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him.
retarded shit about his grades or friends or keeping his music too loud
or other stupid shit. Like she was starting shit to start shit . Drunk bitch.
    he would talk to Jacobson. he always had pills or something to
make the worst thoughts go away. for a while.
Mrs. Nolan walks around in her black thong underwear. Seen it. Just
last week. When she bent over to pick up the newspaper. Sure like to get my
hands on dat ass. Stupid virgin. I should have done that fat bitch with Kevin
when she was all fucked up, passed out. Whatnot. I could kill Mike Gaffney.
Just shoot him in the fucking head with the gun in Mom’s closet. Or Mr.
Faggot Nolan. Whatever. Or me. BAM! No masa Española. She thinks I’m
a loser anyway. Freak. Who’d fucking care anyway? She would. Mrs. Nolan. he reached into his shorts. fourth time would ache a little, but it was
worth it. Imagined her beneath him with her arms over her head, tied to
something maybe. A bedpost, he guessed. Those rail things. Something. Keeps saying NO but that’s because she doesn’t want to take the blame when
they get caught. Squirming beneath him. Can’t make out her face. Adrienne.
Mrs. Nolan. Mommy.
Shit!
Someone standing outside his room. heard the creak. If his mom
caught him again . . . he remembered that ordeal well enough. She’d
vanished for a while and then come back to tease him about it for hours.
Would not drop it. Like it was her fucking job or something. he quickly
pulled his hand away. “What?” he snapped at the dark. Tried to sound
tough with his heart thumping halfway out his chest. Wiped off the spit
from his hand on the sheet.
The door opened a crack, and a shadow stepped into the den television’s ghostly light. he thought it might be russ, his mom’s latest boyfriend. No. This guy was too tall. Some new guy who’d come by to fuck
the bitch. Another asshole who’d probably end up laying into him some
day for looking at ’im wrong.
“What?” he asked, sitting up. “What the fuck—”
The shadow man now stepped fully into his room.
But it didn’t make sense. Not at all. Why is he here?
“Dr. Jacobson?”
“hello, Albert. I’m sorry if I alarmed you.”
Just like that. As if Albert had somehow willed the man into the
bedroom with his earlier thoughts. Like some kinda genie lamp. The
boy stood from his bed. “I don’t–”
“Nothing to fear, son,” the man said, his face still half lost in the
room’s shadows. “Not anymore. Sit. everything’s going to be fine now.”
Several darker shapes in the living room behind the doctor, but Albert couldn’t make them out. “Where’s . . . where’s my mom?”
“first we need to talk,” the doctor said.
“Why? Why are you here?” Albert found he’d sat back down as
told, but he’d pulled the blanket close to his chest as some childish
protection. “We’re not supposed to, ummm, meet again for, like, two
weeks.” he squinted as the doctor loomed. “What’s that?”
“This, Albert, is a folder with all the information we have about who
you are.” Dr. Jacobson had taken a seat at the end of Albert’s bed. Casually crossed one leg. “Who you really are.”
“What do . . . you mean, like, those tests and stuff?”
“We’re done with all that. This concerns where you come from.”
he’d placed the thick folder on the bed. “your ‘family tree,’ you might
say. Go ahead. have a look.”
“This about my dad?”
“It’s about you,” the doctor corrected. “Only you.”
The boy reached out carefully and took the folder.
ALBerT/5.
And inside: ALBerT heNry DeSALVO. (11/3/1931—11/25/1973), and a picture.
“Is this . . . ? Who is this?”
    The black-and-white photo so very familiar. As if he’d seen it before, when he knew that he had not.
Dr. Jacobson smiled beside him, and then spoke briefly to Albert
about things like cloning and DNA and “Self.” Before Albert could even
imagine a response or question, Jacobson nodded back to the