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hand began to move。
He soon discovered he was drawing Skeletal Sammy； a character from Daddy's ic book； Birdland。 Sammy was all straight lines and sharp points： easy to draw。 The half…leering； half…desperate face； the long black coat that hung on Sammy's shoulders like a pair of broken wings； the spidery hands and the long thin legs and the exaggerated bulge of Sammy's kneecaps beneath his black stovepipe pants…all began to take shape。
Trevor sat back and looked at the drawing。 It was nowhere near as good as Daddy's Sammy； of course； the lines weren't straight； the black inking was more like scribbling。 But it was no circle with five dots； either。 It was immediately recognizable as Skeletal Sammy。
Daddy recognized it as soon as he walked into the kitchen。
He leaned over Trevor's shoulder for several moments looking at the drawing。 One hand rested lightly on Trev's back； the other tapped the table nervously； fingers as long and thin as Sammy's； faint lavender veins visible beneath the pale skin； silver wedding ring too loose on the third finger。 For a moment Trevor feared Daddy might snatch the drawing； the whole sketchbook； he felt as if he had been caught doing something wrong。
But Daddy only kissed the top of Trevor's head。 〃You draw a mean junkie； kiddo；〃 he whispered into Trevor's ginger hair。 And he was gone from the kitchen silently； like a ghost； without getting the beer or glass of water or whatever he had e for； leaving his elder son half elated and half dreadfully； mysteriously ashamed。
The carefully drawn fingers of Sammy's left hand were blurring。 A drop of moisture on the page； making the ink bleed and furl。 Trevor touched the wetness； then put his finger to his lips。 Salty。 A tear。
Daddy's； or his own？
The worst thing happened the following week。 It turned out Daddy had been drawing in his cramped little studio。 Had finally finished a story； only a page long； and sent it off to one of his papers。 Trevor couldn't remember if it was the Barb or the Freep or maybe one of the others…he got them mixed up sometimes。
The paper rejected the story。 Daddy read the letter aloud in a hollow； mocking voice。 It had been a difficult decision； the editor said； considering his reputation and the selling power of his name。 However； he simply didn't feel the story approached the quality of Daddy's previous work； and he thought publishing it would be bad both for the paper and for Daddy's career。
It was the kindest way the editor could find to say This ic is a piece of shit。
The next day； Daddy walked into town and called the publisher of Birdland。 The stories for the fourth issue were already nearly a year overdue。 Daddy told the publisher there would be no more stories； not now； not ever。 Then he hung up the pay phone and walked a mile across town to the liquor store。 By the time he got home； he had already cracked the seal on a gallon jug of bourbon。
Momma had begun staying later and later in the city after her modeling jobs…having drinks with some of the other models one night； going to someone's apartment to get stoned the next。 Daddy didn't like that； had even refused to smoke the joint she brought him as a present from her friends。 She said they wanted to meet him and the kids； but Daddy told her not to invite them out。
Trevor had gone into Raleigh with Momma one day。 He brought his sketchbook and sat in a corner of the big airy studio that smelled of paint thinner and charcoal dust。 Momma stood gracefully naked on a wooden podium at the front of the room； joking with the students when she took her breaks。 Some of them laughed at him； bent over his sketchbook so quiet and serious。 Their laughter faltered when they saw the likenesses he had produced of them during the class period： the stringy…haired girl whose granny glasses pinched her beaky nose like some torture device made of wire； the droopy…eyed boy whose patchy beard grew straight down into the collar of his black turtleneck because he had no chin。
But on this day Trevor had stayed home。 Daddy sat in the living room all evening； sprawled in a threadbare recliner that had e with the house； his feet tapping out a meaningless tattoo on the warped floorboards。 He had the turntable hooked up and kept playing record after record； anything that his hand fell upon； Sarah Vaughan； Country Joe and the Fish； frenetic band music from the twenties that sounded like something skeletons might jitterbug to…it all ran together in one long musical cry of pain。 Most of all Trevor remembered Daddy searching obsessively for a set of Charlie Parker records： Bird with Miles； Bird on Fifty…second Street； Bird at Birdland。 He found them； slammed one onto the turntable。 The saxophone spiraled through the old house； found the cracks in the walls and spun out into the night； an exalted sound； terribly sad but somehow free。 Free as a bird in Birdland。
Daddy hefted the bottle and chugged bourbon straight from it。 A moment later he let out a long； wet； rippling belch。 Trevor got up from the corner where he'd been sitting； keeping an eye out for Momma's headlights； and started to leave the room。 He didn't want to see Daddy get sick。 He'd seen it before and it had nearly made him sick too； not even so much the sight of the thin； stringy whiskey…vomit as that of his father's helplessness and shame。
His foot struck a loose piece of wood and sent it skittering across the floor。 Daddy had been doing repairs around the house a few days earlier； nailing down a board that had begun to curl away from the wall。 Long silver nails and a hammer were still scattered around the hall doorway。 Trevor began to gather up the nails； thinking Didi might step on one； then stopped。 Didi was smart enough not to go around the house barefoot； with all the splinters in the floorboards。 Maybe Daddy would need the nails。 Maybe he would still finish the repairs。
At the sound of the nails chinking together； Daddy looked up from his bottle。 His eyes focused on Trevor； pinned him to the spot where he stood。 〃Trev。 What're you doin'？〃
〃Going to bed。〃
