Twelve Read Free

know that he listens to James Taylor, but the lie doesn’t bother him because he suspects that everybody listens to softer music and hides it.
    Sweet dreams and flying machines in pieces on the ground , as he walks past his doormen who nod at him. He hits the elevator button, leans against the wall. The doors open and he steps in, leans again, and stares at the ceiling. There is a hole in the middle of the glass light fixture, which Hunter knows conceals a camera.He didn’t realize this until after he had taken out his eleven-year-old prepubescent wanker and jiggled it about in the elevator, flapped it between his legs, humping air before he knew about humping. He didn’t know why he did it while he was doing it, and he still doesn’t know why he did it. The super showed him the tape when he turned fifteen. I’ve seen fire ...
    Hunter realizes the song is still going to be playing after he steps through the door of his apartment, but so what.
    He’s inside his apartment now and hears the television in the library—some show he can’t name. He walks in, and his father is sitting there drinking, being sad. Hunter’s father is a big man, bigger than his son, always drinking, always sad. His mother too. At least that’s the way it seems to Hunter.
    â€œHunter, come talk to me.”
    Hunter wonders what’s on his father’s mind this time. He’s leaving for Europe tomorrow. His mother is already there. They ought to be happy. Isn’t that the way it’s supposed to be. Hunter listens to his father talk about how hard he studied when he was at boarding school, and then how hard he worked at Dartmouth, and how hard he still has to work. He looks like he might cry. After as much as he can take, Hunter says he’s tired and wants to go to bed, and he goes down the hall to his room. His father didn’t even notice the blood.
    Hunter lies down on his bed with his clothes on. He knows he won’t be able to sleep and just waits it outuntil he hears his father go to bed, then gets up and slips out. He wants to walk. And I’ve seen rain . . . James Taylor sucks , thinks Hunter.

Chapter Six
    NANA LIVES ON 117th Street and Third Avenue. There is this hill that descends from Ninety-sixth Street on the east side and ends in Harlem. One minute Park Avenue is doormen and Audis, and the next it is Harlem. One of the first things you see as you pass Ninety-sixth Street on Third Avenue is a bad fried-chicken joint. Nana hates the place. For him, it is always a lot better going down to the Rec than it is coming back uptown, coming home.
    Home is his mother’s apartment on the eighth floor of the project, 2123 Third Avenue, past the big sign that says WELCOME TO JEFFERSON HOUSES . Nana walks along the curved path to the entrance and around the corner of the front building, the one that hides the monkey bars from the street. His building’s door faces the playground. Nana turns the corner thinking about how he’s gonna have to explain all the blood on his clothing to his mother.
    On the far side of the doorway, he sees two men. He can’t really make them out as he walks toward the door.They’re both tall, one slim and one heavy, both puffy in their huge North Face parkas. And the slim one is white. Strange , Nana thinks. Must be some kind of deal happening. Nana steps back around the corner where they can’t see him and peers around.
    â€œYou fuckin’ guy, you’re doing it, aren’t you,” says the heavy one. Pissed, but calm pissed. Scary pissed , thinks Nana. “I told you not to do any of this shit.”
    â€œNo, man.” The white guy is edgy, muttering.
    â€œFine. Gimme the money.”
    â€œOkay, let me get it.” The white guy reaches into his pocket and Nana can see him go all tense, and the big man sees it too, because as the white guy is bringing up a gun, a small silver thing with a flash of pearl handle, the big