Free Venus Drive by Sam Lipsyte Page B

with kids. Disadvantaged.”
    â€œWow, that’s great,” says Lorraine.
    Gary tells her all about his little brothers Vernon and Junebug, their eventful day in the park, the nature walks, the craft hour. They talk for a while, mutual friends, traumas of youth. Lorraine writes Gary’s number in a day book stuffed with business cards.
    â€œI’m going to call you,” she says. “I want to call you.”
    â€œThat would be great,” says Gary.
    A few days later she does. Gary is poking around for a vein. The vein is always right next to where you think it is. You have to dig hard. Work hard, dig hard. The blood dries in jagged curves around his arm, his wrist. Scutt’s clip.
    Lorraine leaves a long message with several numbers at the end of it. He is going to call her back, tell her he needs to go away for a while, get well, but his well-hoped hope is that she will wait for him. There is something special there between them. It’s hard to see, but it’s there. The proof that it’s there is that you can’t quite see it.
    Now, crowd sounds.
    Dutchmen kiss the pitch.

The Drury Girl

    â€œDo you want to see it?” said my father.
    â€œOkay,” I said.
    â€œIt’s a beaut,” said my father. “You should see it.”
    â€œOkay,” I said.
    My father gathered up his gown.
    â€œLook at that stitchwork.”
    I looked at the bruises, the blood flecks, the sewn line of the cut.
    â€œLook,” he said. “That’s where they took them.”
    â€œI’m looking,” I said.
    Â 
    My father got sick on our sofa for a while. Sick man’s beard, slippers, ripped robe. Bad days, he slung my old beach bucket in his belt to puke in.
    Most days were bad days.
    Old buddies chalked him up to dead.
    Cousins, clients, called the house to mourn the loss.
    His firm sent my mother a cheese wedge, a condolence card, but my father was not dead, he was sick, in the kitchen, sipping broth from a china cup. I brought him a spoon.
    â€œHey,” he said, “did you check your people today? Check them every day. Be attentive. Unnatural swelling, that’s what you’re looking for.”
    â€œOkay,” I said.
    He laid his spoon down.
    â€œI’m going to drink this soup from the cup,” he said. “But that doesn’t mean you can.”
    â€œOkay,” I said.
    â€œStop saying ‘okay,’” said my father. “Enliven your vocabulary.”
    â€œI will,” I said.
    Â 
    Some days my father would dress, necktie, pressed shirt, take his coffee near the window. He’d do the jokes, the numbers, the eyeball-soaker, the sock-tucker, the suicidal Swede.
    â€œWhat’s for dinner, sweetheart? Asparagus? Ka-Boom!”
    One morning he took his parka down from a hook, wheedled himself out over the walkway ice. He got his old Plymouth going. Dark exhaust gusted over the trunk and veiled it. Through the smoke I saw her, the neighbor’s daughter, the Drury girl, come down Venus Drive. She walked our yard in a snow-colored quilt, bare calves popping out of boot fur, sleep knots in her hair. She walked towards us with her arms crossed, a vexed diva, shot white breath from her teeth.
    â€œNathalie’s going to watch you while we’re gone,” said my mother.
    â€œA babysitter,” I said.
    â€œNo, you’re too old for a babysitter. Just don’t give her any trouble. Your father’s not up for any trouble.”
    â€œOkay,” I said.
    My mother rubbed her knuckle on my spine. Our secret touch. The Drury girl slipped past us into our house, spotted my old bucket, held it up.
    â€œAre you playing beach?” she said.
    My father said I was his little helper but mostly I just hid. There he was, on the sofa, or in the fall-away chair. Sometimes, cartoon mornings, I found him sleeping with my bucket in his lap, a thin gruel on his chin. Once, his robe fallen open, I studied his