Also Known as Elvis by James Howe

back,” I say. The times with Penny, those are easier to remember somehow.
    My dad heaves a big sigh. “She was a great dog all right. I hate that she had to stay out back in that kennel all the time. She should have been in thehouse with her family, where she belonged. Hell, she could have had all the baloney sandwiches she wanted, if it was up to me.”
    We get quiet for a long time, just the sound of the AC keeping us company.
    â€œI still can’t figure how she got out of that kennel and ran off like she did,” my dad says. My eyes fill up with tears, and I have to turn my head to the side window. No way can I let him see me like this. No way can I tell him what I know.
    â€œWell, that’s water under the bridge,” he says, pulling slowly out onto the street. “It sure would have been nice if that was her today, though, wouldn’t it, Skeezo? Sure would have been nice to see her again.”
    I nod my head so slightly it’s like a mumble. As we drive along the familiar streets of Paintbrush Falls, the radio soft in the background, I’m surprised at how much I’m liking this. Him calling me Skeezo. Us talking about Penny. Just driving around together like we used to when I was a kid, the two of us, not knowing where we were going because where we were goingwasn’t the point. And then I start hating that these good feelings are slipping in through cracks I didn’t even know were there. I don’t want to like this. I don’t want to like him.
    After a while, he leans in and turns up the radio. “These guys are awesome,” he says. “Listen to the drums. Man, if I could play like that . . .”
    â€œYou play drums?” I ask. First I heard.
    â€œYeah, look behind my seat,” he says.
    I do, and there’s what looks like a snare drum.
    â€œYou in a marching band?”
    He laughs. “Yeah, right. Me, in a marching band. That’s a good one. No, I’m in a rock band. One of my buddies started it up a couple years back, and then about six months ago his drummer left town and—”
    â€œSince when are you a drummer?” First he’s wearing a tie, now he’s a drummer. Seriously, who is this dude?
    â€œI don’t know. A year or two. It’s something I always wanted to do, but who had the time or the money, and with three kids . . . not that I’m blamingyou guys, it’s just . . . I don’t know. We got married so young, I never had a chance to do the stuff I wanted to. I had the Beast, sure, but your mom was always . . . no, I’m not going there. I don’t blame her. It’s just . . .”
    He slaps his hand on the steering wheel and shakes his head. “It’s just that I got this chance to play the drums and I’m doing it, man. That’s all. I’m doing it. And hey, I’m not bad. Still learning, but getting better all the time.”
    â€œSo where’s the rest of the drum thingy?” I ask.
    â€œKit. It’s called a kit. It’s back home. I need to replace one of the nut boxes on the snare. That’s why it’s in the truck.”
    He looks over at me and we both crack up. I know we’re thinking about what kind of joke we can make out of “nut boxes.” I forgot that my dad and I think alike sometimes.
    â€œI want to play the electric guitar,” I tell him.
    â€œAre you serious? That’s what Gerri plays! She’s in the band.”
    â€œIs that how you guys met?”
    My dad sighs. “Your mom told you?”
    â€œYeah. So when were you going to tell me?”
    â€œSorry. I should have said something right off. It’s hard, though, Skeeze. It’s hard for me to tell you I’m marrying somebody else when your mom and I aren’t even divorced yet. Life is strange, okay? I didn’t see this coming. I mean, I knew it was no good between your mom and me. I knew