Harmony House - Nic Sheff Page 0,2

on every door.

I keep myself from looking.

I cannot face my own failure to God, to His son, to my mother and father.

I have failed them all.

The rope itches rough around my throat as I tighten the noose.

Tears stream down my face.

My heart beats loudly in my ears.

There is nothing else for me now.

I climb up onto the banister.

My legs tremble.

I close my eyes.

A fire courses through my blood.

Fire that will consume my body for all eternity.

A fire hotter than the center of the earth and sun and planets colliding.

I breathe.

I breathe.

I step off the banister.

I fall.

HARMONY HOUSE

November 1997

Jennifer Noonan

CHAPTER 1

There’s a feeling like my stomach is trying to climb out my throat. I choke the nausea down and breathe and try to block out the smell of grease and frying bacon. I take a sip of coffee and sit back in the corner of the torn vinyl booth.

Dad reads the paper, looking tired, with dark circles cut deep under both eyes. His hair has gone almost completely white in the past few months. There are lines set deep around his mouth and at the corners of his eyes—his eyes, which are almost transparent blue, gray and clouded. He’s grown weak and pale.

The waitress, a haggard, aging blonde with her roots grown out dark, sets a plate of eggs and hash browns in front of my dad and a chocolate donut in front of me.

“Thank you,” my dad tells her.

And I say, “Thanks.”

She asks if we need anything else. My dad says no, thank you. She walks off to the next customer. She doesn’t smile.

My dad puts his paper down and folds it neatly on the bench seat.

“We should be there before dark,” he says.

I roll my eyes without really meaning to.

“Great.”

“Come on, Jen,” he tells me. “You’ve gotta try.”

“I am,” I say.

I tear off a piece of the greasy-feeling donut.

“Wait,” my dad says, placing his hands on mine.

I put the donut back.

“Come on,” he says. “You know better than that.”

I take another sip of coffee.

“It’s all you,” I tell him.

He lays his palms down flat on the cracked linoleum table. He bows his head. His heavy eyelids flutter and close.

I glance around at the other customers in the dingy, smoke-filled diner. None of them seem to notice my father with his bowed head. Mostly they look like local farmers or long distance truckers. There’s one mother with a little boy at a booth in the corner. Her jaw click-clicks back and forth. The boy looks very dirty.

“Our Father,” my dad says, “Who art in Heaven, hallowed be thy name. Thy Kingdom come, thy Will be done, on Earth as it is in Heaven. Give us this day, our daily bread. And forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us. And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil. For thine is the kingdom, and the power, and the glory forever and ever. Amen. Thank you for this food, and God bless the soul of our Maggie. We miss her very much.”

“Dad,” I say.

There are tears in his eyes.

“She’s in a better place now,” he says.

I tell him I don’t doubt it.

He wipes the tears away with his long, knotted fingers.

“We can’t be selfish, wanting her back with us,” he says.

“But I do. I do want her back.”

He shakes his head.

“It was God’s will for her. And it was God’s will for us.”

“Then God’s an asshole,” I say.

He strikes fast across the table like a snake and smacks me in the mouth.

I hold my jaw and look around the restaurant again.

No one seems to have noticed.

The farmers and truck drivers stay hunched over their plates.

“You watch your mouth,” he tells me.

“Cocksucker,” I say, but not loud enough so he can hear.

“What’s that?”

“Nothing,” I tell him.

I eat the chocolate donut and drink the weak coffee.

“I’ve tried with you, Jen. I’ve tried and tried.”

He breaks the bright orange, toxic-looking egg yolk so it goes dripping out over the ham and potatoes. He smears it around with his knife and takes in big mouthfuls as he talks. It’s enough to make me sick.

“When are you going to learn?” he asks. “How many times do I have to tell you?”

I swallow the last of the coffee down and stand, pushing the table back toward my dad roughly.

“I’ve gotta go to the bathroom,” I say.

I don’t look at him.

The waitress comes over to ask if everything is all right.

I know what the answer is.

But I don’t say it.

I walk on