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  • Dad’s House
  • Vincent Poturica (bio)

Danny didn’t hear the whimper inside the house when he opened the screen door. The door swung shut behind him, and the whimper stopped almost immediately, which, had he heard it, might have made Danny wonder if whatever was moaning preferred not to be discovered. But Danny was with Sasha who had just picked him up from LAX and driven him back to his dad’s house in Redondo Beach. Sasha, like Danny, was seventeen, and she was talking about the way the moon made her feel less anxious if she looked at it long enough, and he wanted to kiss her. He was not listening to the house because it was supposed to be empty.

His dad, according to his characteristically [No Subject] e-mail, had left for a retreat three days before Danny returned from Ecuador. Per his parents’ custody agreement, Danny spent his summers with his mom. He’d spent the first seven weeks volunteering for an NGO that was helping Andean villages implement sanitation systems, and he’d spent the last ten days in Quito getting stoned with his mom, going to museums, and watching movies starring Pauly Shore.

His dad would be gone for two months maybe three, which sounded like a really long time, even for his dad who, since he’d sold his contracting firm and stopped drinking alcohol, had traveled twice to India for month-long meditation seminars. His dad said that this retreat was particularly important, and that he’d left plenty of $$$ for Danny in the kitchen drawer where he kept the German knives that were designed for cutting meat. He also said that he hadn’t had a drink in 451 days and that God was Danny’s friend even if Danny didn’t, presently, want to be friends with God. Danny had thought that was odd—not his dad claiming God was his friend; he often said things like that—but that he’d put the money, folded between two blue rubber bands, beside the knives. Three of these knives, Danny noticed, were missing.

That’s a lot of money, Sasha said.

Danny nodded. He didn’t want to count the bills in front of her, so he stuffed them into his pocket and asked Sasha if it was okay if he took a quick shower. He felt dirty after traveling, and he was sweating. It was past midnight, but it was August, and the night was warm.

Of course, Sasha said.

In the shower, Danny felt free of worry and hesitation, which he attributed to the lingering effects of the fried-egg-and-psilocybin-mushroom sandwich that his mom had given him in the taxi on the way to the airport. She wanted to make her son’s flight more interesting, and, ideally, to guide him towards making [End Page 52] a better decision about where to go to college, and if he would play football there. The clouds had gathered beside Danny’s passenger window and slowly transformed into a group of angels with demonic horns, or demons with angelic faces, he hadn’t been sure, but it hadn’t mattered what they were, his heart had been open and accepting towards them, as they’d watched him with the mute curiosity of manatees he’d once observed slowly swimming down a river on a trip to Florida when his parents were still together.

Danny watched the water from the shower bubble at his feet, and he thought about when the Earth was just a vast, steaming puddle of amoebas. He touched his face, and he felt grateful that his cheeks were wet. He cupped his hands around his ears and tried to listen to the blood circulating in his fingers. Danny couldn’t hear the blood, but he felt comforted by the knowledge that it was there, under his skin, migrating in patterns predetermined by his DNA. He kissed each of his palms and said thank you.

Sasha stepped into the shower. She didn’t say anything. She was naked, and he noticed a pink scar on the rib closest to her heart. The scar was vaguely...

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