Darren lifted the plastic bag containing his homework from the top of the portable record player. He looked around for somewhere to put the homework, but his bureau and desk were covered with toys and comic books, so he tossed the bag onto his bed. It bounced, and landed on the floor. He flipped up the lid of the record player and swivelled the old 45-rpm disk that was already in place on the turntable, so that he could see the title of the song. "Doo Wah Diddy Diddy," it said. His favourite song and his only song. His mother had given him both the record and the player, just a week earlier, on the day before she went into the hospital.
There was a scratching sound from his bedroom door. He turned and looked at the doorknob, which was at the same height as his chest. "Is that you, Mom?" he asked.
"Stinky," a confiding whisper came from the crack under the door, "I told you to call me Stinky from now on."
The door swung open just wide enough to admit Darren's mother. She was on her hands and knees, crawling. Her blonde hair was a slept-on mess, her hands and knees covered with clotted blood, her skin very pale under her make-up, her white skirt and jacket were rumpled and stained. She pushed the door closed again, with her behind.
"You smell, Mom. Stinky, I mean. Why don't you take a bath?"
"I can't. I have to stay hidden. We don't want your father to find me. He'll bring me back to the hospital, and maybe you'll never see me again. We don't want that, do we?"
Darren pouted. His lower lip quivered and his eyes brimmed with tears. Not again. No more crying like a big baby. He would play the record. The song always made the tears go away. He turned the knob on the record player until it clicked, in a way he could more easily feel than hear. A spitting sound came from the thick fabric on the front of the box, in the spot that would give a little when he pressed against it. He checked the volume knob and saw that it was on number eight. That was good; any louder and the spitting sounds might drown out the music. He lifted the arm and placed the needle on the old record, aiming for the first groove.
Darren climbed onto the bed and stood up. As the first few notes jangled from the old machine, Darren's mother crawled across the room and hid behind the bed. She shoved the homework bag under the boxspring and crouched where it had been.
"There she was, just a-walkin' down the street,
Singin' Doo Wa Diddy, Diddy Dum, Diddy Doo," shouted the record player. Darren began to bounce, singing along. He jumped up and down on the springy bed, first with small bounces, then bigger ones, then bouncing as high as he could, trying unsuccessfully to touch the ceiling with the top of his head. When the song was over he swung his feet forward and landed on his bottom for a big bounce, then smaller and smaller bounces until he was only sitting on the bed, feeling dizzy but feeling good. He rolled off the bed and walked to the record player.
"It used to start at the beginning again by itself," said Stinky, "Back when it was new. When I was a stinky little girl. But that stopped working one day."
Darren placed the needle on the first groove again, and hurried back to his standing position on the bed.
"There she was, just a walkin' down the street,
Singin' Doo Wa Diddy, Diddy Dum, Diddy Doo,
Twiddlin' her thumbs, and a shuffl-in' her feet,
Singin' Doo Wa Diddy, Diddy Dum, Diddy Doo," blared the record player. Darren began to bounce on the bed again, this time stretching his arms as high as they could go over his head. With each bounce his hands would smack flat against the ceiling, and he would push himself down again. The song ended and this time he threw himself flat on his stomach on the bed, protecting his face with his hands until the bouncing stopped.
"Play it again," said Stinky, "play it louder."
Darren rolled off the bed again and ran to the record player. He crossed his fingers and turned the volume knob to nine. He put the needle on the first groove and rushed back to the bed.
"There she was, just a walkin' down the street,
Singin' Doo Wa Diddy, Diddy Dum, Diddy Doo,
Twiddlin' her thumbs, and a shuffl-in' her feet,
Singin' Doo Wa Diddy, Diddy Dum, Diddy Doo,
She looked fine!" screamed the record player. Darren jumped madly on the bed, out of control. Sometimes his bounces threw him at a crazy angle against the wall, but he was able to shove off with his hands and regain his balance, just enough to keep bouncing. This was better, he thought, nine was much better, even with the crackling it was better, Stinky was right. He could not think. The lyrics had no meaning anymore. The music was only jangling, overwhelming, and the world went away into the dark, so that he hardly noticed when he had to jump off the bed and start the record over. He played the song again and again, feeling pushed into nothing, bouncing in the middle of nothing, being nothing, being nowhere and never with no worries, and Stinky looked on, approving. He knew she was happy for him, and she loved him like nobody else ever could, and it was all wrapped up in this song...
Bang! came a noise, very loud but sounding almost quiet under the song, and Darren's heart leapt as he saw movement over by the door. He looked, and it was the door itself that had moved, that had been swung violently inward until it banged against the wall, and his father stormed into the room, shouting, angry, stomping his big flat feet with every step.
Darren looked beside the bed and saw Stinky crouched down, very low. The back of the creased white jacket shook with the fear of discovery, but Darren swung his gaze back to his father and saw that Dad was not looking for Stinky.
"...She looked good, she loo...," bellowed the record player, and then a horrible deep scratching sound as Dad snatched the record from the player; a ripping, tearing sound as if the world itself were being torn apart, and the silence swooped in and smashed at Darren's ears, then became his father's voice, hoarse, furious.
"...all this goddamn noise! Over and over again! I can't take it anymore!" The record swung up into the air, clutched in two hairy, sweaty fists, then came slicing down and slammed against his father's upraised knee. It lay flat, then bent, became impossibly convex, then burst into a million triangles of spinning black plastic, triangles bouncing from the walls and ceiling and raining down over the bed, over the bureau, over the desk, over Darren, and over Dad's seething, twisted, snarling face.
"No! Nooooo!" wailed Darren, and the tears burst forth, no stopping them this time. He fell back onto the bed and felt every drop of moisture in his body rushing, streaming, crashing into the backs of his eyes. Through a waterfall, he watched his father stamp back through the doorway and the door swing, wobbling against the broken, soundless, hurtful air until it crashed shut with an ear-splitting Bang! and a black, jagged crack appeared against the light blue paint of the doorjamb.
Then there was no more sound, except for Darren's hopeless sobs. He picked up a piece of the broken record from where it lay useless on the quilt and saw the black plastic melt into a triangle of white polyester and pale white skin and clotted, deep-red blood. He glanced at the space between the wall and the bed and saw that Stinky was gone. Little stinky triangles of white and pale white and deep red lay on every surface in the little blue room and Darren threw back his head and howled his grief at the light blue ceiling with the greasy handprints over the bed. After a while the door opened again, gently this time and Darren's Dad, crying too, rushed in and gathered the shaking little boy into his arms.
"I'm sorry, Darren," the father sobbed, "I'm so awfully sorry. I'll get you another record." The boy did not answer, just turned his face away.
"I loved her too, boy. She was all we had and she was the best. We can get through this together. Please."
Darren pushed at his father's chest with the flats of his hands, his arms locked.