Page 86 of Torch Songs

And itwassaggy. He could see the age in Jock’s once-handsome face, the slackness that alcohol and a bad diet had given him, the lines and wrinkles that Guthrie hadn’t seen two years ago because parents and parental figures didn’t really age.

But Jock had.

And that, in the end, was what stayed Guthrie’s hand.

“Jock, if I ever see you talking to that girl again, I’ll break your jaw. Then I’ll break your fingers. Then I’ll go to work on you. If you touch her, I’ll kill you. I’m not exaggerating. I’ve reinforced my guitar case to ward off muggers. Gave the last one a concussion. I willbeat your head inif you attempt contact in any way. That girl does not need you.”

Jock’s eyes went wide in surprise, and he regarded Guthrie in shock.

“Boy, you can’t possibly mean—”

“Every word of that.” Guthrie shook his head. “These people you followed me to—they’re good people. I’ve seen you grab too many asses, take too many liberties. When I was a kid I could think, ‘Oh, that’s just Jock, he don’t mean nothin’.’ But I’m grown now. Just being Jock don’t get you a pass, not with someone who cares about me like that girl and her brother do.So if all you got is a weakshit pass on a girl I’ll protect with my life, you can motor on your way.”

Jock’s jaw hardened. “She’s sallow,” he said with a sniff. “Probably on the junk anyway.”

Guthrie turned as crisply as he could in flip-flips and was waylaid by Jock’s honest plea.

“No, no—don’t go. Guthrie, I wasn’t shitting around about needing you. Man, it’s your dad. Like I said, he’s sick.”

“What’s gotten him?” Guthrie asked.

“Everything,” Jock muttered, shaking his head. “Liver’s shot, lungs are shot—if the cirrhosis don’t get him, the cancer will. He’s got a month, maybe, and he wants to go out at home. But home is… you know. Not like we stayed there much anyway. I gotta work on shit like plumbing and electricity so the place don’t go up with us in it, and he needs everything, from a drink of water to a trip to the bathroom to piss. He’s my brother, man, but I can’t do it all!”

“Don’t you get a nurse from the state?” Guthrie asked, scowling.

“Five days a week,” Jock said, nodding. “And some of the folks around town regard your dad fondly. So we got some help. Backup’s not twenty-four seven, but it will be if you come help me see it through.”

Guthrie shook his head. “Why? Give me one good reason to see it through.”

“We took you in when you was little!” Jock whined. “Me and your dad. It was us or foster care!”

“I was your kinfolk,” Guthrie said flatly. “That was your job, and you did the minimum amount. Remember when I used to show up behind the diner to eat the scraps ’cause you and Dad would leave for a gig and forget to leave me food? The only reason you started taking me with you is cause Rick Cobb threatened to take me away, and we all know the money yougot from the state in child credit was what kept you and Dad in beer.”

Jock sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah, me and your daddy, we gotta make our accounts square with the Lord, and believe me, he’s gonna settle up soon. But you’re gonna have to do your own settling up. You want leaving your old man to rot in his own shit to be on your ledger?”

Guthrie shook his head. “I wanted to be able to leave the two of you to your own bullshit and not have to worry about you again.He threw me out, remember? Realized you weren’t going to get any more money off Fiddler, so suddenly I wasn’t worth anything to either of you. There I was thinking, ‘Yeah, well, my family ain’t perfect. They don’t get me, but they’re still my dad and uncle Jock, and Fiddler walks across the stage, and Dad tells me he don’t want no faggots in his band, and I can’t sleep under his roof if I’m gonna be that way. Message received, Jock. I don’t have to be in his fuckin’ band, and I don’t wanna be under his goddamned roof, but you can’t have it both fuckin’ ways. I can’t be trash when you don’t need me and blood when you do.”

Jock stared down at his shoes in something like shame. “Your dad shouldn’t a done that, Guthrie. You….” He looked up miserably. “You heard me try to stand up to him, didn’t you?”

Guthrie held out his hand and wobbled it back and forth. “You tried, sorta. He said, ‘Shut the fuck up, Jock,’ and you gave it up and went out to nail a waitress who kept trying to feed you Altoids ’cause your breath is fuckin’ gross, and I don’t know what happened after that ’cause I was fuckingone. Rememberthat, Jock? ’Cause that was the last time I saw you, and I been happy about that!”

Ugh. His dad’s twang was throbbing in his voice, and he hated it. He used to only hear the syllables, the music in it, and he’d thought having his dad’s and Jock’s Alabama music in his tones was a good thing. Then he heard the things they weresaying in it, and he’d hated those things so much he’d hated his own voice. Going to school had helped him weed some of that out, and he’d since reconciled that the music was real and their words weretheirwords and not his, but he hated that his grammar and his intonation and the whole fuckin’ works went sliding down the hill the minute Jock showed back up in his life.

Jock glanced away. “I’m sorry about that, Guthrie. I… I shoulda stood up for you better. You’re not wrong. But I’m begging you—beggingyou now. Don’t leave me alone with this. When your dad is gone, I got a job at Walmart, which will help me keep the house since it’s all paid up. But I gotta fix the house—them nurses won’t come in if there’s no place to take a piss, right? So I need your help. I’ll do anything—”

“Jock, I got gigs,” he said, and while his voice was hard, he knew in the pit of his stomach that it was the last argument of desperation. “I’m playing a wedding at the beginning of August and cutting a new album with Fiddler at the end. I would leave the devil himself puking blood to get to these two gigs. I’d steal cars and deck policemen to make it on time. I can’t go down to Sand Cut in mid-July ’cause you won’t let me back up—”

“I will,” Jock said, relief flooding his voice. “I will. You know us, Guthrie. Gigs are sacred. You got gigs, and we’ll let you work ’em. I won’t hold you back from no gigs!”

Guthrie felt the sand slipping from underneath his feet.This is what Tad must have felt right before he pitched off that cliff into Daffodil Canyon.He took a deep breath and heard all his harsh words in the last ten minutes.God. God, Tad can’t see me be a nine-hundred-pound gorilla, not even to fend off Mr. Hyde. I’d rather die.

“There’s no ‘letting me work them,’” Guthrie snapped. “If you try to stop me, I’ll hurt you.”

Jock swallowed and backed away. “Jesus, Guthrie, you got mean. Why you gotta be so mean? I used to feed you, remember?Keep ole Butch off your ass? You don’t gotta be mean to me. We’re gonna be the only two guys in the boat in the next month or so, you know?”

Guthrie shook his head. “You kicked me out of the family—and even if it was Dad who done it, you walked away and let him. And then you show up here and disrespect someone I care about—”

“I thought you were a faggot,” Jock said, and his tone was curious even if the word was offensive. “Why you so protective over her?”

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