(photo by Christina Steel)
Last night I had a fabulous reading with Alexander Chee and Lee Houck. They’re both such amazingly talented writers, and it was a joy and honor to be reading some gay shit with them (the title of this post comes from the excerpt Lee read; it’s in his BOOK, the one you should go buy) If you’re on Facebook, you can click HERE for the full photo album from last night.
I read a truncated version of my story “The Last Sleepover,” which was published in the latest issue of Gargoyle. Here’s a teaser… you can buy the whole issue HERE.
The Last Sleepover
by Sam J. Miller
By the time I got to Hettie’s house, most of the blood in the seat of my briefs had dried. My watch said midnight. I crouched on her porch, hands in pockets, ear against the door. A pane of ribbed glass rang alongside it, so you could see inside but only make out light and shapes.
“Temperatures will continue to fall as the storm moves east,” said Hettie’s television. “Record snowfall tonight, so plan on staying home tomorrow. And don’t venture out unless it’s absolutely necessary.”
Snow covered me. I rang the doorbell and the weather man went dead. Soon Hettie came towards the door, ghostlike, a bright glob.
“Hello?” Fear smeared her voice.
“Hettie, it’s me,” I said. “Shane. Timmy’s friend?”
No one makes dolls that look like old ladies. Babies and toddlers and buxom Barbie businesswomen, but never the aged. Yet the woman who opened the door was a doll—a tenth the size of the Hettie I remembered. Could Alzheimer’s erase body mass along with brain function? Cold wind hit her face, and she flinched. “Hello,” she said, and smiled. “What an ugly night!”
“Can I come in?” I asked. “Timmy’s still at work. He’ll be along soon.”
“Of course,” she said, and reached out to touch my shoulder. Maybe to make sure I was solid. Coming to her door at midnight and covered in snow, weeping, hooded, my face bright red from windburn and weeping, scarecrow skinny, I could have been the Angel of Death. I’d never have let me in.
Hettie shut the door behind me. Her home still had the scent of onions frying in butter, like ten thousand pots of goulash across fifty years, but that smell had grown faint. Pine-Sol and baby powder and shit held sway. I sat down on the bottom step of the staircase leading to the second floor. I’d never realized what a miracle it was, that human beings can build homes that hold heat. I’d never realized how hostile the world really was, how those pretty twinkling stars can smirk at your agony. My mouth was full of blood. My throat ached from running. I tried to take a deep breath and collapsed into coughing.
“Are you okay, honey?” she asked from the couch.
“Sure am. I just talked to Timmy. He’s working late at McDonald’s. He said he’ll be home in a couple hours.”
“Okay,” she said. Her head nodded gratefully. People with Alzheimer’s are constantly confused by new information. They’ll believe whatever you tell them. “Why don’t you wait here for him?”
“I think I will,” I said. “Do you mind if I go upstairs and freshen up?”
“Go right ahead,” she said.
She listened to me climb the stairs, then turned the TV back on.
Hettie’s husband was three months dead. Her Alzheimer’s was so advanced she really should have been in a home somewhere, but no one in her family seemed to be in a hurry to come make all the arrangements. They lived in other cities; they had problems of their own. So Hettie was held in limbo, haunting her own house, kept from complete collapse by a half-assed home health attendant. She’d live like that until a stroke or a tumble down the stairs took away her last shred of autonomy. Timmy lived in Providence, or possibly New Haven, and I hadn’t talked to him in months.
(Photo by Marco Rafala)
