The Rise and Fall of the Gallivanters

by M. J. Beaufrand

Evan turned his face away from all of us and sobbed into the back of the chintz sofa. I knew he was crying because of the way his shoulders moved and settled, then moved and settled a little lower. It was like watching him erode.

  I felt a crack start to open between us then. The truth is, I didn’t understand what I was seeing. Ever since Idiot Willy had covered the two of us with a blanket the afternoon my dad shot himself, it never occurred to me that Ev and me were two different people.

  His parents watched their son cry but didn’t move to comfort him. They seemed beyond comforting, and now they could only watch him twist and wreck himself.

  “There are masses on his brain, Noah,” Mrs. Tillstrom said. “They’re affecting him. They need to come out before it spreads even more than it already has. Evan was supposed to have surgery a month ago, but he convinced us to wait until after you found out about the PfefferFest. We should’ve insisted way before this.”

  “It’s not a big deal. Dr. Rolfe said at this point another month shouldn’t make any difference,” Evan said. He’d stopped twitching, but his voice was muffled by overstuffed cushions.

  “Were you and I in the same consultation, Evan?” Dr. Tillstrom said. “Because what I heard was that the masses should come out right away, and then we’d see.”

  There was something the Tillstroms weren’t saying. Masses was just a pretty word covering an ugly thing. Like Mrs. Tillstrom’s fake nails.

  “We got in,” I said, not knowing if I should mention it or not. “We just found out today.”

  Dr. Tillstrom spared me a glance. “Yes, well, the point is moot, now, isn’t it?” he said. “We can’t put off this procedure any longer. You’ll have to pull out or get another bassist.”

  “Another bassist?” I said stupidly.

  Ev heaved harder. I wondered if the idea was just as repulsive to him as it was to me, because honestly, Dr. Tillstrom might as well have suggested removing my left nut.

  Another bassist. Shyeah, right.

  I thought of all the objections I could make to his parents: We were number two on the call sheet, we’d worked so hard . . . but none of them would make any difference. Especially not with Evan’s dad.

  And did I really need to convince them to let us play the PfefferFest? Evan needed surgery. He should have surgery. Period.

  But there was more to it than that. I could see it in the way Ev’s dad looked at labels of pill bottles while Evan cried, and how Mrs. Tillstrom, with the broken blood vessels in her eyes, stared emptily out the window, nothing left of her but her profile, which was all lines and arches.

  There was something else about our reflections too. I could see myself most clearly, since the lights were on in the kitchen behind me. But the reflection seemed to divide itself while I watched, so that it seemed there were two Noahs—a dark outline and another more golden one that was a trick of the light over the stovetop.

  Worse than that, there was no Ev in the reflection. I told myself it was because the back of the sofa was blocking it, but it didn’t make any difference.

  It was like Evan had disappeared.

  The darkness that had snuffed the streetlights earlier tonight was eating him from the inside out.

  “Evan,” I said. “What do you want?”

  “It’s not about what he wants, Noah,” Dr. Tillstrom said. “It’s about what’s best.”

  Mrs. Tillstrom shushed him. “I wanna hear this. Ev, honey, what do you want?”

  And that was when I knew she was on our side.

  Ev peeled his face away from the sofa. It was a red puffy mess, but at least it cast a reflection in the window. “I want to be a rock star.”

  Dr. Tillstrom stood to his full height. His jaw was clenched so tight I could practically hear him grinding the enamel off his teeth. “Evan. Son. You know that isn’t a viable career path.”

  Ev turned away and looked out the window into the black night. “Yes, Dad. That’s what you decided. This is what I really want. I want to be on a stage. I want to play bass. I want to sing backup. I want girls to dig me.” He wiped his nose on the back of his hand. “That last part could be a problem.”

  Mrs. Tillstrom said, “Evan, honey, I’ve told you a million times: It won’t be a problem for the right girl. Someone will recognize your good qualities and want to be with you no matter what. And they would be lucky to have you.”

  “The PfefferFest is tomorrow,” I said. “I know somebody died there, but we’ve worked hard, and Evan’s good. He’s really good. Will a few more days really make a difference?”

