Page 63 - WTPO Vol. VII #5

she chose to believe, he was fine with that, if none of it meant a thing to her, that was fine too. He wanted the decision to be hers, not one forced upon her through indoctrination. “Just keep being curious and kind,” he told her once, “that way you’ll cover all your bases.” That was another moment she liked.
She left the workers for the time being and let Albert lead the way, her arm stretched out in front of her like a lance, Albert muscling along as if he were mov- ing through heavy surf. He works much too hard for so simple a life, Helen thought. He’s got it easy, the dumb mutt, what the hell’s his hurry about all the damn time.
They kept to the sidewalk, and when Albert stopped and began to turn around in small circles, Helen yanked him over to the road and let him crap in the gutter, or mostly in the gutter. She felt guilty for not bringing a few plastic bags along, but she didn’t want this to be a long walk, just a quick little jaunt, then back home again to watch the church come down. How the hell can any animal crap as much as this one, she thought.
She agreed to walk him one more block. The Henry house was coming up on her left and it always had the most beautiful fall leaves in the neighborhood. Scott Henry used to play keyboards with Virgin Blood Loss until a dispute over volume and distor- tion broke out (Scott arguing he could be playing “Rachmaninoff’s second fucking concerto, for all these drunk bastards knew.”) and once he quickly realized the band was all about noise and not about music, he bowed out. But he and Francis remained good friends, and Helen liked it when he came over and played the small electronic keyboard he brought along. That’s music, she thought. Virgin Blood Loss was just therapy, she figured, a way for her dad and others to work out some of their “issues” without getting themselves arrested or beat up.
Helen guessed Scott Henry to be a bit older than her father. He was a large man with red curly hair that was thinning on top, and a birthmark beside his nose that looked like a melted Hershey’s Kiss. He was married to a diminutive Armenian woman, and they had two boys who went to Helen’s school. She would nod to them whenever they met along the narrow corridors there, but they rarely talked, and Helen was fine with that, seeing it as another chance to avoid bringing up her home as a point of discus- sion (which all talks with kids at her school led to in time). She stood in front of the Henry home, in awe
“She thought about her mother’s voice, how
sweet it was on those Sat- urday mornings, and how it ended so suddenly.”
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