“We’ll find someone. How’s the kid’s pipes?” Palo asked, looking into the studio where Delicious still played.
“Not horrible,” Chris smirked. “Kind of punk brat, but he’s got some glam in him that I think he’s just waiting for an excuse to explore.”
“Just think about it, okay?” Palo said. He then tipped his Heineken straight up in the air. He took in long gulps without lowering it. Chris and Cliff watched him, mystified as beer trickled from his mouth while he snorted through his nose and beer drizzled out. He finished off the beer with a rumbling, guttural belch.
“All right,” Palo gasped with shiny and glazed eyes. He wiped his mouth and sat the bottle on a speaker. “I’m going home. What time do you want us back here?”
“I’ll call you,” Chris said, grabbing the Heineken bottle and dropping it in the trash like a dutiful maid. “Go home, Delicious!”
“Right on,” Delicious called back, sitting the guitar in a stand and then jogging into the control room.
“What are you up to tonight?” Cliff asked, as the three shuffled out of the studio.
“Why?” Delicious asked with gleeful expectation.
Chris followed them to the door, closing and locking it behind them. Chris grabbed his phone off the mixing console and flipped it open. He found the “Home” number and called, hoping Keith was up already.
“Yeah,” Keith’s voice crackled over the line.
“I’m going to just sleep up here, don’t wait on me for breakfast.”
“Are you guys just now finishing?” he asked, with a sympathetic chirp.
“Yeah, it didn’t go that well. We more gave up than wrapped up.”
“I’m sorry, baby.”
“Well,” Chris yawned. “I’ve got to get some sleep.”
“Do you want me to come out tonight?”
“No,” Chris said sternly. “I don’t trust these people, and I don’t want you anywhere close to this.”
“Okay,” he replied, as the yawn traveled over the phone line.
Chris closed the phone, but it buzzed as a call came in. Chris looked at the number, but didn’t recognize it. His first instinct was to ignore it, but it could have been Billy.
“Hello?”
“Come get me,” Jim’s brittle voice answered.
The line cut off, and Chris closed the phone.
“Fuck,” he mumbled.
******
Chris was surprised that the looming wooden tower was not nearly as intimidating in the sunlight. He hadn’t been there for years, and that was always at night when they were teenagers looking for a place to drink.
The bright morning sun burned from behind it through cracks and missing planks. Instead of haunting as he remembered it, the tower was merely docile and rustic.
Chris flipped open his glove box and pulled out a small evergreen tree car deodorizer. He unwrapped it and hung it from the rearview mirror and wondered if he was supposed to scratch it to get it to activate. He doubted it would be enough. This was officially Keith’s Cadillac, and Chris had gone back home to get it. The champagne-colored car was Keith’s baby, and Chris had to sneak it out of the garage while Keith was running. Chris’s roadster wasn’t big enough.
The last time he’d been near Jim, he looked and smelled like he hadn’t washed for years and was purposely cultivating the vilest smells on his body. Even before Jim started talking about the end of the world and forming his weird cult, Jim still had an urge to repel people even when he drew them close. That’s what made him such a good front man.
The car hummed restlessly as it idled. Chris wondered if he was supposed to retrieve Jim, or just wait for him outside. He honked the horn again, then shuffled through a pile of CDs on his passenger side seat, rummaging through burned demos that bands had sent him hoping to secure Chris as a producer. He didn’t feel like listening to music, but he didn’t want to stew in silence. He found a demo for a local musician’s side project. The original band was interesting, though Chris couldn’t remember its name—some random collection of words. He lifted up the CD case and opened it.
The car door opened and Chris jerked from surprise. The disc fumbled in his fingers and fell to the floorboard. Chris glanced back as someone lowered into the backseat, their head covered by a blanket. The other back door opened and a young woman in only a bra and jeans sat down. Chris recognized the Jim Jacobs tattoo on her neck, and of course, the stub where her hand should have been.
“Hello again, Misty,” Chris said to the girl. She replied with only a sneering smile.