  Evan’s dad sighed. His jaw relaxed. “Are you sure this is what you want?” he said to Ev. “Because you’re playing chicken with your life. You know that.”

  “Duh, it’s what I want. I’ve been trying to tell you for months.”

  Dr. Tillstrom found the pills he was looking for and shook some out into his fist. There were a lot of them.

  “Here,” he said to Evan. “They won’t help in the long run, but they’ll hold you through the weekend.” He turned as if he were leaving, then slouched and turned around.

  “You haven’t been here, son,” he said. It was an accusation. And Dr. Tillstrom never accused anyone of anything. “You’ve been out with Noah every night. I was hoping that we could at least have dinner together as a family.”

  “Why, Dad? So you can say nothing other than ‘Pass the lasagna’?”

  “No, Evan. I’ve stored up a lot of things I want to say.” He took a deep breath. “I don’t like your hair. I don’t know why you damaged it in that way. I don’t like your low scores on your SATs, because that’s just laziness. I know you’re smarter than that. I hate it that you stopped playing basketball, because I think you could’ve had a great college career before you became a doctor or a lawyer.

  “But this thing with the PfefferBrau Haus? You’re seeing it through to the end. And I’m proud of you for that. But then again, I would’ve been proud of you no matter what. I love you, Evan.”

  I saw the look in his eyes as he planted a wet smooch on Ev’s forehead, and I knew, somehow, that that kiss was about more than just love. It was a blessing, and a letting go.

  “All right. You’ve got until the PfefferFest. No more. Do you hear me?” he said, closing his medicine bag. “Then you agree to everything else. Not just the operation, but the treatments. Every single one. If they say to report to oncology twice a week, you’re there twice a week, whether or not you’re puking your guts out. Do I make myself understood?”

  “PfefferFest,” Ev agreed. “Then operation. Then puking. Got it.” He leaned back in his pillow.

  Mrs. Tillstrom got up from the recliner. “I take back all the rotten things I’ve ever thought about you, Noah,” she said, pinching my cheek like I was two years old. “You’re a good friend. Come on, Harald. Let’s give these two some room. It’s about time our son told Noah why he thinks it’ll be so hard to get girls.”

  They left. I heard the hallway light click off and the bedroom door close gently, but I knew they weren’t sleeping.

  Evan closed his eyes. He wasn’t crying anymore, but he wasn’t talking either. Part of him must’ve hoped that I would go away and leave him in this glass house at the top of a hill where he could pretend, for just one more night, that the whole world lay at his feet.

  But here was the problem: No way was I leaving.

  I went into the kitchen, checked the cereal cupboard, and found the Smurfberry Crunch. I poured some nuggets into a salad bowl and put it on the coffee table.

  Ev still didn’t look at me. So I crunched down on a few neon-blue pellets. Nothing. I tried tempting him with a Fresca. I found a six-pack of them in the fridge and popped open two. I sat on the coffee table and gripped his hand as though he might drift off and it was up to me to anchor him there.

  How could I not have felt it before? His hands were different from mine. They had calluses in different places. And now that I looked at him real close, I realized that a lot of things abou
t Evan were different. The hair, for example. And underneath that, his damaged head that needed pieces scooped out, like a cantaloupe.

  Now, see, this is what Mrs. Frizzell in senior English would call irony. I’d always thought Evan and I were the same. Once I admitted we were different people with different needs and wants, I mutated into a better friend.

  “Noah,” Ev whispered, and even though his voice was quiet, it was commanding.

  I leaned forward.

  “You know how you always say you’d give your left nut for something?”

  I THOUGHT THE MARR HAD GOTTEN TO EV through his shark bite—that long diagonal scar along his rib cage.

  It turns out I was wrong. He stood up and dropped trou.

  Ev had no left nut.

  It took me a while to figure out what I was supposed to be looking at. I mean, I didn’t want to stare at his dick or anything. Then I understood what I was seeing. This wasn’t about his dick—it was about his balls.

  At first I wanted to heft his equipment and touch that emptiness. I held back.

  “Jesus. Did your mom and dad have you fixed or something?”

  “I knew you wouldn’t understand.”

  He pulled his pants back up and collapsed on the sofa, turning his head away from me.

