Page 173 of Beneath the Stain
Mackey played every song to their small audience—Trav, Shelia, Briony, his mom, Walter, Debra, and a collection of neighbors who had wandered in when the cacophony reached them.
But now it was the second-to-last one, and it was time to settle down.
“You know what pisses me off about this song?” Mackey mused, not really riffing to the crowd but talking to his guys.
“What?” Kell asked, tuning up. His practice guitar was his old Walmart model, and it fell out of tune with almost every song. It was worse because there was frost on the air tonight, and the sky had turned black as they played.
“It’s not just women who do this shit. Man, it’s fuckin’ everybody. Briony? Shelia? You guys hum the flute part, okay? Stevie’s keyboard isn’t doing the high notes.”
“Got it, Mackey!” they said together and lined up behind Jefferson, huddling, their breath coming out like smoke.
Mackey picked out the opening notes, and the entire neighborhood stopped rustling, stopped panting, stopped moving in the reverence that riff inevitably brought.
Briony and Shelia didn’t have bad voices, either, and their sweet counterpoint soared out of the garage just like the song said, a bridge of notes, a stairway to heaven.
Mackey twisted a smile at his band and winked. “There’s a gay-be who’s sure all that glitters is gold….”
Everybody laughed quietly, even people who, Mackey was sure, had no idea who Outbreak Monkey was and that Mackey was talking about himself. That was okay. Trav made the grimly ironic face he wore when he knew Mackey was making a joke at his own expense. Well, fine. Trav didn’t have to like his jokes as long as he kept loving Mackey.
The song wailed, soared, exploded, and distilled into the haunting finale. Mackey closed his eyes as the last note died, and his audience, such as it was, let the silence hold.
For a moment in the cold country October in the Sierra Foothills, everything was silver frost and hard, bright gold.
Then the smattering of applause made him open his eyes, and he smiled, his whole body sagging. He was exhausted, he realized. The band probably was too. But they’d promised one more number, and Mackey was going to go over the new song he’d written in the shower.
Well, the song was written down and could wait until tomorrow, but he didn’t want to disappoint Trav.
He made eye contact with Trav and knew him well enough by now that he could tell that Trav was about to let them off the hook for “Wish You Were Here,” but he didn’t get a chance.
A pre-turn-of-the-century Oldsmobile had just parked in front of Mackey’s mom’s house. The top was burgundy, but the wear from too many autowashes had dulled it, and it was starting to smoke.
It was in almostexactlythe same condition it had been the last time they’d been practicing at Stevie’s house, and Stevie’s dad had come home early.
They all knew the drill. Stevie and Jefferson stood up and grabbed Shelia’s hand. “Mackey?” Stevie’s voice shook.
“We can’t do this,” Jefferson said matter-of-factly. “We’ve had our closure—we’re not engaging with this asshole now.”
Mackey nodded, unslinging his guitar and setting it carefully inside the garage.
“You guys go on in,” he agreed. The last time they had done this, the Olds had pulled up and the five of them had simply taken off running for Grant’s minivan, instruments over their necks, Stevie’s sticks held tight in his hands. Jeff and Stevie had never told them why, but they hadn’t needed to know. The fear was infectious—it always had been. The two of them must have stood up to him at some time, because they weren’t afraid now. They were just bone-tired.
Mackey understood that. He was tired too. But it was always easier to deal with shit when it wasn’t yours.
“Who’s that?” Trav asked as a pudgy, balding middle-aged man wearing a cheap polyester suit and a tacky tie got out of the car and strode up. He had a broad, clueless smile on his face, like he didn’t see what all the fuss was about.
“Stevie’s dad,” Mackey told him grimly.
He was completely unprepared for what happened next.
Trav was wearing a soft navy sweater, and he literally rolled up his sleeves with definite intent. Then he hauled ass down to meet Stevie’s dad with an expression on his face that Mackey could only describe as murderous.
“Trav?”
“Get out of here,” Trav growled, his very presence pushing the older man backward. “You are not welcome here.”
“Now, I’m Stevie Harris’s father—”
“I knowexactlywho you are and I’ve got a fair idea of what you’ve done, and my boys don’t need you.” Trav poked a sharp finger into Mr. Harris’s sternum. “They”—poke—“don’t”—poke—“need you!”
