I looked up.

– Ceiling first.

I got the stepladder from the hall closet and started spraying and wiping, moving from side to side as my body crossed the beams of the lights and cast shadows over the blood, trying to see clearly.

When the worst was done, when Id scooped the partially congealed blood from the floor and scrubbed the walls and mopped and wiped and wiped some more, and taken four ruined sponges and the shredded remains of two paper towel rolls and three old Ts Id had to use as rags, and the mop head, and stuffed it all in the cleaning bucket and carried it downstairs and locked it in the trunk of my crapped-out 510 in the driveway, I poured the remains of a bottle of hydrogen peroxide into the empty window-cleaner spray bottle and misted the carpet and floor and walls. The carpet foamed in a couple spots, but it wasnt anything visible to the naked eye, so I let it go. Back up on the ladder, I sprayed the ceiling, searching for any last remains, and caught a glimpse of myself reflected in the dark window.

All but naked, on a stepladder, cleaning dead mans blood from my kitchen ceiling, I stopped and addressed the young man I saw there.

– Is it possible, my friend, that your coping mechanisms have been over-compensating for the shit that happened on that bus?

The young man in the window responded.

– What shit are you speaking of?

I continued the dialogue.

– That shit where a little girl from your class was hit by a stray bullet and died in your arms and you were covered in her blood.

He shrugged.

– Oh. That.

I put my hands on my hips.

– See, thats what Im talking about, that nonchalance about the whole thing, and also just kind of being a dick to everyone, thats not the way people react to traumatic situations.

He was unimpressed.

– Its not? You know of another reaction? Youve experienced another reaction? Man, as far as you know, this is totally normal. This may be the most normal thing youve ever done in your life.

I jabbed my finger at him.

– Fuck you! Thats fucked up. Im trying to really talk about this for a change and youre being all.

– What? Im being all what?

I froze, looked at my reflection for a long and deeply disturbing minute.

I shook my head.

– Man, I am not even having this conversation with you right now.

And I climbed off the ladder and laid myself spread eagle on the floor and stared at the flawlessly clean ceiling, and I think I may have cried for the first time in a year, but Im not entirely sure because a huge mass of sleep loomed and got its arms round my middle and dragged down and I was gone.

Mumbling as my eye slammed shut.

– Fucking almonds.

– I appreciate you cleaning up, you know.

I opened my eyes and found the daylight the pillowcases were meant to keep at bay was shooting me in the face.

– But its not really going to change anything.

I looked at Chev, sitting on the edge of his lounger, rubbing his eyes.

I pushed myself up on my elbows.

– Im sorry about the money, man.

He flopped back in the chair and let out all the air in his lungs.

– See, thats the point right there.

I shaded my eyes from the sun.

– I didnt even know he gave it to me, Chev.

He shook his head.

– Fuck the money. That is not the point. You missing the point is the point. I get the money thing, I get you going to see him. Hes your dad. I understand that more than you do. Jesus, man, I saw him like six months ago.

I sat up.

– What?

– When you didnt stop acting all fucked up after a few months, I went and saw L.L.

– Chev.

– I didnt know what to do, you know? Thea was like, Hell heal in time. People I talked to, the grief counselor at the hospital, they all said you needed to confront what had happened, talk about it in a supportive environment. Well, I knew sure as fuck that wasnt gonna happen. I read these books on Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, they described you pretty smack-on. I mean.

He laughed.

– Dude, you could be the poster boy for PTSD.

He untwisted the sleeve of his black T, where hed tucked his pack of smokes.

– But knowing what the situation was, that didnt help me to figure out how to help.

I was still wearing the cleaning gloves. I pulled them off.

– I didnt know you were doing all that.

– I know you didnt. You didnt have a clue.

He lit his cigarette and blew smoke.

– Web, it wasnt just me, it was everyone you know. At first, anyway. We were all running around trying to figure out how to get your shit together. The guys from the tattoo shop, teachers from the school, Po Sin, some other parents from over there. But you were so, man, acting like such a dick. People just got tired. They didnt know how to deal and got frustrated. It was tiring, man. Jesus, it is tiring.

He looked around for an ashtray, couldnt find one, flicked on the carpet.

– So. I went and saw L.L.

– Man. I.

He held up a hand.

– No. Dont. Now is not the time. I mean. I went over to Chez Jay took a look at him, man, I started to cry. And. You know, not because I was pissed. It was, man, it was so fucking good to see him, you know.

He clenched his teeth.

– And that hurt like a son of a bitch. Let me tell you it did. Talk about feeling guilty. Anyway. He turned around, saw me. Know what he said?

I nodded.

– The wrong thing.

He took a long drag.

– You got that right. Said, Ah, Chev, come to see me after all these years. Whats gone amiss, son, lost the strength of your convictions?

I closed my eyes, tried to imagine he was mistaken about what my father had said, knew he was not.

I opened my eyes.

– Did you hit him?

Smoke drifted from his nostrils.

– No. I walked out. Because right there, man, in that moment, I ceased to care anymore.

He leaned forward, elbows on knees.

– The man had finally, after the, after the accident, after the shit he told us, he had finally, in that moment when something could have been done, he had finally gone too far. Man, I didnt even know there was road left to travel on that route, but he found it and drove it and that was the end of the line for me. I didnt hit him. I did not want to hit him. I just wanted gone. I walked out.

– Good.

He nodded.

– Yeah. Good. But heres the thing, man, the point.

He looked at the floor, shook his head, looked back up at me.

– Like fucking father, Web, like fucking son.

I opened my mouth.

He closed it.

– No. Wait. Listen.

I listened.

– He wasnt always like that. He was always a son of a bitch, always talked shit, but he wasnt always mean. That didnt really start till after the accident. He didnt really start forcing everyone out of his life until after the accident.

He scratched his shoulder.

– If that rings any bells.

He got up.

– So its not about the money. Or about you seeing L.L. If my dad were still around, no matter if hed turned out to be the biggest bastard ever, Id want to check on him every now and then. Its not even about you hurting my new girls feelings so bad that she doesnt want to come here and I had to go to her place and sneak in and out of her bedroom because her folks would freak out if they knew her new boyfriend was a twenty-nine-year-old rocker with a tattoo parlor.

He walked to the hallway, stopped.

– Its about you not trying to get better. Its about everyone else trying so hard that they wear themselves out and cant try anymore, and you just letting them beat themselves against you while you act like nothing fucking happened. Acting like youre no different. Like you havent changed at all.

He turned from me.

– Web, its about me getting tired, man. Its about, I, man, its about I feel like Im on that same road I was on with L.L., about thinking were almost out of blacktop. And you just keeping the pedal to the metal, and not even trying to put on the brakes.