He tried the knob and when the door swung open he went in—through the dim entryway, where Mr. Feiffer’s work overalls hung on a hook, into the dark hallway, where he fumbled for a light switch.
“Mr. Feiffer?” he said. “I’m sorry to just barge in like this, but . . . ”
“Who is it?” a voice yelled.
“Mr. Feiffer? It’s JD. JD Fount. Do you need any help?” He continued to advance toward the source of a flickering light.
It was only the second or third time he’d set foot there; the handful of times he’d been over, Drea had shepherded him directly down to the basement. Rounding the corner into the Feiffers’ living room, the first thing he saw were the photographs: hundreds of pictures, some of them ripped, on the table, the rug, the couch. There was a slowly creeping puddle of moldy water around an overturned vase of flowers on the floor. On the television was a twenty-four-hour news station, but the volume was turned way down and all JD could hear was a low drone of words. That and the sound of Mr. Feiffer coughing up a lung.
This sad squalor . . . It made JD want to turn and run. He was intruding. He shouldn’t be seeing this.
“Mr. Feiffer, I’m so sorry,” he said, wondering how long it had been since Mr. Feiffer had been here, in this house, in this room. How long it had been since he’d gone to work at the docks. The ashtray was overflowing, and there was a pile of pizza boxes underneath the TV stand. The stench of stale cigarette butts and old food drifted into JD’s nose.
Mr. Feiffer looked up with empty eyes. JD could see Drea in his features—his wide forehead, his striking nose.
“I just came by . . . to drop this off,” JD said feebly, holding up the lighter. “But is—is there anything I can do for you?” His eyes went to the empty beer bottles on the coffee table and then to the door to the kitchen, where JD could only imagine the state of disarray.
Drea had often mused about how lost her father would be without her around to cook and clean. It wasn’t that he was lazy, she’d said, or even selfish. Just that he wasn’t used to having to do things for himself. He needed someone to look after him.
“It was my fault,” Mr. Feiffer said, his voice breaking. “My fault she went after them, my fault she died. It was my fault they both died.”
“It’s not your fault,” JD said automatically. That was what you were supposed to say. Mr. Feiffer was shaking his head. JD took a tentative step toward him. “It’s going to be okay,” he said.
With unexpected force, Drea’s dad reached out his hand and swiped his arm across the side table, knocking over a couple of bottles. JD watched as stale beer seeped onto a pile of photos. He took a step back, wondering if he should call his parents, or someone else. He wasn’t equipped to deal with this.
“No it’s not. Nothing is okay,” Mr. Feiffer countered. “If I’d just gotten to them sooner . . . they wouldn’t have gotten their claws in our baby. And now, no one will listen to me. No one will listen. Because I’m a drunk. Did you know that, boy?”
JD shivered, as though the temperature in the room had dropped. He tried to focus on the paisley pattern of the Feiffers’ couch. “No, sir. I’m not sure I know what you’re talking about.”
Mr. Feiffer squinted his eyes. “The Furies,” he whispered.
“Sir?”
“The Furies!” he yelled. “I’ve been whispering their name for twelve damn years. I don’t care if I scream it. I don’t care if they hear me. They’ve taken everything anyway. ?There’s nothing left for them to steal. Nothing left for them to kill.”
JD couldn’t believe it. There was that word again: “Furies.” He felt like he had swallowed metal. There was a knife of fear lodged in his gut.
“I knew . . . I knew the moment I laid eyes on Edie,” Mr. Feiffer said. “I had to protect her. It was my duty. I saw it.” He convulsed into another coughing fit and the blotches on his face went white, then red.
“Let me get you some water, Mr. Feiffer,” JD said, stepping toward the kitchen. He needed any excuse to get away. What did it mean? The Furies. Who were they?
“Crazy—they said I was crazy,” Drea’s dad said as JD began backing into the hall. “They said I’d get what was coming to me.”
It reminded JD of what Ali had said about the man in the pizza place. . . . He’ll get what’s coming to him.
“I’ll be right back, sir,” JD said, but Mr. Feiffer kept talking even as JD went into the other room and filled up a water glass from the tap over the overflowing sink.