Chapter Eighteen

Trevor sat in the diner punishing a bottomless cup of coffee, sketching and writing in an old spiral notebook he'd found in the back of Zach's car. His hands shook a little, and the glossy black Formica of the tabletop was scattered with constellations of white sugar. Only by pressing the heel of his right hand against the table and holding the notebook flat was he able to steady his pen.

Eyes, hands, screaming mouths clawed their way across the page and were lost in the drowning pattern. He could never remember drawing this fast, not since early childhood, when he was desperate to get as many things as possible down on paper because he knew that was the only way he would ever get good at it.

His hand began to cramp, and he banged it against the table in frustration. He hated it when his hand cramped; it was like having his mind go blank. Trevor made himself extend and flex the fingers, stretch the muscles of the palm. He flipped through the pages, saw that Zach had noted things here and there in a nearly illegible handwriting full of flourishes and jagged psycho spikes. A trio of phone numbers for Caspar, Alyssa, and “Mutagenic BBS. ” A bunch of incomprehensible scribblings that looked mostly like this:

DEC=> A

YOU=> info ter

DEC=> all sorts of shit, then A

or “MILNET: WSMR-TAC, NWC-TAC” or “Crap file—> CRYPT Unix< filename. ” A full page of sixteen-digit numbers followed by month/year dates, labeled simply AMEXES. The cryptic notation “118 1/2 Mystery-Near Race Track. ”

Trevor studied these random jottings like hieroglyphics, wondering whether he would know Zach better if he could understand them. But all in all, he concluded, Zach was not driven to record his existence on paper as Trevor was. Only six years younger, Zach belonged to a generation that preferred to leave its mark in other ways: on memory chips, on floppy disks and digitized video, every dream reducible to ones and zeroes, every thought sent racing through fiber-optic filaments a thousandth the thickness of a hair.

He picked up his coffee cup and drained it, heard the china jitter as he set it back down. The saucer was full of cold coffee that had sloshed over the edge of the cup. Trevor signaled the waitress for a refill, turned to a fresh page in the notebook, and began making a list in the small, clear handwriting he had cultivated for lettering comics.

FACTS

It makes things appear. (Hammer, electricity)

It makes us hallucinate. (Bathroom, bed)

THEORIES

It really tore up my story, then put the pieces back together and instantaneously moved them 1000 miles to SB's mailbox.

It made us hallucinate the pieces.

I am completely insane and the mail is a hell of a lot faster than we think.

It can do whatever it wants, and is playing a game with me.

It can only do a few things, and is trying to communicate with me any way it can.

He stared at the list, wondering whether he was wrong to ascribe conscious, willful qualities to an “it” he was afraid to name. What if the house or what was left there had no consciousness, no ability to premeditate its actions? What if the events happening to them were like forces of nature, like a recording he and Zach had somehow gotten trapped in? Trevor thought that might be even worse.

The bell above the door jangled as Zach burst in and crossed the diner in three great bounds, oblivious to the stares he received. He slid in next to Trevor, smelling of sweat and beer and crackling energy. His eyes were bright, his hair wild. “DAMN! ” he said. “I fucking LOVE this! ”

“What? Being a rock star? ”

“YEAH! ”

Trevor started to close the notebook so as not to kill Zach's buzz, but Zach saw the list. “Can I read that? ”

Trevor pushed it over to him. Zach read it quickly, nodding at each item. “What did you hallucinate in bed? ” he asked.

“That I had torn your heart out as we slept. ” So much for not killing his buzz.

“Oh. ” Zach turned those shining jade-colored eyes on Trevor, regarded him for a long moment. “When? This morning? ”

“Yeah. ”

“But then you woke me up wanting to fuck. ”

Trevor shrugged. “Yeah. ”

Zach thought about it, shook his head, started to say something else but stopped. Trevor didn't press him. Zach picked up the coffee cup and inhaled deeply of its aroma, then actually took the tiniest possible sip. Trevor saw a shiver run up Zach's spine, watched his throat work and his dark-fringed lashes flutter as the homeopathic dose of caffeine took effect. He leafed through the notebook and found Trevor's drawings. “Won't the lines on these pages show up when you reproduce them? ”

“I'm not going to reproduce them. These are mine. I don't feel like working on anything else right now. ”

“But, Trev, they're all yours. ”

“I wonder, ” said Trevor, staring at his hands. “I really do wonder. ”

“Well, look, I have to get back. I just wanted to tell you we'll be practicing a couple more hours. You can drive home if you want to-I'll catch a ride with Terry. ” Zach pressed his key ring into Trevor's hand. Not just the keys to his car, Trevor realized, but to most everything this boy possessed in the world.

“Thanks, ” he said.

“No problem. But be careful out there, okay? ” Before sliding back out of the booth, Zach leaned over and planted a warm, none-too-hasty kiss on Trevor's mouth.

