Harmony House by Nic Sheff Page B

breathing only through my mouth.
    The dust is deeper here and cloying and the smell of mold and rot makes me recoil back.
    â€œDad?” I call again.
    I flick the light switch on, but nothing happens.
    I try again.
    The room stays dark. I notice for the first time that the windows are all boarded up and I wonder if maybe my dad came in and secured the room like this—or if maybe this is a different room altogether and I’m just mixed up.
    There’s a large box of matches on one of the large, flat, sheet-covered objects—most likely a table of some sort.
    I light the first match. The flame ignites blue then yellow, then finally settles in, burning vibrant red and orange.
    I pull the sheet away.
    Beneath it is a piano—a baby grand. The keys arebrown and yellowed like rotting teeth. A folder of sheet music is open on the piano bench. Some old religious music: “Jesus Make up My Dying Bed.”
    The match burns down to my fingers then and I curse and blow it out.
    Beneath the weathered sheet music is a heavy vinyl record the size of a Frisbee, wrapped in dark-stained wax paper and tied with burlap.
    I light another match, holding the record up in one hand and trying to see through the glossy paper. The record seems to carry no markings.
    â€œJen!” my dad yells sharply.
    His voice startles me so I drop the match and have to bat it out with my hand.
    â€œIt was open,” I say, as if that explains anything.
    I turn to face him, but he doesn’t seem mad exactly.
    â€œWhat you got there?” he asks, his smile strained-looking—but still a smile.
    â€œI . . . I don’t know,” I say. “Some record, I guess.”
    â€œHere, let me see.”
    He takes the record from me and carries it back out into the hallway. As I step out of the room, the cold seems to stay behind me—as though the temperature is somehow relegated to those four walls. The smell, too,seems to remain behind. My dad closes the door and relocks it.
    â€œDon’t know how that got open,” he says. “Might as well try giving this old record a spin, though, huh? I think I noticed a turntable set up next to the stereo in the living room.”
    â€œIt doesn’t have any label or anything,” I say.
    He nods.
    â€œProbably homemade. When I was a kid you could record an LP like this at a studio in town for five dollars. Although,” he continues, turning the record over a couple times, “this looks much older.”
    â€œOlder than you?” I say, forcing a smile. “Didn’t think that was possible.”
    He laughs and this strange jocularity makes me fidget uncomfortably.
    I keep shifting my weight from one leg to the other.
    â€œAre you feeling better?” he asks me.
    I nod.
    â€œYeah, I guess so,” I say.
    He smiles, not showing any teeth.
    â€œWe’ve got a lot of work to do,” he says. “So . . . uh . . . let’s get back to it.”
    In the kitchen I drink more water from the tap and,feeling hungry again, and like my stomach can handle a little more food, I decide to take a break from working so I can make myself some eggs.
    I get a pan down from one of the cupboards and I’m about to light the burner when I’m startled by the sound of a car coming up the driveway.
    My dad must hear it, too, because he calls out to me, “Who is that? Who’s coming?”
    His footsteps echo down the stairs.
    I make my way over to the window and look out to see a rusted pickup truck pulling in next to my dad’s Volvo. Beyond the car and the line of trees, I notice a gathering of dark clouds on the horizon—despite the bright sun and perfect blue of the sky overhead. The driver’s-side door opens and I’m pretty surprised to see Christy’s aunt Rose stepping out.
    I turn the faucet on and splash cool water on my face, trying to bring the world back into sharper focus. Rose makes her way up the stairs and I hurry to