"Don't you worry about Jennifer. You worry about yourself. That's enough," he snapped.
I couldn't keep the emotion from my face, and I saw him tilt his head as he looked at me, his own eyes focusing like tiny microscopes to look into my thoughts.
"You might have Clara fooled with that sweet act you put on," he said in a hard, coarse whisper, "but I know your mother. I knew your father. I know from where you come. You can't fool me."
"If my mother was so bad, why aren't you? You're her brother. You came from the same parents. You grew up together, didn't you? You're not perfect," I said. "You've done some bad things." The moment I said that, I knew I had gone too far, but I had no idea just how far.
He stepped farther into the room.
"What did she tell you?" he asked. "Did she make up some lie about me? Spit it out. Spit out the garbage. Go on," he ordered.
I shook my head. "There's nothing to tell," I said, my heart pounding. He seemed to expand, inflate, rise higher, and grow wider.
/> "I never did anything to her," he said. "If lever hear you say anything, I swear I'll tear out your tongue."
I stared at him, and then I looked down quickly. He hovered there like a giant cat. I could almost feel my bones crumbling under his pounce.
"She was disgusting, parading around naked and saying whatever she wanted, trying to get me to give in to her evil ways. Well, I showed her. It was good when she ran off, only she didn't run far enough," he declared.
I could almost feel his hot breath on the top of my head, but I didn't move, didn't twitch a muscle. I tried to stop breathing, to close my eyes and pretend I was somewhere else. After what seemed like an eternity, he turned and marched out. It felt as if a cold draft had followed him and left me in a vacuum of horribly dark silence. I was afraid to think, even to imagine what sort of things he meant.
Suddenly, I felt I had to get fresh air. I threw on a sweater and went out. All the houses on the street and the next were well spaced apart. There were only about six or seven on each avenue. At the moment, there was no one on the street and apparently no one outside his or her home. I folded my arms under my breasts and walked with my head down, not really paying attention to where I was going. I was so deep in thought that I never realized I had crossed the street.
"Hey," I heard, and looked up at Clarence Dunsen. "Wh. . . where are you . . you going?"
He had a garbage bag in his hand and had just lifted the lid of the can when he saw me.
I stopped and looked around, surprised at how far I had traveled.
"I'm just taking a walk," I said.
He put the garbage in the can and closed it. Then he simply stood there looking at me.
"Is this where you live?" I asked, nodding at the modest ranch-style home. It had gray siding with charcoal shutters, a large lawn with some hedges around the walk, and a red maple tree in front. The garage door was open, and a station wagon and a pickup truck were visible. I saw a bike hanging on the wall as well and what looked like some tools, wrenches and pliers, clipped to another wall.
"Yeah," he said. "I live in the bas . . . bas . . basement."
"The basement?" I smiled "What do you mean?"
"That's where I . . . slee . . . sleep and stuff," he replied. He smiled. "I have my own door."
I shook my head, still confused.
"Com . . . come on. shhh show you," he urged with a gesture. He took a few steps toward the side of the house and waited. I thought a moment, looked around the empty street, and then followed him to steps that led down to a basement door. He pointed. "There," he said.
"You live down there?"
"A-huh. Wanna sssssss . see?"
No one had ever told me about this, not even Jennifer, but then again, no one really took any interest in Clarence except to make fun of his stuttering. I nodded again and followed him down the steps. He opened the door to a small bedroom that contained a desk and chair, a dresser, a cabinet that served as a closet, and a small table on top of which sat a television set. The floor was covered in a dark brown linoleum with a small gray oval rug at the foot of the bed. Under the bed were a few pairs of shoes and some sneakers. There were two electric heaters along the sides of the room.
His clothing was tossed about, shirts over the chair, a pair of pants dangling over the door of the closet, and some T-shirts folded and left on top of the television set. I saw magazines on the floor, some books, and a few boxes of puzzles.
"Why do you have to live down here?" I asked him. The room had no windows and was lit by a ceiling fixture and one standing lamp beside the desk.
"My mom's new hus . . husband fixed it for. for me so the baby could have my old rooo . room," he said.
The dull gray cement walls had chips and cracks in them. It smelled dank and musty. The floor rafters were clearly visible above us, and there were cobwebs in them. This was more like a dungeon than a bedroom, I thought. Why would his mother want him down here? I could hear footsteps above us, the sound of chair legs scratching the floor, and then a baby's wail.