The passenger door opened and Will Weinke began to sit down. He paused, picked up all the CDs out of the seat, and then sat down.
“You okay, Jim?” Will called into the backseat.
“Yes, thank you,” Jim replied, from under the blanket. His voice was a strained breath, like a dying man pushing out his final word. “Go.”
“Where?” Chris asked, then wincing when the moldy, chemical smell of Jim’s body odor hit him.
“Go,” Jim mumbled. “We need to talk.”
Chris shrugged, looked past the half-naked woman to Will, who frowned and then motioned Chris to drive.
Chris turned the car around in the field, sending swarms of insects fluttering in out of the overgrown grass. Chris worried about the shocks as he seemed to hit every crevice and bump in the path, not to mention how bad Keith’s beloved leather upholstery was going to smell.
“So, where’s the big guy with the dress and the ridiculous goatee?” Chris asked.
“In Norman. He is helping them prepare for the concert,” Jim said.
“I see, what a shame.”
Chris eased the car onto the county road, and then Chris turned right only because it led back to Norman. He assumed they’d be heading for the cult’s compound in the woods. He’d never been there, but had a vague idea of where it was.
“Where are you going?” Jim asked. Chris could hear the blanket pulled off of Jim, but Chris refused to look around. He didn’t know if he could stomach looking at Jim again.
“I don’t know, where am I going?”
“Just keep driving around in circles,” Jim mumbled, which broke into dry, whistling coughs.
“Are you okay?” Chris asked.
“He’s fine,” Misty snapped.
Chris gritted his teeth and cracked his window, hoping to let in some fresh air, maybe circulate the artificial pine scent as the deodorizer flipped and twisted around in the breeze.
Keith would take one sniff of the car and make Chris buy him a new one.
Jim didn’t say anything, so Chris opened the window a bit more, then left it. The car sped down the country road, approaching Flood Street, which led to Norman.
“I’m going to turn here,” Chris said. “I want to head back to town and get something to eat.”
“No one can see Jim,” Will growled.
Will’s severe tone surprised Chris. He’d known Will for over a decade, and never heard Will raise his voice to anyone. Chris began to get nervous. He still turned at Flood.
“We were practicing all night, Jim,” Chris said. “I don’t think we’ll be ready. Plus we haven’t heard from Billy.”
“Billy?” Jim coughed.
“Yeah,” Chris replied. “He just disappeared, no one knows where he’s at.”
Jim grunted weakly. Chris continued south toward Norman.
“We can’t go into town,” Will instructed.
“Well, where can we go, then?” Chris snapped. “I’m not going to just wander around the countryside all day. We’ve got to go somewhere. I’ve been up all night and I’m hungry.”
“Take us to your house,” Jim said.
“No.”
“Why not?” Will asked, his voice rising.
“I don’t live alone, my boyfriend lives with me,” Chris said, then felt guilty calling Keith a boyfriend instead of his husband. It was just simpler to call him a boyfriend.
“It’ll be okay,” Jim
murmured. He leaned forward to grasp Chris’ shoulder. “You can trust me.”
Chris gripped the steering wheel tight and mulled it over. He glanced in the rearview to see Jim. He was whispering into Misty’s ear. The top of Jim’s ear was cut off and his hair had been shaved, or torn out, near the base of his skull. Scars snaked all over his face and neck.
“Okay,” Chris sighed. “You’re going to have to take a shower though.”
“What?” Misty growled.
“And the girl’s going to need a shirt,” Chris replied. “If you’re all going to my house, I don’t want you making it smell like a homeless shelter. You’re going to clean up and I’ll give you some new clothes.”
Chris braced himself, not knowing if he was about to be cut, or hit. He caught the woman’s glare from the rearview mirror and sensed Will shifting uncomfortably.
“Okay,” Jim relented.
******
The silence was familiar to Chris. After all these years, the silence made Keith’s reaction as obvious over the phone as it would be if they were staring at each other face to face.
“Honey?” Chris ventured, glancing over at Will. They wound through Chris’s neighborhood of neatly trimmed lawns, sprawling mini-mansions and early morning joggers. They were close to his house.