  After what we’d been through together, how could he think I wouldn’t understand? We both knew there was more to us than what you could see and what they called us in high school. This kid had helped me bury a deer—and that was only one item in the long playlist of our lives.

  “Evan,” I said. “Look at my face.”

  For a long time he didn’t move. Then he turned over. “What.”

  I pointed to the scar on my nose. “I know what pain is,” I said.

  Ev snorted. “Not like this. You don’t even know the meaning of the word “pain” until your testicle swells to the size of a cantaloupe.”

  “A cantaloupe? Seriously? How could I not have seen that?”

  “You didn’t look,” he spat at me, and turned away again.

  I deserved that.

  Evan backed off. “It’s not your fault, Noah. Nobody knew. I was real careful about it. I always went behind the shower curtains in the locker room to change. Then Mom saw me naked one day, freaked out and told Dad, who took a look and told me it was ‘concerning.’”

  “That’s when you had your operation,” I said, remembering. The one that was not an appendectomy but a ball-ectomy. I didn’t even know what to call those. “You could’ve told me the truth.”

  He snorted. “No offense, man. I think of you like a brother and everything, but you’re not exactly the most stable person in the world.”

  Something came up to me through the soles of my feet. I felt infected with courage.

  “Ev,” I said. “I’m here now, aren’t I?”

  He chewed on his lower lip, which was wobbling like a bowling pin. I thought he might bawl again, but he was cried out. For now.

  “It’s been so hard, Noah. First they told me I’d be sterile. They made me jerk off into a cup. They said they’d freeze the sperm and if I ever wanted children, they’d have to impregnate a girl with a turkey baster. And that’s when I knew I wouldn’t be going to the prom.”

  “But you hate the prom. You said it was uncool and a waste of money.”

  He shook his head. “It’s not about the prom, Noah. It’s about girls. Can you think of any of them who’d put up with this?” He grabbed at his equipment.

  “Why? Does everything still work?”

  “You mean can I still get it up? Yeah. That’s what the doctors say. But honestly, the idea of any girl getting close enough for me to try freaks me boneless. And now they’re going to open up my head. Bald and neutered. Like some ancient, smelly cocker spaniel.”

  Sonia had one of those. Evan was nothing like that idiot dog.

  “It wasn’t supposed to spread,” he went on. “That’s what the doctors said. That’s how I got my shark bite. They took a sample of lymph nodes and said I was clean, that I didn’t need chemo. But they were wrong. It’s metastasized. Now it’s everywhere. The worst is in my head. So they have to take a buzz saw to my skull and scoop my brains out with a melon baller.”

  Ev was afraid. But Ziggy said that fear was the worst part of the Marr. Fear, I could help with.

  “What rhymes with melon baller,” I said.

  “Taller,” Ev suggested. He was starting to relax.

  “Holler,” I added.

  “Even better.”

  I hummed the tune I’d been tinkering with earlier— the one that sounded like strength to me.

  Scoop my brains with a melon baller

  Make me scream

  Make me holler

  But you can’t change who I am

  I saw a ghost of a smile cross Evan’s lips. “That’s not bad, Noah,” he said.

  This time, when he turned away from me, I knew he wasn’t gone. He was just resting.

  For now.

  I DIDN’T GO STRAIGHT HOME THAT NIGHT. I went back to northwest Portland and parked Ginny by the brewery.

  Even after Ev told me what was really going on, and how tomorrow was his last chance to do what he wanted, it was more important than ever that I do everything I could to keep my friends safe.

  I still didn’t know exactly what the Marr was. I only knew what Ziggy told me. Have to cut the Marr off at the source, he said. Have to do it with music, he said. Has to be you.

  I also knew Jurgen Pfeffer was a twisted sleazeball and he’d imported something evil and toxic from the dark forests of Germany, and we all knew what happened to kids in German tales when they went up against pure evil, didn’t we?

  • • •

  I paced all four of the brewery blocks, looking for a way in to kill that evil thing so the music could go on but the poison would stop. No one else needed to disappear.

  All around were garlands, graphics of hops, banners of guys in lederhosen clacking steins. Everywhere the cosmetic message: We’re harmless. Come in and have a good time.