“You're so cool, ” he said. “See you soon. ”

Trevor watched him leave, then stared at the key ring as if its worn metal could tell him tales of Zach, then glanced around the diner wondering who had seen them kiss.

In fact, no one had seen it but a neatly dressed, pallid old man sitting in a sunny booth by the door nursing his own cup of coffee. The waitresses called him Mr. Henry. He was a lifelong resident of Missing Mile, and until a few years ago he had lived chastely with his younger sister who taught Bible school. They attended Baptist church services every Wednesday and Sunday. Neither had ever married. Since his sister's massive stroke, which had mercifully killed her on the floor of her own tidy kitchen instead of leaving her to linger in some sterile ward, Mr. Henry had only been waiting to die too and be buried in his own small rectangle of earth beside her.

But that kiss reminded him of a summer's day he had hardly let himself think of in seventy years. A vacation on the Outer Banks... a local boy he had met on the beach, his own age, twelve or thirteen. All day they swam in the vast expanse of ocean, dozed on the soft hot dunes, exchanged their deepest dreams and darkest secrets. Far from the ordinary fare of schools and families, they became what they wanted to be; they were unimaginably exotic to each other.

They were only lying in the sand embracing when his father found them. But his father had been a deacon of the Baptist church, a self-styled Old Testament patriarch who, finding himself trapped in the immoral whirlwind of the early twentieth century, had become a domestic tyrant. His father had beat him so badly he could not walk for five days, could not stand upright for a week. And his father had told him he never deserved to stand upright again, for he was no man.

Mr. Henry had been believing that for seventy years. But seeing the two beautiful boys' lips meet and the tips of their tongues press quickly together reminded him how sweet it had been to. kiss the briny mouth of that golden-skinned creature in the dunes, though he knew if his father had caught them kissing he would have killed them both. Now they could do it in public if they wanted to, with the nonchalance of any young couple in love. He wished he had been born in such a time, or had been brave enough to help make that time come.

Trevor saw the old man staring. He flushed to the roots of his hair and returned to his notebook, scowling fiercely. But as he began to draw again, he could still feel those faded eyes on him. He was sick of this place anyway, with its odor of grease and boiled coffee grounds, with its rotating fans that emitted a loud, steady ratcheting sound but did not cool the air.

He got up, left a generous tip on the table to make sure his cup would be kept full again next time, and gave the old man what he imagined was a polite but sardonic nod as he left the diner. To his surprise, the old man smiled and nodded back.

Trevor thought of driving out Burnt Church Road to the graveyard before he went home, but decided against it. The grave of his family had felt too peaceful, too final when he visited it on Sunday morning. It contained no answers for him, only crumbling bones. The answers were in the house, in its dampness and rot, its twenty-year-old bloodstains and shattered mirrors.

And also perhaps in its strange sylvan sensuality, its lushness of green vines twining through broken windows; in the home it was becoming to him and Zach, more than it had ever been his alone; in the succession of shady days and sweaty nights that seemed as if it would go on forever, though they both knew it could not; even in the galaxies of dust that swirled through late afternoon sunlight like golden notes descending on a saxophone, there in Birdland.

Trevor parked the car at the side of the house, went inside, and got a Coke from the refrigerator. He stood in the kitchen drinking it, looking at Zach's stuff on the table. Zach seemed to have chosen this as his room and insinuated himself here. His Post-its were stuck to the edge of the table like some bizarre yellow fringe. On the refrigerator he had plastered a bumper sticker that read FUCK 'EM IF THEY CAN'T TAKE A JOKE. His laptop computer, surely an expensive machine, sat in plain view as if he trusted the house to protect it from thievery or harm. He thought of Zach breaking into the electric company last night, just skating right in as pretty as he pleased, as if anybody could call up and read the whole town's power bills anytime they wanted to. What a silly kid, Trevor thought. What an amazing genius.

But that reminded him of the kitchen light snapping on, off, on again with no hand near it. And that reminded him of his story. Incident in Birdland. He finished his Coke and walked slowly down the hall, past the bedrooms, into the studio. The light in here was clear, green, pure in a way that only late afternoons in summer can be. He ran his hand over the scarred surface of the drawing table. He stared at the drawings tacked to the wall.

Then, without quite knowing he was going to do it, Trevor thrust out both hands and tore two of them down and started ripping at them. The paper crumbled between his fingers, dry, brittle, helpless. Destroying artwork was a taboo almost as strong to him as murder. The sensation was heady, intoxicating.

“HOW DO YOU LIKE IT? ” he yelled into the empty room. “HOW DO YOU LIKE SEEING YOURSELF TORN APART? DO YOU EVEN CARE ANYMORE? ”

The silence was deafening. The last crumbs of paper sifted from his hands. Trevor suddenly felt very tired.

