Free A Certain Slant of Light by Laura Whitcomb Page A

Billy's, but more it was the slightly blurred woman's hand and leg that were caught in the margin of the scene, the owner's face missing from the mem ory. Their mother, in the wings, as often mothers and grand mothers are, ready to catch the children should they need saving, but otherwise invisible. Her hand was a pale flutter, her leg slen der and bare, wearing a white shoe, the corner of a light green skirt caught in the frame just above the knee.
       "Damn it," Mitch grumbled from the bathroom. The door must've been standing open. "The fucking toilet's broken!" I heard a hollow sound like porcelain scraping on porcelain and next a sound that made me cold all through. An animal danger thundered down the hallway. I was afraid, but I rushed there. Mitch ran to James's door and kicked it open. James, who was just unbuttoning the shirt he'd slept in, jumped back in surprise and, bumping into the bed, sat down on it. Mitch pulled a hand back and slapped him so hard across the face that James flew back on the bed and his head thumped the wall. Mitch held a clear bag of white powder in James's face and shook it.
       "Are you a fucking idiot?" he yelled. "What the hell is this?"
       James was breathing hard and didn't seem to see anything yet. He put his hand to his face and tried to sit up. Mitch slapped him again. I cried out, but I don't think even James could hear me. He scrambled back away from Mitch up against the wall, blood in the corner of his mouth. Mitch shook his striking hand, as if James's face were poison.
       "I should just call the fuckin' cops right now," Mitch screamed at him. "You wanna kill yourself, go live in the goddamn street." The anger burned red on his face.
       "I'm sorry," said James.
       "Fuck you, you little shit," Mitch yelled. There were veins standing out on his neck and arms. He paced back and forth for a moment, his fist flexing on the plastic bag.
       "I told you I got messed up that night," said James. "I can't remember everything."
       "You are so full of shit!" Mitch kicked the chair so hard it slammed into the door frame and slid out into the hall.
       "I forgot about that one," said James. "I didn't use any, I swear."
       Mitch stormed out again. I could hear the groggy voice of the man in the kerchief who'd slept on the couch. "What's the matter with you?"
       "Shut the fuck up," said Mitch. Then the sound of water running in the kitchen.
       The fury ebbed out of the room. I waited, watching James touch his jaw gingerly, dabbing at the blood with the back of his hand. He glanced at me, ashamed.
       "Are you hurt?" I asked.
       He sighed. "I'm all right." He rose stiffly and brought the chair back into the room, placing it on its feet beside the desk. Then he looked me in the eyes for a longer moment. "I'm sorry you were frightened."
       I didn't know what to say. He noticed that his shirt was open and modestly closed the middle button.
       "I should shower." He excused himself and I sat on the bed.
       Down the hall, the water pipes began to hoot as the shower started. The bedroom door opened wider as Mitch stepped in. He moved with stealth now and not anger. He went immediately to the dresser and opened one drawer after another, starting at the top, looking under the rumpled clothes and feeling the sides and top of each compartment.
       Mitch opened the closet and rummaged through the clutter on the floor within. He pulled out two scratched army boots, thrusting his hand into each one. I watched him as he looked in side the lampshade by the bed. I stayed very still until he sud denly turned, kneeling, and put his hand where I had been sitting on the blanket. I stood on the bed and backed into the corner as he reached between the mattresses and felt around. His face tensed and he pulled out something hidden there. As soon as he saw the magazine, he laughed and put it back. On the front I caught a fleeting glance of a woman in a tiny bathing suit step