Perfectly Broken, Chapter 3

Sex & Dads & Rock & Roll

Hello dear subscribers,

Chapter 3 of my novel Perfectly Broken is posted below. Paid subscribers get the full chapter, unpaid subscribers get an enticing preview. Want to get caught up? Chapters 1 and 2 are live.

If you’re not yet a paid subscriber, you can be one for at as little as 5.00 a month. In addition to my scandalous novel, you’ll get more Premium Content, and of course my deep gratitude.

Curious what you’re signing up for? Perfectly Broken amazon reviews here. Goodreads reviews here.

Master memoirist Bev Donofrio had this to say about my novel:

“Parenthood, adultery, love, lust, ambition, loss, friendships gone to seed, a marriage at the turn of this century in full tilt midlife madness, with rock and roll in the bones and on the soundtrack. Warren creates a sensory world so sharply observed, the experience of reading becomes visceral. It pulled me in and I didn’t want to let go.”

WHAT’S NOT TO LIKE? Thanks for reading, and for subscribing.

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Chapter 3: Shulz House

We’re in Shulz House, specifically in The Kitchen That Time Forgot – all crusty chrome fixtures, pea-green Formica, canary yellow wallpaper going brown over the electric stove, the air a potpourri of carcinogenic cleansers and dry rot. Due to roadwork and rush hour traffic, we’ve arrived about two hours later than expected, and our nerves are threadbare. It’s eleven PM or so, and the farmhouse is meat-locker brisk. Evan snores into my chest, keeping me warm. Beth, huddled in her coat, reads aloud a note from Trip, her breath rising in thin clouds.

“Dear G & B (& E!)

Welcome to Shulz House!

If you’re reading this, you found the key under the Creepy Garden Gnome. Sorry we couldn’t be here to welcome you. Long story. If you have any emergencies, call and I’ll head on over. (Or scream out the window, we’ll probably hear. Our house is app. 1/8 mile away.) Essential numbers taped inside cabinet. Use the land line. Cells don’t work up here. Also, no TV reception and no cable hook-up for you yet. Time Warner won’t travel to the sticks. But soon!

You can also call Ricky Shulz, your next door neighbor (grew up in Shulz House, in fact, before his family parceled up and sold off the land) or you can head over to his doublewide. The one with the green pick-up, i.e. the only other Evidence Of Life on Shulz Way, ha ha. Ricky’s cool. Wife Jen is library director, daughter Brianna (16 I think) is a sweet kid, also our/your housekeeper. Homeschooled. Good people, the Shulzes, shitty politics. Libertarian. Gun enthusiasts, 2^nd Amendment strong, etc. DO NOT TALK POLITICS.

Fireplace, sadly, is kaput, under code, will smoke the house out (and burn it down) if you build fire. Furnace is temperamental, but should be working OK, if a tad smelly. Thermostat next to basement steps in living/dining room. Howls like beast when it comes on, so prepare spawn, who must be driving by now (ha ha... can’t wait to see him. Been too long!).

Hope you like the furniture, some of C’s favorite antiques. Sorry about dorky fixtures n’ stuff. We plan to remodel. Someday. Meantime, pretend its 1981 and all will be well.

Trash pick-up is Tuesdays. They come around 8 AM. DO NOT put anything out before that, as Critters will get in and spread it everywhere, even in winter. This is their turf, they make the rules.

IMPORTANT STUFF:

Almost all the doors – extinct American chestnut – stick. Jiggle the knob and pull to the left, then push. It’s easy, really.

Washer/dryer in mudroom.

Greta’s General Store on Main Street, abt 10 minute walk. Trailways stops there, buses to NYC, Woodstock, New Paltz, Kingston, etc. Greta is from Heidelberg, complains all the time about everything (esp. Muslims) but sweet (unless yer Muslim). Hardware-type stuff in the back, plus NY Times, local paper (The Huntsman) magazines, etc. Also overpriced fleece shit, sunglasses, camping supplies, fishing poles, duct tape.

Mt. Marie Produce & Grocery, aka The Mildew Mart, catty-corner from Greta’s. Good for basic groceries, beer, diapers, etc, but DO NOT get fruit, veg or meat. Proprietor is Scotty Shulz, Ricky’s cousin. Good guy. Never washes his hands and apparently can’t smell mold.

Good produce, etc, in Woodstock at health food store Sunflower, bit of a hike (30 minute drive). Next door is Woodstock Pharm, where you can get scrips filled, etc. DO NOT take scrips to Mt. Marie Pharmacy and Video, as codger filling orders will tell everyone about your Valtrex or whatever. You can, however, rent vids there. Decent selection. C says R-rated vids are stained n’ sticky, but she’s making that up.

Abandoned cafe is C’s new obsession. She’s remodeling it. ETA for Katie’s Kitchen – Spring, 2003.

Come on over for a big Welcome To The Neighborhood feast tomorrow night, after I get home (7-ish... I stay after with special ed kids) and after C gets done with her various errands (she takes K everywhere). Will call during the day with more details.

Fresh sheets/quilts on beds, Rolling Rock in fridge, good coffee in the freezer.

Welcome to the sticks! More soon.

Rgds

Trip & Co.”

“Diapers?” Beth frowns at the note, purple half-moons under her eyes. “Why would we need diapers?”

I shift Evan’s weight to one hand and crank the thermostat. The floorboards shake as the furnace rumbles to life, metal fans groaning, ducts rattling. Evan, accustomed to NYC decibel levels, stirs but sleeps on. A thin line of his drool runs down my neck.

“He hasn’t seen Evan for over a year, hon,” I whisper, flicking light switches on in the living/dining room. Worn antique furniture is scattered among the scuffed, chocolate-brown floorboards and faded Afghan rugs. I head up the stairs, bound for what I hope will be a decent mattress.

“Evan hasn’t been in diapers for, like, almost two years, right? Fuck’s sake.” Beth grumbles behind me. She is laden with stuff. The crooked steps squeak, punctuating her words.

Heat rises to the second floor on an oil-scented cloud, where two bedrooms and a bathroom await us. Sure enough, the small-ish doors stick in the frames. The first one eventually opens to a crib, which Beth harrumphs at. After a fair amount of jiggling the knob on the other door, the latch gives. Beth reaches in from behind me and flicks the light switch.

“Ah,” she says, “Anne Frank chic!”

It’s actually a sweet little scene; two dormer windows reflecting light onto a duvet-and-quilt covered queen size bed nestled below a ceiling I can touch, plus a roll top desk on the coiled braids of a rag rug. A single red rose pokes out of a small ceramic vase on a bedside table doily.

“A rose for the poor tenants!” Beth collapses on the bed and brings the bloom to her nose. “A silken rose, at that.”

She waves it in my face as I insert Evan into the covers beside her.

“Sweet,” I say, taking the flower. As my wife shimmies out of her clothes, I sniff the scentless silk petals and press my finger against the plastic stem, where a thorn would be if the rose were real.

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“I’m sorry, Grant,” Trip says from the teacher’s lounge at Mt. Marie Elementary. He sounds marathon-tired, almost stoned, a stark contrast to the tone of last night’s note. “We really wanted to be there when you drove up. But we were so fried. We’ve just been swamped. You got in OK, right?”