Points of Departure Read Free Page B

got thesame eyes. I should have recognized you,”
    I notice that his glass is empty and I offer him another bourbon and lemonade. He accepts. I feel strangely comfortable watching the movie with him, “He died about a year ago,” I say. “But I watch all his movies. That keeps him with me.”
    “What a great guy he must have been.” Pete hesitates a moment, then says soberly, “You must miss him a lot.” He putsone arm around my shoulders as if to comfort me. I lean against his shoulder.
    “Not really,” I say. “These days, I’ve got him right where I want him. He can’t get away.”
    Pete frowns. “What do you mean?”
    “He’s right here,” I say. “I watch him every night.” I laugh and Pete smiles uncertainly. But he stays for another drink.
    And another. We both get a little drunk.
    I seduce the TV repairmanby the light of the television, that flickering uncertain light where nothing is quite real.
    My father watches from the screen.
    The late movie is a musical. My father plays a gambler who falls in love with a society lady. Dead men and women sing songs about love, and Pete’s snores blend with the music, a rumbling bass voice. A vigorous chorus startles Pete; he wakes and blinks at me myopically.

    “You okay?” he mumbles. He scratches his head sleepily, waiting for my reply.
    “I just can’t sleep,” I say. “It’s okay.” He struggles to a sitting position on the couch. “It’s my snoring,” he mutters gloomily. “I’m keeping you awake.”
    “No,” I say. “Not at all. I just don’t sleep much.”
    He sighs and pushes a hand through his hair. Half the curls stand on end. The curly hair on his chest matchesthe hair on his head. “My ex-wife always complained that I snored like a freight train.”
    I study him with new interest. Knowing that he has an ex-wife who complained about his snoring somehow makes him more real. He is naked and that suits him better than the shirt embroidered with PETE’S REPAIR-IT.
    On the TV, three dead women in tight, sequined dresses sing about summer nights, moonlight, andlove.
    “What happened to your ex-wife?” I ask.
    “She found someone who didn’t snore and moved to Phoenix, Arizona.”
    “Do you hate her?”
    “Naw. I figure living in Phoenix is punishment enough.”
    He shrugs. “She’s got what she wanted, but she still isn’t happy. Some people just don’t know how to be happy.” He yawns and lumbers to his feet. “Want some hot milk to make you sleep?” Without waitingfor my answer, he heads for the kitchen; I trail behind him. I watch him pour milk into a saucepan and rummage in the cupboards, a naked hairy man taking charge of my kitchen. “You got any brown sugar? It’s better with brown, but I guess white’ll do.” He heats the milk to near boiling, sweetens it with sugar, and sprinkles cinnamon on top. Then he fills two mugs and leads me back to the living room.“My mom used to make this when I couldn’t sleep,” he says, giving me a mug.
    The milk is sweet and soothing. I have never tasted anything so good. On the television, my father is dancing with the leading lady. Her head is resting on his shoulder and they look very good together.
    “I hate my father,” I tell Pete.
    “Yeah?” He stares at the couple on TV and shrugs.
    “Why bother? He’s dead.”
    I shrug,watching my father’s face on the TV.
    “Come on,” Pete says. “Lie down and sleep.” I lie beside him on the couch and he wraps his arms around me.
    I dream myself into my father’s movie. My father’s arm encircles my waist and we waltz together beneath crystal chandeliers.
    The ballroom’s French doors open onto a clear summer night, but the room is cold and damp. The air stinks of decay, a charnel-housestench of rotting flesh and dying flowers.
    My father and I spin together, and I catch a glimpse of the band. The bandleader is freshly dead; his body is bloated, the skin puffy and discolored. The dead musicians are in various stages