He went into his bedroom and lay down on the mattress. The light in here was dim, more blue than green, the kudzu so thick it was like having the shades drawn. The rumpled blanket and pillow were permeated with a unique blend of his scent and Zach's, a third scent that had never existed in the world before yesterday morning, a scent part musk, part herb, part salt.

He touched his penis. The skin felt stretched, tender, nearly sore. The things he had done with Zach were like nothing he had ever imagined. He loved the raw physical intimacy of it, the utter sense of connection. He thought about having Zach inside him, wondered if it would hurt and realized that he didn't care, he wanted it anyway.

Hugging the pillow to him, imagining his lover's body linked inextricably with his own, he slept.

At the Sacred Yew, Gumbo was running through the last few songs of their set. As promised, Zach had memorized the lyrics Terry had written down for him, then learned to sing them with R. J. singing along softly to cue him. R. J. 's voice wasn't awful, but it was a flat kid's voice that had never been meant to front a band. Zach decided his own voice had been meant for just that purpose. On the songs he hadn't learned, he made up his own words.

Terry gave his cymbals a final crash and brandished his sticks in the air. “Let's knock it off, ” said R. J. “It's not gonna get any better than that. ”

Zach had shed his T-shirt at some point during the rehearsal. His chest was streaked with sweat and his own grimy fingerprints where he had clawed at himself with one hand while he clutched at the mike stand or gesticulated wildly with the other. He had snarled his hair around his fingers as he sang, pulled at it until it stood out in a hundred directions.

He saw Calvin looking at him and grinned. “What do you think? ”

Calvin's eyes were brazen. “About what? ”

“My highly original vocal style, of course. ”

“Of course. ” The guitarist let his gaze slide from Zach's face to his chest to his midsection, then back up again just as slowly. “I think it's very attractive. ”

“How old are you? ”

“Twenty-three. ”

“Will you buy me a beer and pour it in a cup? ”

“Why, of course I will. ” Calvin grinned evilly. “But only if you buy the next round. ”

“Hell, I'll buy this one. ” Zach pulled a five out of his pocket and held it out to Calvin. “Leave the change for Kinsey. ”

Calvin waved the money away. “My treat. ”

Terry came over to the edge of the stage toweling his hair dry with his bandanna, sucking some kind of throat lozenge. The sharp odor of menthol hung around his head like an invisible cloud. “That was some heavy mind groove, Zach. You're quite a crazed front man. ”

“Thanks. You guys are pretty crazed yourselves. ”

“Yeah, we try. You wanna come over for a shower and a toke? I can drop you off afterward. ”

Calvin came back with two sloshing plastic cups. Their fingers touched damply as he handed Zach one. “Where are y'all going? ”

“To my house, ” Terry told him hoarsely.

“Can I come? ”

“No. Go home and take a nap. I know you were up until dawn eating mushrooms last night. ”

“That's okay. I'm going to eat 'em again tonight. ”

Terry rolled his eyes. “Great. Can you wait until after the show? ”

“Maybe. ” Calvin's gaze sought out Zach's, fairly sparkling with wickedness. “It depends on what's happening after the show. ”

For the first time, Zach felt a spark of annoyance toward Calvin. He was cute as hell, he played a mean guitar, and he obviously entertained a healthy lust for Zach. But he also obviously didn't give a damn about Trevor.

Well, maybe Calvin just hadn't picked up on the fact that they were together. Zach didn't mind the attention or the free beer. Calvin probably meant no harm, and if he did, that was too bad.

But Zach saw no reason to piss off his new bandmate if he didn't have to. Calvin might even have extra mushrooms, Zach thought, and be willing to share or sell some.

And he was awfully cute.

Trevor woke alone in the dark bedroom. For a moment he could not feel the mattress under him, could not even be sure he lay on a solid surface; he might have been spinning in some directionless black void. Then gradually the dim square of the window became visible, and the larger rectangle of the closet. He became conscious of the empty space on the other side of the mattress. Zach hadn't come back yet.

If it was nearly full dark, the time must be well after seven. Trevor wondered where Zach was, what he was doing right now. Was he still at the club, enjoying the cheerful, rowdy company of the other musicians after having spent so many intense hours with Trevor? Was he wishing he had hooked up instead with exotic Calvin, who played the guitar and wore silver charms in his ears, who would not have needed showing how to make love?

What if he has? What if Calvin offered him a ride home, and their eyes met in some perfect understanding that I could never fathom, and halfway here they pulled off the road and Calvin gave him a blowjob in the car? What if it's happening right now? His hands twined in Calvin's bleachy-fine hair, his back arching just like it did for me, his smooth sweet boner fitting as perfectly in Calvin's mouth as it did in mine. What if he never comes back?

