antimacassars on my armchair or for the cockroach pillow.
In an adjacent alcove, which Mom had outfitted as her studio, she worked happily on a pet portrait. The subject was a glittery-eyed Gila monster named Killer.
Because Killer was hostile toward strangers and not housebroken, the proud owners had provided a series of photos from which Mom could work.
A hissing, biting, pooping Gila monster can really spoil an otherwise pleasant evening.
The living room is small and the shallow art alcove is separated from it only by silk curtains in a wide archway. The curtains were open, so Mom could keep an eye on me and could be ready to move fast in case she recognized, say, signs of impending spontaneous human combustion.
For perhaps an hour, we were silent, immersed in our various pursuits, and then Mom said, "Sometimes I worry that we're becoming the Addams family."
The initial eight hours of my first terrible day passed without a disturbing incident.
At 8:15, his eyebrows white with flour, Dad came home from work. "I couldn't make a good creme plombieres to save my ass. I'll be glad when we've got through this day and I can focus again."
We had breakfast together at the kitchen table. By 9:00 a.m." after more than the usual day's-end hugs, we went to our bedrooms and hid beneath the sheets.
Perhaps the rest of my family wasn't hiding, but I pretty much was. I believed in my grandfather's predictions more than I cared to admit to the rest of them, and my nerves tightened with every tick of the clock.
Going to bed at an hour when most people are beginning their workday, I required blackout blinds overlaid by heavy drapes that absorbed both light and sound. My room was quiet and dead black.
After a few minutes, I urgently needed to turn on a bedside lamp. Not since early childhood had I been this disturbed by the dark.
From my nightstand drawer I withdrew a plastic sleeve in which was preserved the free pass to the circus that Officer Huey Foster had given to my father more than twenty years ago. The three-by-five card appeared newly printed, marred only by the crease through the middle, where Dad had folded it to fit in his wallet.
On the blank reverse, Dad had taken dictation from Josef on his deathbed. The five dates.
The front of the pass featured lions and elephants, admit two it directed in black letters, and in red blazed the promise free.
Toward the bottom were four words I had read uncounted times over the years: prepare to be enchanted.
Depending on my mood, sometimes that sentence seemed to betoken forthcoming adventure and wonder. At other times, I drew from it a more threatening interpretation: prepare to be scared shitless.
After returning the pass to the drawer, I lay awake for a while. I didn't think I would sleep. Then I slept.
Three hours later, I sat up in bed, instantly awake and alert.
Trembling with fear.
To the best of my knowledge, I hadn't been awakened by a bad dream. No nightmare images lingered in memory.
Nevertheless, I woke with a completely formed and terrifying thought so oppressive that my heart felt as if it were being squeezed in a vise, and I could draw only quick shallow breaths.
If there were to be five terrible days in my life, I would not die on this one. In her inimitable way, however, Weena had pointed out that an exemption from death this September did not rule out severed limbs, mutilation, paralysis, and brain damage.
Neither could I rule out the death of someone else. Someone dear to me. My father, my mother, my grandmother If this were to be a terrible day because one of them would suffer a painful and violent death that would haunt me for the rest of my life, then I might wish that I had been the one to die.
I sat on the edge of the bed, glad that I had gone to sleep with
In an adjacent alcove, which Mom had outfitted as her studio, she worked happily on a pet portrait. The subject was a glittery-eyed Gila monster named Killer.
Because Killer was hostile toward strangers and not housebroken, the proud owners had provided a series of photos from which Mom could work.
A hissing, biting, pooping Gila monster can really spoil an otherwise pleasant evening.
The living room is small and the shallow art alcove is separated from it only by silk curtains in a wide archway. The curtains were open, so Mom could keep an eye on me and could be ready to move fast in case she recognized, say, signs of impending spontaneous human combustion.
For perhaps an hour, we were silent, immersed in our various pursuits, and then Mom said, "Sometimes I worry that we're becoming the Addams family."
The initial eight hours of my first terrible day passed without a disturbing incident.
At 8:15, his eyebrows white with flour, Dad came home from work. "I couldn't make a good creme plombieres to save my ass. I'll be glad when we've got through this day and I can focus again."
We had breakfast together at the kitchen table. By 9:00 a.m." after more than the usual day's-end hugs, we went to our bedrooms and hid beneath the sheets.
Perhaps the rest of my family wasn't hiding, but I pretty much was. I believed in my grandfather's predictions more than I cared to admit to the rest of them, and my nerves tightened with every tick of the clock.
Going to bed at an hour when most people are beginning their workday, I required blackout blinds overlaid by heavy drapes that absorbed both light and sound. My room was quiet and dead black.
After a few minutes, I urgently needed to turn on a bedside lamp. Not since early childhood had I been this disturbed by the dark.
From my nightstand drawer I withdrew a plastic sleeve in which was preserved the free pass to the circus that Officer Huey Foster had given to my father more than twenty years ago. The three-by-five card appeared newly printed, marred only by the crease through the middle, where Dad had folded it to fit in his wallet.
On the blank reverse, Dad had taken dictation from Josef on his deathbed. The five dates.
The front of the pass featured lions and elephants, admit two it directed in black letters, and in red blazed the promise free.
Toward the bottom were four words I had read uncounted times over the years: prepare to be enchanted.
Depending on my mood, sometimes that sentence seemed to betoken forthcoming adventure and wonder. At other times, I drew from it a more threatening interpretation: prepare to be scared shitless.
After returning the pass to the drawer, I lay awake for a while. I didn't think I would sleep. Then I slept.
Three hours later, I sat up in bed, instantly awake and alert.
Trembling with fear.
To the best of my knowledge, I hadn't been awakened by a bad dream. No nightmare images lingered in memory.
Nevertheless, I woke with a completely formed and terrifying thought so oppressive that my heart felt as if it were being squeezed in a vise, and I could draw only quick shallow breaths.
If there were to be five terrible days in my life, I would not die on this one. In her inimitable way, however, Weena had pointed out that an exemption from death this September did not rule out severed limbs, mutilation, paralysis, and brain damage.
Neither could I rule out the death of someone else. Someone dear to me. My father, my mother, my grandmother If this were to be a terrible day because one of them would suffer a painful and violent death that would haunt me for the rest of my life, then I might wish that I had been the one to die.
I sat on the edge of the bed, glad that I had gone to sleep with
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