The Book of Speculation: A Novel

Enola cuts him off before he can answer. “You know, the Human Lightbulb?”


I nod. It’s a static electricity act, pedestrian really, the sort of thing that’s popped up since the discovery of electric current. Sometimes it’s a deferral of current trick with a hidden metal plate; that’s how they work electric chair acts. Nothing special.

“Doyle can light a hundred-watt bulb with his mouth and three in each hand,” she says.

That is different. “Impressive.”

“He does contact juggling with the bulbs while they’re lit. It’s crazy beautiful.”

“Uh-huh.” A tentacle-covered man juggling lightbulbs sounds gorgeous.

“I’ll show you. Little Bird, where do you keep the bulbs?” He starts to get up but Enola shakes her head.

“Don’t bother,” she says. Doyle looks at her. “You can show him later, okay? You didn’t bring beer by any chance, did you? Simon’s got fuck all and I could kill for a beer.”

“Sure thing,” he says. He oozes from the room.

Enola leans forward, hands on her knees, and I spot the tattoo on her wrist again. A little bird. Jesus. “Quit being a bastard and pretend you like him. For me, okay?”

“I’m not being a bastard, I’m being your brother.”

“Well, that’s new,” she snaps. It’s true. I’ve been a parent, not a brother.

“I’m just concerned, okay? I know nothing about him.” Or her, for that matter.

“For once, can you just be a little nice?”

“I’ll try.”

Doyle lopes back in, six-pack in hand. “Want one?”

“Sure, thanks.” His tattooed finger pops open a can, and all I can think about is having needles so close to the nail bed. He catches me staring, so I ask, “That hurt?”

“Like a sonofabitch.” He smiles and clicks his teeth together.

“Good beer,” I say. It tastes like warm piss.

We drink in relative silence, which is me being nice. After another drink they begin chattering to each other. Names are tossed around—friends, cities, towns. She giggles, a different person from the one I saw last night. I glance over at the book. I’m missing something.

Neither minds when I flip through a few pages. Later, Enola drags him out to the bluffs to watch the sun brush the water. I am left alone with my books.

At some point music drifts in and I look out the window to see the moon and the dome light from her car. The driveway is bathed in blue and they’re dancing. She is frenzied motion, elbows flinging, hips shimmying, dancing and detonating. Sweat covers her, eating moonlight as she sidles against him. Doyle flows over her as if held together by a thin layer of ink. The car shakes with bass vibration. A slower song comes on and they mesh their skin, fingers entwined. They’ve ceased to know I’m here. Like they never knew.

Alice answers the phone, sleepy, soft-sounding. “Hey. What’s up?”

“Do you want to go out? Are you up for a drink? I need a drink.”

She yawns and I hear the pop of her jaw on the receiver. “I’ve got work tomorrow.” There’s a small silence between us before she says a quick, “Sorry. That came out wrong. What’s up?”

“Nothing. Just a little stir-crazy, I guess. Enola’s boyfriend showed up. Too many people in a small house.” Never mind that four of us once rattled around here.

“And here I was hoping you’d say you miss me.”

I do. I miss her walking up the library steps. I miss her writing the program schedule on a white board and the curl of her lowercase g. I miss the Alice I don’t see anymore. “Sorry. I’m just off. It’s weird seeing my sister’s mating dance.”

“I’ve never felt so lucky to be an only child.” She yawns again and I know I should let her go. “Tomorrow, okay?” she says. “I promise.”