A Density of Souls by Christopher Rice Read Free Book Online

exist.
    “So you’re exactly the same?” she asked, harsh as she could make it.
    “You haven’t changed at all? Yeah, right! Why don’t you ask Stephen’s opinion?”
    Meredith looked away from him. Silence followed. When she finally looked back, Greg had gone rigid. His face was fixed, like her own mother’s, indignant and speechless, to let her know that she had violated something—gone too far and cut to the bone.
    Suddenly, his arm arced through the air in a clean sweep, his hand forming a fist in the instant before it struck her right beneath the jaw.
    When it hit, she felt her mouth rear up, pressing her right eye against its socket. Then she was staring into her bedspread.
    “Shit,” Greg whispered.
    Meredith lay with her face pressed against the comforter. Maybe 36
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    she had gone too far. Stephen’s name could propel both of them back into anger.
    “I didn’t . . .” Greg stammered, “I didn’t . . .”
    “Go,” Meredith said.
    After he slammed the door behind him, she righted herself. She lifted her bra off the comforter and strapped it on. She didn’t bother to put her shirt back on as she crept to her bedside mirror and stared at the first signs of a bruise beneath her bottom lip.
    Greg had a dozen good defenses he could use against the mention of Stephen. Brandon had made sure of that. Stephen was a fag; he broke the rules; he betrayed the world they now lived in, and had never even apologized for doing it. Why did Greg have to hit her to prove that?
    Hadn’t the note they taped on Stephen’s book bag made it all obvious?
    I know things.
    The thought struck her instantly. She cocked her head as if fascinated by the developing bruise. I know things. Greg’s fist had shown her that her words were more powerful than she realized.
    Now, the Cotton Blossom was rounding the bend in the river, just off the bank of the Fly, its brightly lit decks and harsh calliope music a sudden disruption. She felt the winter chill in the air and shivered before the smoldering butt of the Marlboro Light stung and she released it from between two fingers with an angry hiss.
    The Cotton Blossom cruised down the river in front of her, a trail of wavering light on its wake. She tried to focus on it. She was being forced back toward memories she didn’t want to face.
    It had been a Sunday during the summer before their sixth-grade year at Polk.
    Meredith’s mother had left her with Aunt Lois, who wanted to teach Meredith how to make macaroni picture frames. Meredith had called Brandon’s mother. No, the boys weren’t there. She’d called Miss Angela, Greg’s mother, and got no answer. So she went to Greg’s house, where she plucked out the hidden key from beneath the geranium pot on the back porch. (Stephen’s hidden key was buried in one of the flower beds outside the back door; Brandon, as far as she knew, didn’t have one.) As she walked down the side driveway of the Darby residence, she noticed the family mini-van was missing, which meant The Falling Impossible
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    that Mister Andrew and Miss Angela had probably taken Greg’s younger brother, Alex, to the aquarium. Had Greg, Brandon, and Stephen gone with them? And if they had, why had they gone without her?
    Once inside the house, she was overcome by the giddy sensation of trespassing in empty rooms. Her only company was the stuffed Mr.
    Toad perched precariously on the piano bench in the living room.
    (Alex was infatuated with The Wind in the Willows.) Then she heard the boys upstairs.
    She craned her neck and stared at the plaster molding around the crown of the chandelier. She continued to listen—but voyeuristic excitement collapsed into an icy bath. What she was hearing was not laughter. It sounded like a series of giggles, but it was too urgent, and there were too many in a row. She couldn’t recognize any voices. If only one of them would talk.
    She heard what sounded like a dog’s yelp.
    “For the love of God . . .”
    It