When Sarah visited, Doctor took her out every night.
The fights in the library were postponed. When she left, they continued even worse-only once in a while. Doctor wasn't home much. Which made them kind of special.
At twelve he'd gotten smarter, even though his grades were still the same. He understood more about life, could figure out some of the things that had mixed him up when he was a kid. Like what his mother and Doctor were doing when she climbed into his lap after they fought, stabbing herself and bouncing around, screaming and calling him a fucking kike bastard.
What.
But not why.
The library fights gave him a giant hard-on. He carried tissues in the pocket of his robe.
They were both lame fucks. He hated them, wished they'd the while they were doing it and leave him the house and all the money. He'd buy lots of good stuff, fire the maids and hire pretty girls with dark hair to be his slaves.
She was always drunk now, every minute of the day.
Tripping over her own feet when she got out of bed. The whole room stank of gin and bad breath. And she'd gotten all puffy and fat and dark around the eyes; her hair looked like dry straw. She was really had-out.
Doctor didn't give a shit about anything. He'd stopped pretending. Once in a while they ran into each other in the morning-he'd be waiting near the curb for the school bus and Doctor would drive up in his big soft car, coming home to pick up a change of clothes or something. He'd get out of the car. looking all embarrassed, say hello, stare at a bush or a tree or something, then walk on, not even bothering anymore with his bullshit questions about how school had been, was he making friends.
Hello, son
Hello
Lame fuck
Both of them
She was a total zero, when she called for him now, he didn't answer, just let her keep calling until she gave up. He was twelve, with hair, didn't have to take any of her shit, her breath and tits hanging out. She was too had- out to come after him, could barely keep her eyes open. He did what he wanted, probably had more freedom than any kid in the world. More than anyone. Except the cat.
Usually it stayed up in the ice palace, eating human food and getting stroked and running its little pink tongue around the inside of the gin glass. Getting drunk and falling asleep on the big satin bed.
Snowball. C'mere, sweetie.
The only thing she bothered to take care of, washing and shampooing and combing out fleas with this little metal comb, then pinching them between her fingers and dropping them into a glass of liquid bleach. Once she asked him to empty the glass. He spilled it on the bathroom floor, let the fleas stay there on the tiles, little black freckles-he would have liked to see them on her face.
After grooming sessions, the cat got special treats: these crackers that came from an expensive store and were made by a cat chef. The fish ones looked like fish, the beef ones like little cows; the chicken ones were the head of a chicken. She broke off little pieces, teased the cat with them while she blow-dried its fur and rubbed oil into it, put little pink ribbons on its stupid head.
A boy cat, but they'd cut its balls off. Now it wore pink ribbons.
A real faggy cat, fat and nasty. It lay on the bed all day, too drunk to walk, peed wherever it wanted to.
But one night it walked.
A special night: They were going at it in the library.
He was listening on the stairs, not sure if they were going to do it afterward, not sure if he was going to jack off to reality or to thoughts, but prepared, wearing his bathrobe, with tissues in the pockets.
They were really going at it.
You cocksucking kike.
Shut up, you dumb cunt.
Borrring.
They yelled some more, then he heard something break.
Goddamn you, Christina, that ashtray was from Dunhills!
Fuck you, Charles.
Doctor said something, but mumbled it. He had to lean in closer to hear it.
She yelled back.
Borrring.
More yelling, for a long time. Then it stopped. Maybe? Silence.
Heavy breathing. All right!
First time in a long time. He felt himself get a hard-on, tiptoed down the stairs, wanting to be as close a possible. Stepped on something soft and slippery, heard a sound that made his heart jump so hard it hurt his chest- like someone being strangled, but it wasn't coming from the library. It was right here, right near him!
He stood up. The soft thing was still squirmy under his foot, knocking around on the carpet. Felt a sharp pain
