Page 87 of Torch Songs

“’Cause the girl’s like my sister.”

“You fuckin’ her brother?” Jock asked, and again, nothing but curiosity and that ever-foul mouth, but suddenly Guthrie had him by the throat through the window of the truck and was pushing him back against the torn upholstery.

“You talk to them, either of them, call them, pass them a note, tell them about how you think you know me from the good ole days, and I will shove your nose so far down your throat they’ll need forceps and a tractor to pull it out,” Guthrie threatened, his voice cold and faraway in his ringing ears. “As far as you and my father are concerned, these people don’t exist. I don’t want your bullshit in either of their lives.”

Jock swallowed, and his eyes searched Guthrie’s face, looking for mercy where Guthrie knew there was none to give.

“I’m sorry,” he rasped, and Guthrie was so shocked he let go of Jock’s collar and stepped back.

“Sorry?” For the first time since engaging in this conversation he felt confused, vulnerable—like the kid he’d been when Jock had been the one who remembered to feed him or buy him shoes that didn’t have his toes finding holes to grow through.

“We… what I let your daddy do that made you hate me so much,” Jock said, his eyes growing red-rimmed and sad.“’Cause… ’cause I cared for you when you were little. I thought… I thought I did an okay job. But I let Butch hurt you there at the end, and I’m sorry. But if I was ever good to you, if you ever had any fond memories of me, you’ll come help me now, Guthrie. Please don’t leave me alone with this. I-I couldn’t have raised you alone back in the day or I woulda tried. I can’t walk your daddy to the grave alone. I’m… I’m a weak man, and a bastard, and a shitty bass guitarist, and I’m not that bright, but at least I know that. Please help me. Please. Then I’ll have the house, and your dad’ll be gone, and you can be quit of us. You don’t never need to visit again.”

And now Guthrie was looking at his feet—down, down, down—as he tumbled into that canyon, the one you couldn’t get out of. That’s where he was going, down into hell, where you needed a backhoe and a pulley and a winch and a crowd of scientists to get you out, because nobody got out of Sand Cut alive without help.

He peered back up and sighed. “I gotta go pack, Jock. I gotta tell them I’ll be back.” He gave a little laugh. “They’re moving, you know. End of August. By the time this is over, I’ll have to go find them in the mountains. They’ll think I forgot about them.”

Jock shook his head, and made maybe his first step in earning Guthrie’s forgiveness. “Naw, kid, they’ll know you’re comin’ back. Any fool can see you’re the type to stick.”

Guthrie’s face was tight, and he had to fight the tears because he didn’t want to give them to Jock. Uncle Jock didn’t get any tears, not right now.

Besides, Guthrie had to say goodbye to Tad first, and he’d need all his tears for that.

“WHERE YOUgoing?” Tad asked, rolling over in bed. Guthrie took a moment, letting the tension out of his face, his neck and shoulders, so he could brush Tad’s lips with his thumb andmemorize how he looked, ginger hair on end, green eyes bleary with sleep. He was tousled and grumpy and so, so dear, and Guthrie’s heart gave a vicious twist.

“My….” He took a deep breath. “My daddy’s sick,” he said, trying to get through this. “And I’d let the old man die, but… but Jock, my uncle, needs help with him. So I gotta go, so I can help Jock. I….” His voice wobbled. “I’ll be back, Tad. You trust that, right? That I’ll come back? I wouldn’t leave you. I-I’ll come back home when it’s done.”

Tad’s eyes were wide now as he scrambled to sitting. “But… but Guthrie, we might not even be living here when it’s ‘done,’ as you say. Where are you going? Why can’t I come with you and help? We could go do that while we’re waiting for the transfer, and—”

