pull away. Hal pulled the boy to him and hugged him; Dennis fought for a moment and then put his face against Hal’s chest and wept as if exhausted. It was the sort of cry Hal hadn’t heard from either of his children in years. He closed his eyes, realizing that he felt exhausted himself.
Terry began to hammer on the other side of the door. “Stop it, Hal! Whatever you’re doing to him, stop it!”
“I’m not killing him,” Hal said. “Go away, Terry.”
“Don’t you—”
“It’s all right, Mom,” Dennis said, muffled against Hal’s chest.
He could feel her perplexed silence for a moment, and then she went. Hal looked at his son again.
“I’m sorry I bad-mouthed you, Dad,” Dennis said reluctantly.
“Okay. I accept that with thanks. When we get home next week, I’m going to wait two or three days and then I’m going to go through all