The Painting of Porcupine City (49 page)

“My grandparents bought this place a few years ago when my grandpa was sick,” I said. “They were planning some renovations and then they’d move in after he got better—they loved the Cape. Something to look forward to, I guess.” I went into the living room and sat down in the other chair.

“Light at the end of the tunnel?” he said.

“Yeah, well he found the other light first. They never moved in. My grandmother won’t sell it. So yours-truly took over as the official custodian person guy.”

“Sweet.” He laughed. “So you’re squatting.”

“I’m not squatting. Come on. I’m paying the mortgage. It’s fair.”

“Good deal,” he said. “Well not the grandfather part, but you know.” Then I saw the photos on the wall catch his eye. “Hey—is that me?” He got up and went over to them.

“There are a couple of you, yeah.” When I saw him coming up the street I should’ve run inside and taken them all down. They made me feel like some kind of stalker.

He stood with his arms crossed, eyes moving back and forth across the photos. “This one’s fucking funny,” he said, tapping the frame. “Our antics. I like that you have these. Hey, that reminds me—I brought you a present.” He went to his backpack, unzipped a nylon pocket, rummaged around, took out some t-shirts, a few sci-fi paperbacks. “I don’t mean to keep you in suspense—there’s no drum roll necessary. You paid about a hundred and thirty grand for this so I wanted to make sure you got it.” He managed to yank out what he was looking for and held it out to me.

It was my Shuster College yearbook. I took it from him and his fingerprints evaporated from the glossy cover. I traced my finger along the raised gold letters of my name. Vincent J. Dandro. “How’d you get this?”

“You didn’t pick it up at gradua— Ow, fuck that’s
cold
!” He shook a socked foot out of the puddle by the door. “You didn’t pick it up at graduation, I guess. Beth was on the yearbook staff. She has a whole box of unclaimed books. I don’t know if it’s really legit, but she has them. I guess she’s supposed to mail them out if someone requests theirs, but it doesn’t seem like many people ever do. I was looking through last fall and found yours. Got me thinking about you.”

“I beat it out of there pretty quick that day,” I said, meaning graduation. I opened the yearbook—its spine creaked and it smelled new, like paper, but like something else too. Was it Griff’s house? Their house? I sat down on the ottoman.

“I looked for you after the ceremony,” he said softly, “but yeah, you were gone. Anyway, there was a supplement thing they put out with grad photos and stuff, but I don’t know what happened to that. I think you had to order it or something.”

“It’s OK,” I said. “Thank you.”

“You’re a memory person. It’s good to have.” He gathered up his scattered belongings, separating from them a change of clothes and a baggie containing a toothbrush and a stick of Degree deodorant. “Would it be cool if I grab a quick shower while you’re looking through that? I feel kind of rank.”

“Sure, of course. I think you remember the bathroom from the tour?”

“Haha.”

“Water takes a while to heat up, but it gets really hot so be careful. Towels are under the sink.”

“Thanks. I’ll try not to melt my flesh off.”

“Hey, are you hungry?”

“Starved.”

“I could make pancakes?”

“That would be awesome, thank you.” He went into the bathroom and closed the door. I listened for the sound of the lock, wondering if he would turn it, and then it came.
Tink
.

I flipped through several glossy pages of the yearbook, but when I heard the shower turn on I closed it and set it on the arm of the chair. It felt cold in my hands, and not just because it had been outside.

*