East of Denver by Gregory Hill Page A

faggot-mobile the Williams kid drives.”
    â€œYou’re drunk, Mom. Go to bed.”
    A hand groped my crotch. I slapped it away.
    â€œSorry,” whispered Clarissa. “It’s so dark.”
    â€œI’m over here,” whispered Pa.
    I hissed at them both to shut up.
    The basement door clunked shut. Safe. Footsteps upstairs. A toe struck a half-empty bottle of beer. A muffled what-the-fuck-is-this? The door to the basement opened again. “How’d this bottle get on the floor?”
    I could hear Vaughn squint his eyes. He yelled up, “You probably dropped it on your way out the door.”
    Vaughn’s mom was silent. Then she said, “I guess.”
    Vaughn muttered, loud enough for me to hear thru the bathroom door, “Bitchosaurus.”
    Vaughn’s mom said, “What did you say?”
    â€œNothing.” Muttering again, he added, “Hitler with tits.”
    Something was flung. “Don’t you ever!” Stomping down the stairs. Tripping, tumbling. Vaughn’s mom moaning in pain. Vaughn laughing.
    I cracked the bathroom door. Vaughn’s mom was on her face on the carpet right where Vaughn had fallen earlier that day. Her legs were akimbo.
    Vaughn cackled with glee. “The drunken toad fell down the stairs! Come on, run! Git! Before she gets up.”
    Seemed reasonable. “Pa, we’re moving out!” No response. I turned on the bathroom light. He and Clarissa were in the deep embrace of— Oh, Christ. I nearly retched.
    â€œMove it!” shouted Vaughn in evil delight. “She’s gonna get you!”
    I grabbed Pa by the hand and dragged him away from Clarissa’s lips, out of the bathroom, past Vaughn’s whimpering mother, up the stairs, and out of the house. Clarissa followed, stopping to get more beers out of the fridge before she joined us in the car.
    I drove us thru the country wild and fast.

CHAPTER 10
    PANCAKES
    I woke up in my clothes, in my bed. I looked at the clock. It was after noon. Downstairs, in the living room, someone was playing piano. “Old Rugged Cross.” It sounded just like Mom. I stayed in bed. This was what happened on Saturdays. Mom woke us up by rehearsing the songs she was gonna play at church on Sunday. “Trust and Obey.” “Ten Thousand Angels.”
    I stayed in bed until the music stopped. Then I stayed in bed some more.
    There was noise in the kitchen. Pots and pans. Someone was cooking breakfast, or trying to. I snuck down to the bathroom. I took a leak, splashed water on my face, and then walked thru the hallway toward the cooking noises. I felt hopeful.
    Clarissa McPhail was making pancakes. She was wearing Mom’s robe and her hair was wet. Dad was sitting at the table, watching her like she was a movie star.
    She saw me and said, “His mom’s not dead. She doesn’t remember anything.”
    I thought about this for a moment. I said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
    â€œI just got off the phone with Vaughn. His mom. She’s okay. She got a rug burn on her face but that’s all. She was so drunk she doesn’t remember.”
    I didn’t remember.
    Clarissa said, “
You
don’t remember, do you?”
    â€œWhat’s there to remember? We went out, got drunk, and came home.”
    â€œSoftball, lightning, Dee’s Liquor, Vaughn’s basement. Your dad.”
    I looked at Dad, who shrugged. He said, “Whatever.”
    â€œSit down,” said Clarissa. I sat down. She set a plate of pancakes in front of me. Strawberries and whipped cream.
    â€œI don’t much care for whipped cream,” I said.
    She took the plate back.
    I remembered parts of the night before. Things came back.
    Clarissa said, “You like strawberries, don’t you?”
    I put my hands on the table. Took deep breaths. Gradually, I began to recollect. The softball game and the quest for fire and going to