monster’s going to wreck his eyes, much less soften his brain!”
Eric stirred with a groan. The fountain pen was still in his hand, draining ink into the television magazine. He set the pen aside and replaced it with a cigarette.
“You spend all your time daydreaming and watching those silly movies,” Aunt Stella continued, belaboring the obvious.
Eric had been all through this routine before, more times than he cared to remember. He leaned over and snapped off the television, wishing he could do the same to his aunt. He saw the crumpled candy wrapper he’d left on the bed and rolled over on it, working it into the folds of the sheets.
Thinking he was trying to fall back asleep, Aunt Stella pulled away the cloth strips over the window frame and yanked on the drawstrings of the Venetian blinds, letting sliced light charge into the room. She maneuvered her way across the room to the stereo, snapping the FM tuner on and turning up the volume of Korngold’s Sea Witch, conducting the rousing orchestration with her baton. For the briefest second, there was a flash of contentment on her face as she absorbed herself into the music.
“Morning,” Eric told her grudgingly, stumbling out of bed to his feet and padding across the room, taking care not to step on the mess strewn across the carpet. He felt terrible, even after patting his stomach and belching free a pocket of trapped gas. His mouth was dry and foul-tasting from smoking, and his throat was raw, parched. He coughed his way to the dresser, where he had left a can of Dr. Pepper with a few stale sips left. It pacified his throat long enough for him to take another drag on his cigarette.
“Have you looked at yourself lately?” Aunt Stella asked him, lowering the baton. “You look like hell!”
Eric stared at his reflection in the wall mirror, surrounded by rubber masks of creatures who looked only slightly worse off than him. He was thin and gaunt. Dark circles arched beneath his bloodshot eyes. His pale face was framed by stringy, unwashed hair the color of a used paintbrush. A hell of a sight, he had to admit. He slowly twisted his features, trying on a few favorite impressions. Cagney, Bogart, Widmark.
“Stop making those faces,” Aunt Stella warned him. “Let me tell you something. If you don’t start listening to me and start taking care of yourself, you’ll never live to see thirty.”
Eric let her have a few hacks of his smoker’s cough, sharp bursts like muffled gunshots fired into the top of his fist. He took off his shirt and replaced it with another just as old, then stepped into a pair of jeans.
Aunt Stella turned away from Eric to face the wider space of his bedroom. Whenever she was ready to launch into theatrics, she would always look away, as if staring past the footlights at some unseen audience. Eric closed his eyes and shook his head.
Not again.
“When I took you in after your sweet mother died giving birth to you,” she began, “I had no idea you’d be such a trial.”
Having reached her envisioned center stage, Aunt Stella stopped her wheelchair and fixed a whimsical stare into nothingness, letting her voice drop a sentimental octave.
“Your mother was beautiful. A great talent. Hollywood was at her feet. Important men were begging to marry her. Then she met your father. That bastard!”
Eric sat down on the floor and went about putting on his shoes. He hated this story. She knew it, and he hated her because she never let it drop.
“That was the end of our dance team,” she said, her voice rising once more, like a slack sail suddenly filled with a gust of wind. “You know, I was a fine dancer. The best!”
“Yeah, I know,” Eric moaned. “You’re the greatest, Aunt Stella,” he said, without conviction. “Magnificent.”
“And you!” she shouted, pointing a finger at him, “You made me leave that party, you little bellyacher! If it weren’t for you, I’d still have my legs! . . .”
“I . . . didn’t
Eric stirred with a groan. The fountain pen was still in his hand, draining ink into the television magazine. He set the pen aside and replaced it with a cigarette.
“You spend all your time daydreaming and watching those silly movies,” Aunt Stella continued, belaboring the obvious.
Eric had been all through this routine before, more times than he cared to remember. He leaned over and snapped off the television, wishing he could do the same to his aunt. He saw the crumpled candy wrapper he’d left on the bed and rolled over on it, working it into the folds of the sheets.
Thinking he was trying to fall back asleep, Aunt Stella pulled away the cloth strips over the window frame and yanked on the drawstrings of the Venetian blinds, letting sliced light charge into the room. She maneuvered her way across the room to the stereo, snapping the FM tuner on and turning up the volume of Korngold’s Sea Witch, conducting the rousing orchestration with her baton. For the briefest second, there was a flash of contentment on her face as she absorbed herself into the music.
“Morning,” Eric told her grudgingly, stumbling out of bed to his feet and padding across the room, taking care not to step on the mess strewn across the carpet. He felt terrible, even after patting his stomach and belching free a pocket of trapped gas. His mouth was dry and foul-tasting from smoking, and his throat was raw, parched. He coughed his way to the dresser, where he had left a can of Dr. Pepper with a few stale sips left. It pacified his throat long enough for him to take another drag on his cigarette.
“Have you looked at yourself lately?” Aunt Stella asked him, lowering the baton. “You look like hell!”
Eric stared at his reflection in the wall mirror, surrounded by rubber masks of creatures who looked only slightly worse off than him. He was thin and gaunt. Dark circles arched beneath his bloodshot eyes. His pale face was framed by stringy, unwashed hair the color of a used paintbrush. A hell of a sight, he had to admit. He slowly twisted his features, trying on a few favorite impressions. Cagney, Bogart, Widmark.
“Stop making those faces,” Aunt Stella warned him. “Let me tell you something. If you don’t start listening to me and start taking care of yourself, you’ll never live to see thirty.”
Eric let her have a few hacks of his smoker’s cough, sharp bursts like muffled gunshots fired into the top of his fist. He took off his shirt and replaced it with another just as old, then stepped into a pair of jeans.
Aunt Stella turned away from Eric to face the wider space of his bedroom. Whenever she was ready to launch into theatrics, she would always look away, as if staring past the footlights at some unseen audience. Eric closed his eyes and shook his head.
Not again.
“When I took you in after your sweet mother died giving birth to you,” she began, “I had no idea you’d be such a trial.”
Having reached her envisioned center stage, Aunt Stella stopped her wheelchair and fixed a whimsical stare into nothingness, letting her voice drop a sentimental octave.
“Your mother was beautiful. A great talent. Hollywood was at her feet. Important men were begging to marry her. Then she met your father. That bastard!”
Eric sat down on the floor and went about putting on his shoes. He hated this story. She knew it, and he hated her because she never let it drop.
“That was the end of our dance team,” she said, her voice rising once more, like a slack sail suddenly filled with a gust of wind. “You know, I was a fine dancer. The best!”
“Yeah, I know,” Eric moaned. “You’re the greatest, Aunt Stella,” he said, without conviction. “Magnificent.”
“And you!” she shouted, pointing a finger at him, “You made me leave that party, you little bellyacher! If it weren’t for you, I’d still have my legs! . . .”
“I . . . didn’t
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