“I’m not going anywhere,” Keith said, his voice thin and sharp.
“Please.”
“No,” Keith replied. “I can’t believe you’re doing this.”
“Me, either.”
“I’ll be here waiting for you,” Keith snapped, and then hung up. Chris closed the phone and dropped it in the drink holder.
“Everything okay?” Jim asked, then cleared his throat.
“Not really.”
“I really appreciate this, Chris; you’ve always been a good friend,” Jim said.
Chris was disgusted by how much he still craved Jim’s approval.
“These are nice houses,” Misty said, with a sharp tinge of sarcasm.
They were nice houses, though. Chris acted like he hated the neighborhood but secretly loved how cozy it was. Kids played outside all day long, there was hardly any traffic and no one knew or cared about Shropshire Plaid. The neighbors at least pretended to be okay with a gay couple next door and even encouraged them to look into adoption and suggested good private schools for toddlers.
Though he couldn’t see Jim, he knew there was surely a dismissive frown on Jim’s face. Chris was disgusted by how much it hurt when he disappointed Jim.
The car pulled into the driveway and Jim snorted as they passed the black, cast-iron mailbox with swirling designs of pineapples and grapes. Chris didn’t like it either, but Keith’s brother, made it.
Keith stood by the garage in a blue bathrobe and slippers, his arms folded while he stewed.
“Dammit Jim,” Chris thought.
******
The day’s newspaper was just a mess of words and images. Keith’s attention was diverted to the bathroom where Jim was soaking in the tub. Chris stood outside the bathroom reading the “Arts” section, but Keith could tell he was worried about the concert tonight. It was going to be an embarrassment and possibly destroy Chris’s career. Keith resented and pitied Chris.
The bowl of Wheaties slowly turned to light brown mush. Keith spooned up a big lump of the soggy flakes and swallowed them down with minimal chewing. Keith tried to make it through the news—something about Palestine, something else about a bond election—but couldn’t read much more than the headline before his mind wandered.
“Hey,” Misty’s voice called from the bathroom.
Chris opened the door and stepped in. Keith slipped off his bar stool, grabbed his coffee mug and walked toward the open door.
“Are you sure you don’t want a shirt?” Chris asked. Keith looked into the bathroom and saw the woman was now without her bra, but still wore the filthy blue jeans.
“What’s a matter?” she purred, spinning around to show her pale and deflated breasts. Keith tried to not look at the scarred stub. “You got a problem with the female form?”
“Just thought you’d be cold,” Chris replied.
Keith glanced around the bathroom, surveying the items and the tile. Nothing missing, broken or stained. Jim’s clothes were piled up just inside the bathroom. Keith frowned at them, as he would at a pile of shit left on the carpet by their dogs.
Jim sat bent over in the tub like a child, squeezing the water in his remaining fist and watching it shoot up into the air and back into the tub. Flakes of dirt and grime floated on the top of the water and collected on the sides.
His body was thin and bony, and long scars ran up the side of his abdomen. His scarred stump was red and probably infected. Another deep, scabbed gash ran just above his heart. There was a circular scar on his throat and then a long scar running from the base of his neck, up his chin and along his right cheek, with smaller scars webbing out from it. The large scar writhed when he breathed. His face was still round and childlike, but his nose had been broken and was angled slightly to the left.
The last time Chris saw Jim, Jim had a tall and garish mohawk. His hair was now too short on top for the liberty spikes, the sides were still shaved, but jagged as if he had tried to do it himself without a mirror.
Misty sat down on the tub and ran her hand along Jim’s shoulders as he continued to shoot water.
“I do feel better,” Jim mumbled, his voice slightly stronger, but still hoarse.
“Jim, do you mind if I throw away your clothes?” Chris asked.
“Baby,” Jim called, arching his head to look up at Misty. “Can you be a doll and do that for Chris?”
“Sure,” she replied, leaning down and kissing Jim’s nose. She stood up and picked up the clothes.
