Perfectly Broken, Chapter 4

Sex and Dads and Rock & Roll

Hello dear subscribers,

Chapter 4 of my novel Perfectly Broken is posted below. (A day late, my apologies.)

A free post - Psychedelic Sexagenarian Part 2 - is forthcoming.

With the serialized Perfectly Broken, paid subscribers get the full chapter, unpaid subscribers get an enticing preview. Want to get caught up? Chapters 1 , 2, and 3 are live. According to Substack, each is approximately a “ten-minute read.” Satisfaction guaranteed.

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Curious about Perfectly Broken? Here’s a review from Creative Loafing: “A contemporary fable that hits home on many levels: frustrations of fleeting musical stardom, creative competition, existential angst, aging, parenting, and a bit of erotica. Perfectly Broken is both believable and relatable.”

Amazon reviews here. Goodreads reviews here.

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Chapter 4: Ratatouille

Around seven, we bundle up for the short walk down Shulz Way to the Lamonts’, crunching through the dark on a thin layer of snow. Evan walks between Beth and me, offering each of us a mittened hand. The air is subtly alive with the trickle of half-frozen Stony Clove Creek and the faraway rumble of the occasional semi on Route 28. When we hit the pavement, Beth gasps and points up.

“Look, Evan! Look at that!”

We stop and gaze at a moonless sky strewn with stars and bisected by the smudge of the Milky Way, which seems creamier than I’d remembered, tinged with purple at the edges.

“There’s something you don’t see in Manhattan,” I say. “Wow.”

A drop of light ambles steadily along the soft Catskill peaks.

“Aliens!” Evan says. “Aliens coming!”

“That’s a plane, I think, big guy,” I say, although I secretly want to pretend it’s a spaceship, as I did with my dad when I was very little. My old man had been an original Trekkie. But Evan tends toward the War of the Worlds/malign aliens scenario as opposed to Close Encounters/benign aliens.

“Yeah, that’s a plane,” Beth says with extra certainty.

“Yeah? Really?” Evan pretends to doubt us. “Really for true?”

“Yes, Evan.” Beth’s voice is laced with a smile. “For true.”

I let go of Evan’s hand and walk to the middle of the street, noting the Big Dipper, Orion’s Belt, and Cassiopeia—the only constellations I know. All gain definition as I take them in. The notion of the heavens acknowledging me makes me giddy.

“I could get used to this,” I say.

“You’re gonna have to,” Beth says, leading our son toward the blazing bay windows of the Lamonts’ house.

Trip opens the door, a stiff, mirthless smile pulled tight across his face. In twelve months, he’s aged five years; sandy hair thinner, deeper crow’s feet, a couple more forehead creases. He also seems shorter, stooped, his powder blue button-down hanging loosely on him.

“Hey neighbors!” he says, a little too loud. “Let me take those coats!”

“Big daddy! My sweet landlord!” Beth throws her arms around him. “Been too long!”

Trip pats Beth’s shoulder blades and ducks away, overeager to handle our hats and layers.

“Smells good in here!” Beth says.

“Ah,” I breathe in a familiar scent. “Trip’s famous ratatouille? Yes?”

Trip nods, claps me on the back—a little too hard—and kneels before Evan.

“Wow,” he says. “Look at you. You’re huge. What do they feed you?”

Evan wraps his arms around my legs.

“Well I hope you like mac n’ cheese,” Trip says, “’cause I made some for ya. That’s all my little one eats, too.”

Evan crams his face against my leg, slighting my good friend yet again. My gut twists a little. I was hoping Evan’s inexplicable distaste for Trip had waned.

“C’mon Evan,” I say, “don’t be rude.”

“It’s OK,” Trip straightens up, groaning as his knees crack. He’s long since stopped trying to win my son’s affection.

“We’re still a little shell-shocked, I guess,” Beth says.

“Everything OK over there?” Trip asks. “I’m sorry we haven’t been able to see you before now . . . things’re just . . . I don’t know. Crazy.”

Beth and I assure him it’s OK, although it’s really not. It’s odd.

“Where’s the little bundle?” Beth blinks in the foyer light, her hair standing up with static, recalling punkier days.

“Yeah,” I say, “where’s Evan’s new playmate? Dying to meet her.”

“Christa’s getting her dressed, or trying.” Trip nods to the staircase behind him. “Our little bundle has been in the same pajamas for four days. Pretty rank.”

As if on cue, the ceiling shakes with a series of thumps. A piercing shriek rings out above. I lift Evan to my chest and he buries his face in my shirt.