Trevor brought his left hand to his lips, sank his teeth into the fold of skin at the wrist. The pain cleared his mind a little, made the paranoid fantasies stop racing faster than he could talk himself out of them. He knew Zach wasn't with Calvin. But he also knew that, under other circumstances, Zach might have been. Irrational as it was, that hurt too.

Faintly he heard a car pulling up outside, a single door slamming. Then Zach's footsteps were crossing the porch, Zach was feeling his way across the dark living room. Trevor heard him bang into something, curse, and stop. “Trev? ” he called uncertainly.

You don't have to answer. You could just leave him standing there, alone in the dark.

STOP IT! he ordered himself. Where in hell had that thought come from? “In here, ” he called.

Light flooded the hall, sliced across the bedroom. Zach came in, sat on the bed and hugged Trevor through the blanket. Trevor rolled over and hugged back. Zach's hair was damp, and he smelled of soap and shampoo and deliciously clean skin.

“You took a shower? ”

“Yeah. At Terry's. He's got a cool bathtub, this big old-fashioned deal up on claw feet. ”

Obscure relief flooded through Trevor as he remembered Terry's claw-footed tub. Trust, he reminded himself. But trust had not been a part of his life for twenty years; it wasn't going to come unconditionally in a couple of days.

Zach's hands strayed beneath the blanket. “I don't have to be back at the club for a couple of hours. ”

“You never slow down, do you? ”

“No, ” Zach admitted, “not if I have a choice. ”

“Could you just come under the covers here and hold me? ”

“No problem. ” Zach kicked off his sneakers, slid out of his clothes, and snuggled in next to Trevor. He draped an arm across Trevor's chest, rested his head on Trevor's shoulder. His body was relaxed and very warm.

“Ohhhh, ” he moaned. “You feel so good. Don't let me fall asleep. ”

“You can if you want to, ” Trevor told him. “I just got done sleeping. I'll wake you up in an hour. ”

“Are you sure? ”

“I've never had trouble keeping awake. ”

“Will you stay here and hold me? ”

“Absolutely. ”

“Mmmm. ” Zach heaved a deep, contented sigh. “I love you, Trev. . . you're the best thing that's ever happened to me. ” He drifted quickly into sleep, and Trevor was left staring into the dark, facing down that thought.

He didn't see how he could be the best thing that had ever happened to anyone, let alone someone like Zach. His life had been starred with disaster. He was probably crazy. He couldn't lean on anyone; he couldn't be strong enough for anyone to lean on. Maybe Trevor McGee could have been, but Trevor Black could not.

Still, Zach had said it. And Trevor didn't think Zach had been telling him lies.

He wondered what would happen if Zach had to leave. Would he want Trevor to go with him? And if he did, could Trevor go? Though he had returned to the house thinking he might die here, he found that he no longer wanted to die at all. But he still hadn't found what he had come looking for. Or had he?

You came back looking for your family. Maybe your mistake was assuming that meant Bobby, Rosena, and Didi. Kinsey and Terry took you in, showed you more kindness than any strangers ever have. And who is this you hold in your arms now, if not family?

I don't want him to go. I really don't.

Then Trevor had a thought that made his heart miss a beat, made the spit in his mouth dry up. That thought was: Maybe Bobby thought Momma was getting ready to leave with me and Didi. And maybe he didn't want us to go, either.

Then why did he leave me alive? Why did he let me go?

Because he knew you were an artist. That's it, somehow. He knew you would come back. Artists always come back to the places that created them and ruined them.

Take Charlie Parker. He could have lived out his middle years in France, where American jazz musicians were treated like royalty, where racial prejudice was almost nonexistent, where the heroin was strong and clean and there were no hassles from the law. But Bird couldn't. He had to fly back to the tawdry lights of Fifty-second Street, to the clubs where he could no longer play, to the great sprawling hungry land that had made his name a legend, but would kill him at thirty-five. He had to come back. He had to see and hear everything. He was an artist.

Okay, he thought, I'm here. But I'll draw what I damn well want to draw. And I won't hurt Zach, not ever again.

As if in response, Zach moaned in his sleep and pushed his face into Trevor's shoulder. Trevor stroked his hair and the smooth curve of his back, wondered what haunted Zach's bad dreams. Was it a heavy grip falling on his shoulder, a set of steel bracelets dragging him away to bloody rape and death in prison? Was it his mother's limpid eyes and cruel tongue, or his father's hands? Or was it something less concrete: an image glimpsed in a mirror, a shadow flickering on a wall?

The night was very quiet. Trevor heard the small secret sounds of the house, the distant thrum of traffic on the highway, the insects shrilling and sawing in the long grass outside. But closer than any of that, as close as his own, he heard Zach's breathing and Zach's heartbeat.

He held Zach tighter and thought about all the things he would not give up.