Page 17 of A Boy Called Lovesong

I lay on the floor beside the bed.

Chet didn’t want to meet my eyes.

“You have to come out some time. I mean, besides to eat and poop.”

He gave a low grumble.

“Don’t tell me you think it stinks in here too.”

Chet uttered an even louder grumble.

“Frankly I don’t know if it’s you or me anymore.” I took a whiff under one of my arms.

This time Chet’s growl was squarely placing the blame on me.

I tried his tactic of avoiding eye contact for a moment or two.

My gaze fell upon the shoebox from Hannah.

I went to reach for it… then stopped myself… then grabbed it and slid it out from under the bed.

I sat up, cross-legged on the floor, and placed the box in my lap.

It took me a minute to lift the lid.

Inside I saw the piano key, the cassette tape… and the ring box.

I picked up the cassette.

The handwriting on the label was either that of someone very old, very young, or a person who didn’t know how to write. The only words on it were a name and address—

Lovesong Valentin

Clara’s Crossing

Louisiana

“What the fuck?” I whispered to myself.

Even as I said it… I felt the rabbit hole open up beneath me.

PART II

ANGER

CHAPTER 4

My mother gavebirth to me in the back seat of a cab on the George Washington Bridge, banking traffic back for miles. As a young boy they often told me how my father had a panic attack, while the cab driver called for an ambulance and ended up delivering me as an emergency operator talked him through the birthing procedure.

That cab driver’s name was Noah.

Sixteen years later, my parents banked up traffic for miles on the George Washington Bridge once more. This time, their car was one in a six-car pile-up.

I was home with a babysitter at the time. I don’t remember her name, but I remember the knock on the door.

I remember looking down the hallway when she opened the door to see two police officers standing there on the porch.

Surprise.

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