Down to the River by Anne Whitney Pierce

Author:Anne Whitney Pierce
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Regal House Publishing
Published: 2022-10-15T00:00:00+00:00

Purple and green strobes flash against the wall. Tiny pyramids of incense burn orange at the tip, sending up a thick, sweet smell in slow curls that hover at neck level to Hen. The lights dart across the school pictures on the wall on which home movies used to dance, making flickering monsters of them all—Remi raking leaves, Buzz flexing his muscles (which way to Muscle Beach?), Seph getting stabbed by Janie at the end of one of their family plays, Chickie dancing in a tutu, bowing, blowing kisses, sweet baby Hen, wide-eyed, droopy-diapered, chewing on a leaf. A tall, thin guy comes to the door. He has masses of brown curls and wears a leather vest over his bare chest. He has the gaunt, cocky look of a British rock star, a Keith Richards or a Roger Daltrey. Something about the way Tory’s hand lingers on his wrist, the pause after the wisecrack, tells Hen that she has plans. The tall guy knows. He sits down with a pack of Players in Remi’s armchair and kicks off his pointed boots. One of them lands at Hen’s feet.

“You want this back?” Hen says, picking it up.

“Later,” the guy says. “I may be here for a while. I’m Ferris, man. Who are you?”

“I’m her brother.” Hen gestures to Tory. “I live here.”

“No shit,” the tall guy says. “I never knew Victoria did the family thing. She always seemed like one of those princesses up in the ivory tower, you know what I mean? A lonely only. Are there more of you?”

“We’ve got a brother.” Hen points to a picture of Buzz on the wall in his Harvard football jersey.

“Wow,” the guy says. “A regular, upstanding, up-its-ass, Ivy League family. No offense, man. Three pretty kids all in a row, all gone to pot and beyond. Where’re Mom and Pop WASP?”

“Nantucket,” Hen says. “Opening up the summer cottage.”

“Far out,” the guy says. “Cambridge Fucking Family Robinson. Now all you need is the tree house.”

“We tried that.” Hen gestures outside to the yard. “It never really worked out.”

Faye’s living room is soon a glass-covered box of smoke. Hen opens the patio door to feel the cool night air, squints to adjust his eyes to the dark. The moon is full and circled by a ring of mist. Across the fence, the unfinished tree house stands as if a hidden skeleton in the oak tree. A plane passes by overhead, red lights flashing. White clouds rush by as the music pounds. The Beatles, Grace Slick, Four Tops, Fugs, Temps, Country Joe, Doors, Smokey Robinson, Janis Joplin, Richie Havens, Animals, Strawberry Alarm Clock, Miracles, Cream, Vanilla Fudge. Remi’s KLH stereo is on its last legs, bass broken and the balance way off. Still, it rocks and wails. The phone rings. Hen answers it, hoping it will be his mother, but it’s just another one of Tory’s friends. “Get your ass over here, Randall,” she says, leaning against the kitchen wall where they’ve all been measured in crooked penciled lines all these years, sucking on a big fat joint.

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