Page 94 of Torch Songs

He’d never thought of himself as particularly weak-stomached, but he had to fight against nausea as he stood thereand listened to his uncle beg and plead for Butch to let his son in the door to help him die.

Finally, Jock surprised Guthrie by shouting, “Look, you old fucker, me and the kid are gonna work in the yard while you sit in here and stew in your own shit. Yeah, I can smell it. How long’s it been since you crapped yourself? An hour? Well Jolene’s gotta go to work, and I’m not going to change it without his help, so you either learn how to be a human fucking being or this is how you’re gonna fuckin’ die.”

And with that Jock stomped out, slammed the door behind him, and took a deep breath of free air when he’d cleared the threshold.

“So,” Guthrie said, not sure how to feel about this. “It’s gonna be a short trip.”

“Looks like,” Jock said grimly. “But I sure would appreciate the help around the house while he rots in his own filth and dies.”

Guthrie raised his eyebrows. “You think that’s gonna happen?”

Jock shook his head, gesturing for Guthrie to follow him to the carport, which was one of the most modernized things on the three-acre lot. Jock was a decent handyman—the thing appeared sturdy, although the wood was still raw and needed staining and painting, and there were obviously parts that Jock intended to add on to.

“I’m working on the plumbing,” Jock said frankly, indicating a couple of shovels and a pile of pipes in the corner. “I need to get that done in the next two hours or he reallywilldie in his own filth. I don’t need no help with it, but God, Guthrie, anything else you see that you want to do. I’ve got supplies for about everything—painting the carport, painting the house, painting the gutters. I’ve got trash pickup scheduled in two weeks, and I’d love some help hauling shit to that one spotin the front of the house. It’s gonna cost me a couple of hundred dollars, and I wanteverythingout there. I’ve got hip waders and long gloves for that, so maybe we could do that work in the morning. I figure….” He swallowed and looked sheepish. “I’m sorry. I asked you out here, and now I’m ordering you about like I’m no better than your daddy—”

Guthrie shook his head. “There’s a difference between outlining a job, Jock, and ordering someone around. Tell me what you figured.”

Jock gave him a brief, sad smile. “God, I missed you, kid.” He swallowed again, like he didn’t want to have that discussion now, and said, “See, what I thought was that we’d get up in the morning, I’d come out and work, you’d take care of your daddy’s needs for an hour or so, and then you could come join me. We’d put a baby monitor in there and carry it around—I already bought one cheap—so if he needs anything he can call out. We work till noon or so, you go make lunch and help him, and then maybe spend a couple hours with me out here. Then nights, I got him, and you get some time off.”

Guthrie thought that through. “But when’syourtime off?”

Jock snorted. “When I’m out here fixing the place up!” He shook his head. “God, it’s all I wanted to do those years. We were touring California, getting gigs, and all I could think of was, ‘Maybe we’ll make enough money to fix up the house. Make it a home.’ But no. Butch just wanted more money so we could follow more gigs. But now I got some money saved from the album we cut—Butch didn’t know about it and now he can’t spend it—and I want….” He glanced around the neglected property and the dilapidated house. “I want it to be a home,” he said, his eyes sad. “I don’t got music like you and your daddy. I got a girl I like and a job waiting for me, and I want to be able to have her come over and not be embarrassed.” He gave a weaksmile. “I’ll miss your daddy, Guthrie, but sort of like you, I guess, I’m ready to set all his meanness free from my heart, you know?”

Guthrie nodded. “Amen to that,” he said. “I’ll start with sandblasting the old paint off the house before I paint it and the carport. How’s that? Do we have an air compressor?”

Jock’s lower lip wobbled a little as he nodded and pointed to the equipment in the corner of the carport. “Thank you,” he whispered. “God, Guthrie. Thank you.”

Guthrie let out a sigh—and let out some of the anger he’d harbored toward Jock. “I missed you too.”

The hopeful smile on Jock’s face was both pitiful and beautiful, and Guthrie returned it. Together they started for the carport, ignoring Butch’s vitriol as he shouted for Jock’s attention from inside the house.

Jock pulled out his phone and set it for an hour. “I’ll go back in and see if he’s changed his tune,” he said. “Jolene texted and said he hasn’t been stewing that long. He may be sick, but your daddy’s got his pride like any man.”

“I wouldn’t know anything about pride,” Guthrie lied, and apparently Jock knew it too, because he rolled his eyes and together they went to work.

That first day it took Butch two hours to agree to let Guthrie tend to him, with Jock’s help.

“You like looking at that?” Butch taunted as Guthrie wiped him down and rubbed ointment on his reddened skin. “Bet you love looking at your daddy’s ass, you worthless fucking faggot.”

Guthrie snorted. “Nobody loves looking atyourass, old man. Except the women you had to pay who were thrilled to see the back of you.”

There was a shocked gasp. “Now that was justmean!” Butch said in surprise. “When’d you get so mean?”

“You kicked me out, fucknugget.” Ooh, this was fun. “You got no pull on whether I’m mean or whether I’m nice or whetherI think you’re a father or a saggy pile of shit. I’m just here to help Jock.” Guthrie talked a good game, and it was awesome being able to tell the old man exactly what he thought of him without fear of a crack across the face. But inside he was heartsick. His father’s body—once a barrel-chested example of a middle-aged man who existed on beer and red meat—had wasted to baggy yellow skin on brittle bones. His stubbled face was so lined and loose that Guthrie figured a good shave would rip it off. And the whiskey voice he’d once used to belt across honky-tonks and charm women who were way too good for him was now a sour cigarette rasp.

It was one thing to hate your father, but it was another thing entirely to see him dying. To hear him curse you with almost his last breath? Well, that hurt.

Guthrie would fight back as best he could, but as he set about changing his first adult diaper, he had to wonder how much of his soul would be left when he got back to Tad.

THAT FIRSTday set the tone. Jock may have been a half-assed bass player, but he actually had a good head on his shoulders when Butch wasn’t ripping it off. His original schedule, with Guthrie supervising Butch’s care between bouts of escaping into helping Jock with the house, gave Guthrie an outlet to release some of his frustration over dealing with his father.

And there was a great deal of that.

Guthrie hadn’t realized his father kept a scorecard of grievances from Guthrie’s childhood, but boy did he pull that out when so inclined.

For instance: “Remember that Christmas you threw a tantrum about being at a bar on Christmas Eve? The owner got so pissed he didn’t pay us for the gig. No presents for you, you little shit, and you bitched about that too.”

“No, old man, I don’t remember it. Jock told me about it, though. I was four. Merry Christmas, you drunken bastard.”

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