Guthrie made a hurt sound. “No!” he said, almost shouting. “No.” He lowered his voice. “You and April—you can’t. April was trying to tell Jock to move his car, and I feel like I failed her just letting her get that close. You can’t let these people touch your lives. Youreallycan’t see me with them. I’m… I’m rattlesnake mean. I got things I gotta do to survive talking to my daddy, Uncle Jock, hell, anybody in my old hometown. I… I can’t let you see me be the nine-hundred-pound gorilla that rips apart Mr. Hyde. Do you understand that? I can’t let this touch you. You and your sister—you’re the good in my life. You’re my home. You’re worried about me not being able to find you in Colton? I could feel you pulling my heart in the dark. I found you when you were in the middle of the goddamned canyon. I’ll find you again. But I need you to trust I’ll do that, okay? I….” He squeezed his eyes shut. “Please. Please don’t come see me be the bastard I’m about to become. Please—”

He squeezed his eyes shut, but it wasn’t any use. He couldn’t stop the tears during sex, when he was happy, and they let Tadsee into his soul, and he couldn’t stop them now, when he was angry and hurt and devastated.

“Please wait for me,” he croaked, and Tad sat up in bed and wrapped his arms around Guthrie’s shoulders, holding him so tight he couldn’t breathe.

Good. He didn’t want to breathe. He wanted to die, right here, where he was wanted and cared for and he didn’t have to make stupid awful choices or become the man he’d feared the most in order to survive.

“Of course I’ll wait for you,” Tad whispered. “But… but you’ll text. You’ll visit—”

Guthrie shook his head, thinking about the working conditions Jock had outlined. “I’ll text, but Sand Cut, California, is like Colton. It’s a fuckin’ technology black hole. Look for emails when texting fails, okay? I’ll… I’ll find time to talk.” His voice broke. “I never used to like to talk, you know? But you and your sister, even Livvy—I’ll miss talking.”

Tad blew out a breath. “Don’t forget how,” he said. “And God, Guthrie, take more than that fucking knapsack. Take a suitcase. There’s one in the closet. Please?”

Guthrie shook his head. “No,” he said bleakly. “All my clothes are here, baby. The knapsack means I’m on the road. You need to keep being my home.”

Tad’s arms tightened around his shoulders. “Always,” he promised. “But…. God, Guthrie. You don’t talk much about your dad, but the stuff you’ve said… do you have to go?”

Guthrie swallowed, more and more of his childhood coming back to him. He’d thought that Jock had aged in the last two years, but it wasn’t until just then that he’d realized howyoungJock really was. He was younger than Larx and Aaron George. He must have been a teenager when Guthrie was a little kid. Guthrie’s father was in his late fifties, but Jock—he must havebeen at Butch Woodson’s mercy sincehewas a little kid. Unlike Guthrie, though, Jock never escaped.

Jock had done his best, Guthrie knew, remembering his anguished plea, his acknowledgment that he was a weak man but didn’t know what else to do. Jock had been the one to remember breakfast bars and blankets—probably because Guthrie’s dad had forgotten them for Jock. Jock had been the one running interventions whenever Guthrie managed to piss the old man off. Sitting here in this safe space, with his lover’s arms around him, Guthrie had a clear memory of Jock showing Guthrie a rhythm with his finger on the sly so Butch wouldn’t take his head off after the performance. Guthrie had been fourteen and pressed into service. Playing the drums right then had been like mowing the lawn.

“Baby,” Guthrie said, taking a deep breath, “I gotta go back. For the same reasons I had to bring April up to the canyon that day. Or you had to take a risk and do some tough love for your baby sister. Because nobody gives us a blueprint or a checklist to be the kind of men we need to be, but sometimes we recognize it when we see it. I see it. If I’m gonna be the kind of man who deserves you, I’m gonna be the kind of man who goes and does this. Just….” He clasped Tad’s hands where he’d laced his fingers around Guthrie’s shoulders. “It’s gonna be a bit. I’ll find you in Colton if you gotta go while I’m still in Sand Cut, but please, baby, wait for me.”

Tad sputtered some tears of his own and sang softly from Guthrie’s impromptu concert that lonely dark night. “I will wait for you…,” he sang.

Guthrie turned and took his mouth in a salty, painful kiss. He pulled back and said, “Good. ’Cause I’ll come find you.”

He took a deep, shuddery breath and stood, turning to cup Tad’s cheek.

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