  Little Pfeffer came and went, wearing giant rubber boots, his blond hair ruffled. That guy had bigger muscles since I’d last seen him. He was the size of a city block himself.

  I shadowed him for a while, but he was careful to lock doors behind him. Tending his hardware, no doubt. I wondered if he knew what his brother was up to, or if he thought he was just crafting a really good beer.

  When the sun came up that Saturday morning, I’d given up. The PfefferBrau Haus was locked down tight.

  There was nothing I could do but play our set and hope Ziggy was right, that hitting it with the best set we could play would make the Marr slink back to the depths of the Bavarian forests from which it came.

  All the same, a loop kept playing through my head: Noah, awake! Who do you want to kill?

  By now it had become obvious to me that I wasn’t the angel of the story.

  I was the hit man.

  • • •

  There was no point going back to Gresham, so I let myself into the Maxi Pad, called Cilla and Idiot Willy, then opened the store as though it were any other day. Jojo was already up. “I’m too excited, man. You guys are gonna sound awesome.”

  Everyone else came in not long after in Jaime’s car, too hyped to do anything but pound stuff. Ev didn’t even grimace as Sonia gave the hi-hat an extra-loud thwang when Jojo and Crock loaded it into the van. Those pills Dr. Tillstrom gave Evan by the handful? They may not have been helping him long-term, but they seemed to keep the headaches down.

  Before we knew it, it was 4:00 P.M. The PfefferFest had started at noon, but we weren’t there. We were still at Jojo’s, folding flyers for the girls to hand out downstairs.

  I looked at my clock again. Cilla was still nowhere to be seen.

  This was going to backfire on me big time. As number two on the call list, we were forbidden to arrive or unload until 6:00, which left Cilla only two hours, if she arrived now, to work her magic.


  When Sonia wasn’t drumming every surface with her thumbs, her leg was so twitchy it looked like she was having a seizure. I got dizzy watching her try to hold still. It was like looking at an earthquake.

  So the Old Girls went downstairs to hand out flyers to the teenyboppers who came through (“Live! At the PfefferBrau Haus! The Gallivanters explode the night!”) and to take out their twitches on the glass cases of bumper stickers and rock buttons, ninety-five cents apiece. Jojo’s Records was a big stop to and from the brewery. Jojo, with uncanny business sense, had preordered extra buttons that read “Totally Tubular” and “Gag Me with a Spoon.”

  Which left Ev and me upstairs, making up more goldenrod flyers. I don’t know why the copy shop couldn’t just call it yellow. Goldenrod had seemed like a good idea at the time, but honestly, now it looked like a tropical disease.

  There was no sign of Ziggy yet, but I didn’t think there would be. He never appeared until it was time to sing.

  Crock shuttled back and forth to the brewery to keep an eye on how the other bands were doing. But he knew who I was really worried about. And it wasn’t other bands, many of whom, Crock told us, hadn’t figured out that “power ballad” was an oxymoron.

  “They’re so bad they’re painful,” he said. “There was this one singer in a mullet who kept barking ‘Sheila’ over and over again. That’s it. He was trying to be all sincere, but he just looked constipated.”

  Crock had taken to perfuming himself these days, and he was sporting so much Polo for Men I didn’t need a spoon to help me gag.

  “Yeah yeah,” I said. “What about Pfeffer?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t know what you’re getting so worked up about, Noah,” he said. “He hasn’t gone anywhere. He stands at the entrance and squeezes the hands of pretty girls. Looking deep into their eyes. ‘I’m so glad you came.’ I may be sick.” He made noises like he was hawking up a fur ball.

  “Crock is right. Picking up girls doesn’t make him a psychopath,” Ev said. He, out of all of us, seemed least jittery. But then again, he was heavily medicated.

  I couldn’t help it: I did worry about Pfeffer. He was evil. I didn’t want him anywhere near the Old Girls. I figured he would try to make a move on Sonia, because she looked like Tracy del Campo. And what was worse, she might fall for it. He was sophisticated. He knew how to say the right things. That was why I wanted to make sure someone was watching her every second we weren’t onstage.