The Family Fang - Kevin Wilson [123]
“How did you come to write ‘K.A.P.’?” he asked.
There was silence on the other end of the line. Buster could hear Lucas breathing, deep and steady. Buster expected the boy to hang up, but, slowly, in a measured voice, Lucas replied, “It just kind of came to me.”
“There wasn’t any event that made you write it?” Buster asked.
“I guess not,” Lucas said. “I just, you know, thought that people should kill their parents if they want to do anything good with their lives. This is a stupid question, I think. No offense.”
“You didn’t write that song, Lucas,” Buster said.
“Yes I did.”
“I know you didn’t write that song,” Buster said. “I’m going to write an entire article about it unless you tell me.”
“I’m going to hang up.”
“Who wrote that song, Lucas? It’s not even the best song on the album. I think there’s, like, eight other songs that are better, much better. The writing is sloppy and I think the sentiment is a little trite. It doesn’t have the depth of your other songs. That’s how I know you didn’t write it.”
“It’s going to be our hit,” Lucas replied.
“That doesn’t mean you don’t have other songs that are much, much better.”
“I . . . I didn’t write it,” Lucas said.
“I know that, Lucas,” Buster said. “It doesn’t sound like you.”
“Everybody loves that song and I didn’t even write it,” Lucas said, his voice cracking.
“Who wrote it?”
“Somebody else,” Lucas said, and Buster resisted the urge to smash the phone against the brick wall.
“Who wrote it?”
“My dad,” Lucas finally said.
“What?” Buster said, amazed at how unsteady the earth felt beneath his feet.
“My dad wrote it. He said we could use it; it was the first song that we ever played, and so we just thought we’d put it on the album because we knew it so well.”
“Your dad?”
Annie frowned at this statement, jabbed Buster again, but he shook his head and turned slightly away from her.
“Well, my stepdad. But I call him my dad. He’s been my dad for so long that I call him my real dad.”
Buster heard the sound of another voice on the phone, a woman’s voice.
“My mom just came in here,” Lucas said. “She wants to talk to you.”
Buster did not want to talk to this woman, not at all. “Wait,” Buster said to Lucas. “I have one more question.”
“Okay, but she really wants to talk to you.”
“Um, if you were a tree, what kind of tree would you be?”
Lucas, without hesitation, replied, “One that just got struck by lightning,” and then handed the phone to his mother.
“Who is this?” the woman said.
“Who is this?” Buster replied.
“What are you up to, sir?” the woman said.
“Do you know Caleb Fang?” Buster asked.
“You leave him alone,” the woman said. “I’m warning you, leave my husband alone.”
Buster, confused, his arm aching from holding the phone to his ear, replied, “Mom?”
“Oh, god, is this Buster?” the woman said. “No, Buster, I’m not your mother.”
“What’s going on?” Buster said, his anger now properly summoned at the embarrassment of mistaking a perfect stranger for his mother.
“Leave them alone, Buster. Just let them live their lives.”
“What the fuck is going on, lady?” Buster shouted, but the woman had hung up the phone.
Buster stayed on the line, unwilling to put the receiver back in its cradle. In a few seconds, he would turn to his sister and try to explain as best he could, then wait for her to decide how to proceed. For the moment, he simply listened to the dial tone, the way the unbroken sound seemed to be pulling him into the wiring of the phone. He wondered where his fangs were, those veneers from his childhood. He wished he had them on right now, teeth so sharp that they could