I sat back down on the edge of the bed with the Gibson propped across my knees and played a walking bass line that peaked and dropped and grew until I could feel it in my own heartbeat.
When I woke up a while later, someone was calling my name.
I rolled off the bed, untangling myself from cables and cords. I’d dozed off with my headphones on. From the floor, the amp hummed softly in the gloom and I felt hazy and numb. Outside, the sky was dark.
The house was very bright, which meant my dad was home. He has this thing for electric lights. If a switch can be flipped, he’ll flip it. When I stepped out onto the landing, I had to shut my eyes against the glare.
“Malcolm,” he called from the kitchen. “Come in here, please.”
I went downstairs, blinking and shading my eyes with my hand.
He was at the table, and I could tell from his expression and his necktie that he’d just gotten back from the church. From Natalie Stewart’s funeral. His face was round and generally friendly, but right now it looked sort of raw. I wanted to ask about the service but didn’t know what to say.
He was flipping through a pile of old sermons and making notes on them. His suit coat was slung over the back of a chair. He glanced up when I came in but didn’t put his pen down. He looked tired and sort of exasperated, like he could hardly wait for the day to be over.
“Do you want to talk about why I got a call from the attendance office this afternoon?” he said.
“They had the blood drive at school. . . .”
He watched my face, rolling the pen between his fingers. “Today wasn’t a good day for doing things that could get you singled out. I’m assuming they announce something like that ahead of time?”
“I forgot,” I said. “Anyway, it’s not like it was some huge crisis.”
“Malcolm,” he said. “Your entire responsibility is not to make them see.”
I stared down at the linoleum. “I didn’t.” After a second, I glanced back up at him. “I don’t.”
He arranged his sermons in a neat pile, lining up the edges. Then he got up and went to the counter. He got out a plastic knife and started using it to cut an apple into slices. I wanted to ask why he didn’t just pick up the apple and eat it like a normal person, but everyone has their own private quirks.
After mangling the apple for a while, he threw the knife into the sink. It bounced like a pick-up-stick and snapped in half. “Why are there no paring knives in this house?”
“The good one’s in the cupboard. Above the refrigerator,” I said when he gave me a blank look.
