Page 96 of Torch Songs

“Jock, we are barely legal with his care regimen as it is. If he fights us like a toddler every day, we can’t meet it. If he wants to die on his own terms, he’s going to have to stop being a fucker, and that’s all there is to it.”

Jock nodded, and to Guthrie’s absolute shock, turned his head and wiped his cheek on his shoulder. “I-I didn’t think I could do anything,” he confessed brokenly. “I felt sotrapped….” And his voice broke. He shook his head and held out his hands when Guthrie would have said something. “Hey,” he said after aminute. “Could you… could you maybe come sit with me on the porch after he goes down to sleep? I know you been sitting in your truck, using the good internet, but… but I don’t got no one to email. Could you, you know, like when you was a kid. Could you—for a little while—pretend to be my friend?”

Guthrie’s eyes burned. “I wouldn’t be pretending,” he said heavily. “Sure. You come get me after he’s asleep. We’ll sit on the porch and talk as the sun goes down, how’s that?”

“Thanks,” Jock said, and Guthrie knew he was crying, but he kept hauling that damned stove to the trash pickup spot like nothing was happening.

Guthrie let him. He was about done with feelings for the moment. With a sigh and a conscious straightening of his back, he went to the carport for some paint. He’d finished prepping the outside of the house the day before. It was time to swap out the attachments on the air compressor and put some lipstick on this tiny two-bedroom, one-bathroom pig.

NONE OFthis went into his email or text to Tad that night. April didn’t hear a word of it. Olivia only got plans for her father’s wedding and internet jokes. Kelly’s sisters got kitten videos. Martin, from the auto dealership, shared a YouTube video of Eddie Vedder in concert that made Guthrie super happy, and he shared his favorite of Eminem.

And then he picked up his guitar and tooled around, fixing the last song he’d written, setting it in music notation on the laptop he kept charged in the kitchen, along with his phone.

At around eight o’clock, just as the last light of the sun was fading from the sky, he heard Jock’s quiet “Guthrie? You want to come sit? I got us some cookies from the store when I went for groceries. That okay?”

Guthrie swallowed, throat thick. “Yeah, Jock. That’s real good. I appreciate it. I’ll be right there.” He tucked his laptopaway but grabbed his phone, in case Tad texted him back like he tended to do.

That night, he and Jock sat and talked. Jock caught him up on the gigs he and Butch had been playing before Butch got sick, and Jolene, the woman Jock dated on and off but whom he’d like to see more. And Jock listened, heard about Seth and Kelly’s wedding, and while his language might have been pretty much the worst, Guthrie heard honest joy for Seth, their “Fiddler,” and that put paid to a lot of resentment Guthrie had felt toward him about how shit had fallen out after Seth had left their band.

After a little bit of low-key begging, Jock promised to work on cleaning up his language, as long as Guthrie promised to come out and sit with him again the next night.

Guthrie could promise that.

His loneliness for Tad and April and their little home with their cats was like a black hole opening up under his sternum. It was starting to suck the color out of the sky and the scent of the ocean out of the wind and the sweetness out of the flowers and the sawtoothed grasses in a giant cosmic whooshing storm.

Jock’s human companionship didn’t fill it, but it did dull the roaring of its wind in his ears.

SO JOCKwas a bright spot in an otherwise dismal time. The lack of cell coverage was no joke. Guthrie retreated to his truck every evening for an hour or two to use the internet—because he got signal there—contact his people, and decompress. After Jock finished with Butch at night, they’d retire to the porch to talk, to play; Jock still loved to play, even though he’d never be beyond a garage guitarist, and since those classically trained musicians like Roberta and Neal and Owen and Seth had taken pity on Guthrie’s own flaws and foibles, Guthrie paid that forward by giving Jock some time to fill his soul.

At night, after Jock took his one last beer to bed, Guthrie returned to his truck. He kept the guitar locked in the moisture-proof case and the computer behind the seat in the cab. His phone was fully charged after some time in the kitchen, and it was Guthrie under the stars, tucked in his sleeping bag with the blankets April had sent.

One of the blankets was fleece, and very much appreciated in the damp, foggy nights so close to the ocean. The other blanket was crocheted, and that one Guthrie tucked into the sleeping bag as more of a talisman than anything else. It was warm—more as a couch throw than as defense against the fog—and pretty, but mostly it was home. It was Tad’s sister, who loved him, and Tad himself, who also, it seemed, loved him. Guthrie read books on his phone sometimes, or texted Tad if he was awake.

Once Tad started working, Guthrie could sense him falling asleep earlier, and the thought made him smile. His boy was healing, getting stronger and more active, and Guthrie tried to imagine a life with the two of them. Yeah, there’d be some gigs, some local stuff, but this album with Seth had taken on a life of its own. Guthrie had sent Seth some of his songs, and Seth had demanded more. In return, Seth had sent back instrumentation that he and Amara and Vince had come up with to make the songs richer and more complete.

Except for the one about the ribbon of road.

What do you want to do with that one? Guthrie asked. Even he had to admit it was the best song of the bunch.

I want you to play the guitar and sing it, Seth sent back.We may hire someone to do some quiet percussion. Vince has a lonely trumpet riff. The rest is you.

Guthrie laughed a little.No, seriously. One of the hallmarks of this album had been Seth’s deft hand at instrumentation, atmaking the classical instruments and the modern music blend into something amazing.

It’s the best track on the album, Guthrie. None of us want to ruin it with too much. Trust me on this, okay?

Guthrie had stared at the text, shocked.

Guthrie?

I’m not sure what to say.

Say you’ll be there the last week of August. You said you were taking care of your father, but your internet is shitty. Here’s the address. Commit it to memory. The production company is fronting our hotel and food expenses. Make it if you have to crawl. It’s going to be everybody’s time to shine.

Guthrie had to smile at that. That was Seth. Loving music. Loving to make it with the people who loved it like he did.

Looking forward to seeing you all, he texted.

Maybe we can meet your policeman friend.

---