〃Thass good。 I'll fixyer juice。〃 Momma usually gave the boys fruit juice to take to bed with them； when there was any in the house。 Daddy got up and stumbled past Trevor into the kitchen； slapping one hand against the door frame to support himself。 Trevor heard the refrigerator opening； bottles rattling。 Daddy came back in and handed him a glass of grapefruit juice。 A few drops sloshed over the side； trickled over Trevor's fingers。 He put his hand to his mouth and licked them away。 Grapefruit was his favorite； because of the interestingly sour； almost salty taste。 But there was an extra bitterness to this juice； as if it had begun to spoil in the bottle。
He must have made a face； because Daddy kept staring at him。 〃Something wrong？〃
Trevor shook his head。
〃You gonna drink that or not？〃
He raised the glass to his lips and drank half of it； took a deep breath； and finished it off。 The bitter taste shivered over his tongue； lingered in the back of his throat。
〃There you go。〃 Daddy reached out； pulled Trevor into his embrace。 Daddy smelled of stinging liquor and old sweat and dirty clothes。 Trevor hugged back anyway。 As the side of his head pressed against Daddy's； a panicky terror flooded through him； though he didn't know why。 He clutched at Daddy's shoulders； tried to wrap his arms around Daddy's neck。
But after a moment； Daddy pried him off and gently pushed him away。
Trevor went down the hall； glancing into Didi's dark bedroom。 Sometimes Didi got scared at night； but now he was fast asleep despite the punishing volume Of the music； his face burrowed into his pillow； the faint light from the hallway casting a halo on his pale hair。 Back in Austin the brothers had shared a room； this was the first time they had slept apart。 Trevor missed waking up to the soft sound of Didi's breathing； to the scent of talcum powder and candy when Didi crawled in bed with him。 For a moment he thought he might sleep with Didi tonight； might wrap his arms around his brother and not have to fall asleep alone。
But he didn't want to wake Didi。 Daddy was being too scary。 Instead Trevor walked down the hall to his own bedroom； trailing his hand along the wall。 The old boards were damp； faintly sticky。 He wiped his fingers on the front of his T…shirt。
His own room was nearly as bare as Didi's。 They had been able to bring none of their furniture from Austin； and hardly any of their toys。 Trevor's mattress lay flat on the floor； a rumpled blanket thrown over it。 He had pinned up some of his drawings on the walls； though he hadn't put up Skeletal Sammy and he hadn't tried to draw any of Daddy's other characters。 More drawings lay scattered on the floor； along with the ics he had scrounged from Daddy。 He picked up a Fabulous Furry Freak Brothers book； thinking he might read it in bed。 The antics of those friendly fools might make him forget Daddy sprawled in the chair； pouring straight whiskey on top of his pain。
But he was too tired； his eyes were already closing。 Trevor turned off his bedside lamp and crawled under the blanket。 The familiar contours of his mattress cradled him like a weling hand。 From the living room he heard Charlie Parker run down a shimmering scale。 Birdland； he thought again。 That was the place where you could work magic； the place where no one else could touch you。 It might be an actual spot in the world； it might be a place deep down inside you。 Daddy could only reach his Birdland by drinking now。 Trevor had begun to believe his own Birdland might be the pen moving over the paper； the weight of the sketchbook in his hands； the creation of worlds out of ink and sweat and love。
He slept； and the music wove uneasily in and out of his dreams。 He heard Janis Joplin singing 〃Me and Bobby McGee；〃 and remembered suddenly that she had died last year。 From drugs； Momma had told him； taking care to explain that the drugs Janis had been using were much worse than the pot she and Daddy sometimes smoked。 An image came to him of Daddy walking hand in hand with a girl shorter and more rounded than Momma； a girl who wore bright feathers in her hair。 She turned to Daddy and Trevor saw that her face was a swollen purple mass of flesh； the holes of her eyes black and depthless behind the big round glasses； her ruined features split in the semblance of a smile as she leaned in to give his father a deep soul kiss。
And Daddy kissed back 。 。 。
Sunlight woke him； streaming through the dirty panes of his window； trickling into the corners of his eyes。 His head ached slightly； felt somehow too heavy on his neck。 Trevor rolled over； stretched； and looked around the room； silently greeting his drawings。 There was one of the house； one of Momma holding Didi； a whole series of ones that he was pretty sure were going to turn into a ic。 He knew he could never draw the slick； tawdry world of Birdland the way Daddy had； but he could make his own world。 He needed to practice writing smaller so he could do the letters。
His head slightly logy but full of ideas； Trevor rolled off the mattress； pushed open the door of his room； and walked down the hall toward the kitchen。
He saw the blood on the walls before he saw Momma。
It would e out in the autopsy report…which Trevor did not read until years later…that Daddy had attacked her near the front door； that they must have argued； that there had been a struggle and he had driven her back toward the hall before he killed her。 That was where he would have picked up the hammer。
Momma was crumpled in the doorway that led from the living room into the hall。 Her back rested against the frame。 Her head lolled on the fragile stem of her neck。 Her eyes were open； and as Trevor edged around her body； they seemed to fix on him。 For a heart…stopping second he thought she was alive。 Then he saw that the eyes were cloudy； and filmed with blood。
Her arms were a mass of blood and bruise； silver rings sparkling amid the ruin of her hands。 （Seven fingers broken； the autopsy report would say； along with most of the small bones in her palms； as she raised her hands to ward off the blows of the hammer。） There was a deep gouge in her lef