suspension speakers, an AM/FM radio, a record changer and dust cover, and a built-in eight-track deck. He had saved up his tip money and bought it with cash up at the Dalmo store in Wheaton. By the unit were some eight- tracks, Manassas, Thick as a Brick, and Broken Barricades, but Alex preferred records, which sounded better than tape and didn’t have channel breaks in the middle of the songs. Plus, he liked to take the shrink-wrap off a new album, read the credits and liner notes, and study the artwork as he listened to the music.
He was looking at the Blue Oyster Cult art now, while “Then Came the Last Days of May” played in the room. The song was about the end of something, its tone both ominous and mysterious, and it troubled Alex and excited him. The cover of the record was a black-and-white drawing of a building that stretched out to infinity, stars and a sliver of moon in a black sky above it, and, hovering over the building, a symbol that looked like a hooked cross. The images were unsettling, in keeping with the music, which was heavy, dark, dangerous, and beautiful. This was Alex’s favorite new group. They were due to open for Quicksilver Messenger Service at Constitution Hall, and Alex planned to go.
The phone on the floor rang, and Alex picked it up. From the tremor in her voice he knew Karen had been crying.
“What’s wrong?” said Alex.
“My stepmother is such a bitch.”
“What she do?”
“She won’t let me go out tonight,” said Karen. “She says I’ve got to stay and babysit my sister. She says she told me about this last week. But she never told me anything.”
Karen’s sister was her half sister. The baby, no longer an infant, was the result of the union between Karen’s father and his youngish second wife. Karen’s mother had died of breast cancer. Karen’s father was a prick. Everything was wrong in their home.
“Can you sneak out later?” said Alex.
“Alex, the baby’s only two years old. I can’t leave her.”
“Just for, like, fifteen minutes.”
“Alex!”
“Look, okay, I’ll come over. After your folks go out.”
“What are we going to do?”
“You know, just talk,” said Alex. He was thinking of Karen’s pink nipples and black bush.
“We better not,” said Karen. “You know what happened last time.”
Her parents had come home early and surprised them during a make-out session on Karen’s bed. Alex had emerged from Karen’s bedroom with a bone protruding from under the fabric of his Levi’s and some excuse about having gone in there to try and fix her stereo. Her father had stood there red-faced, unable to speak. He was a class-A jagoff who had been lousy to Karen since the new wife had come into the family.
“I guess you’re right,” said Alex. “I’ll just go out with Billy and Pete.”
“Maybe tomorrow?” said Karen.
“Maybe,” said Alex.
He hung up and found his friends. Pete could get the family’s Olds that night, and Billy was ready to go. Alex put on jeans with a thick belt, a shirt with snap buttons, and Jarman two-tone shoes with three-inch heels. He shut down the stereo and left the room.
His brother, Matthew, fourteen, was in his bedroom down the hall. Matthew was close to Alex’s size and excelled on the football field, the baseball diamond, and in class. He was more competent than Alex in every way except the one way that counted between boys. Alex could still take him in a fight. It wouldn’t be that way for much longer, but for now, it defined their relationship.
Alex stopped in the doorway. Matthew was lying atop his bed, tossing a baseball up in the air and catching it with his glove. He had thick, wavy hair and a big beak, like the old man. Alex’s hair was curly, like their mom’s.
“Pussy,” said Alex.
“Fag,” said Matthew.
“I’m headin out.”
“Later.”
Alex went along the hall, past his parents’ bedroom, and stopped at the bathroom door, which was slightly ajar. The air drifting out smelled like soapy water, cigarettes, and farts. His father was in there, taking one of his half-hour baths, something he did every night.
“I’m goin out, Dad,” said Alex through the break in the door. “With Billy and Pete.”
“The three geniuses. What’re you gonna do?”
“Knock down old ladies and steal their purses.”
“You.” Alex didn’t have to look in the bathroom to see the small wave of his father’s hand.
“I won’t be late,” said Alex, anticipating the next question.
“Who’s drivin?”
“Pete’s got his father’s car.”
“Idiots,” muttered his father, and Alex continued down the hall.
His mother, Calliope “Callie” Pappas, sat in the kitchen at the oval eating table, talking on the phone while she smoked a Silva Thin Gold 100. Her eyebrows were tweezed into two black strips, her face carefully made up, as always. Her hair had recently been frosted at Vincent et Vincent. She wore a shift from Lord and Taylor and thick- heeled sandals. Second generation, she cared about fashion and movie stars, and was less Greek than her husband. Their house was always clean, and a hot dinner was always served promptly. John Pappas was the workhorse; Callie kept the stable clean.
“Goin out, Ma,” said Alex.
She put her hand over the speaker of the phone and tapped ash into a tray. “To do what?”
“Nothin,” said Alex.
“Who’s driving?”
“Pete.”
“Don’t drink beer,” she said, as a horn honked from outside. She gave him an air kiss, and he headed for the door.
Alex left the house, a small brick affair with white shutters on a street of houses that looked just like it.
Billy and Pete had bought a couple of sixes of Schlitz up at Country Boy in Wheaton. They held open cans between their legs as Alex got into the backseat of the Olds. Billy reached into the bag at his feet and handed a can of beer to Alex.
“We’re way ahead of you, Pappas,” said Pete, lean, blond, agile, and tall, a Protestant white boy among ethnics in the mostly working-to-middle-class area of southeastern Montgomery County. His father was a lawyer. The fathers of his friends worked service and retail jobs. Many of them were World War II veterans. Their sons would grow up in a futile, unspoken attempt to be as tough as their old men.
“Drink up, bitch,” said Billy, broad of shoulder and chest. He carried a shadow of a beard, though he was only seventeen years old.
Billy and Pete usually swung by Alex’s last, so they could commandeer the front seat. It was understood that Alex was not the lead dog in this particular pack. He was somewhat smaller than they were, less physically aggressive, and often the butt of their jokes. They were not cruel to him, exactly, but they were often condescending. Alex accepted the arrangement, as it had been this way since junior high.
Alex pulled the ring on the Schlitz and dropped it into the hole in the top of the can. He drank the beer, still cold from the coolers of the store they called Country Kill.
“You guys got any reefer?” said Alex.
“Bone dry,” said Pete.
“We’re gettin some tomorrow morning,” said Billy. “You in?”
“How much?”
“Forty for an OZ.”
“ Forty? ”
“It’s Lumbo, man,” said Pete. “My guy says it’s prime.”
“Not like that Mexican ragweed you buy from Ronnie Leibowitz.”
“Hebe-owitz,” said Billy, and Pete laughed.