“Trash bags are under the kitchen sink,” Keith said, but Misty walked out without responding.
Dirt was scattered on the floor where Jim’s clothes had been, so Keith walked around Chris, pulled off some toilet paper from a roll and scooped up the dirt. Keith dropped the toilet paper into the toilet and flushed it down.
“Chris?” Jim asked.
“Yeah.”
“Sit down, please,” Jim said. “Can you give us a moment, Keith?”
“No, I can’t.”
Chris grimaced, glanced over at him and Keith shot back a defiant arch of the eyebrow.
“That’s okay,” Jim said as he sat up in the tub and leaned against the side.
“You’re ashamed of me, aren’t you, Chris?” Jim asked.
Keith felt uncomfortable and wanted to leave, but also didn’t want to leave the two of them alone. Keith watched Jim’s snake scar writhe.
“Jim …” Chris began, but stopped as footsteps approached. Misty walked in, saw she’d walked into a conversation, and then stared at Chris skeptically.
“Can you give us a moment?” Keith asked her.
Misty continued to look Keith over for a few moments, and then bit her lip.
“Why don’t you go entertain Will,” Jim suggested pleasantly. “I’m worried that he’s wearing down and could use the pick up.”
“All right,” Misty said slowly.
Keith then realized that the woman was there to watch Jim, not to take care of him.
“Wait a moment,” Jim called. “Come back in here.”
Misty slid back into the doorway.
“Take off your pants and throw them away before you sit on their couch,” Jim said.
“Okay,” the girl grinned. She worked clumsily on the button-fly jeans with her right hand while her stub pressed helplessly against the denim.
“Do you need help?” Jim asked. “Chris, could you help her?”
Misty walked up to Chris. She jutted her waist out at him and slid her hand over Chris’s ear. Keith glared at her, and Chris quickly unsnapped the pants.
“I think I’m gonna need some more help pulling them off,” Misty whispered into Chris’s ear.
“Figure it out on your own,
bitch!” Keith snapped.
The woman shrugged and tugged them down. They fell to the floor and she slipped her feet out. Jim sat up in the tub and leaned close to Chris.
“Look her over,” Jim whispered.
Chris directed his eyes at her, passing over her body and stopping at the stump. Chris admitted that with two good hands and another ten pounds on her, she would have been attractive. She turned around and held her arms up over her head. Keith was so jealous, he felt nauseous.
“Thank you,” Jim grinned as he leaned back in the tub. “Now, go find Will.”
“Okay,” Misty said, turning back to study Chris. Chris looked away, and she laughed to herself before disappearing out of the bathroom.
“Willy Wonka!” she called. “Come on and let’s fuck in their bed!”
“Jesus Christ, Jim!” Chris growled. He stood up to pursue the woman and Keith started to follow.
“She’s kidding, Chris. She’s not allowed to have sex with anyone but me.”
Chris and Keith exchanged glances. Jim smiled and the snake scar sighed.
“Close the door,” Jim said. “We need to talk. You can stay if you’d like Keith.”
Keith tried to get Chris to look at him, but instead he sat back down. Keith closed the bathroom door and sat on the toilet seat.
“What did you think of her?” Jim asked.
“Don’t ask me that.”
Jim chuckled.
“She is one of my … companions,” Jim said. “I have several of them. Misty usually stays with one of my Lions in Oklahoma City, but she showed up yesterday afternoon. They are devoted to me, but I get the feeling that Misty is hiding something.”
“Why don’t you get rid of her?” Keith suggested.
“Maybe I will. What do you think of her, Chris?”
“Chris is gay,” Keith snapped.
“Oh, I know, I know,” Jim mumbled.
“Why cut off your hands?” Chris asked.
Jim splashed water around in the tub, trying to get strands of hair to float to the other side.
“Well, that’s a sacrifice,” Jim said. “We do it to keep the anomaly from growing.”
“Ah.”
Jim seemed to expect more of a response, and waited for it. Chris refused to answer, and Keith was relieved.
The Dominant Hand Page 21
