“Please don’t ask me, Nate. You do, now. I hope that makes our…stuff…easier to understand. I just…I want to keep it mostly my thing. For now. Okay?”
“Is that what Dr. Creighton wants you to do? For your therapy?”
“He thinks it’s important.”
She was lying.
“Okay.” I sighed. I pulled her hand to my lips and kissed her knuckles gently. “I’m glad you told me. It’s…hard to think about. But I’ll leave it alone.”
I was lying, too.
From The Journal Of Nate Charters – Seven
If Carson’s band didn’t have a gig on Friday nights, they practiced in his big converted three-car garage. I usually hung out.
Car and his friends were all, like, twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two or something—all older than me by a few years—but Car was friends with Lina, and I was with Lina, so everybody pretty much took me in.
Lina and Car.
I didn’t really understand how I felt about that. It hurt, a little. It was…weird.
Thing was, Carson Meunetti had never been anything but awesome to me from the moment we met, when he shook my hand and looked me in my crazy eyes and never flinched, never acted like I was anything more unusual than Lina’s (at the time) new boyfriend.
When things got crazy and we hatched our stupid plan to get Byron Teslowski away from maybe being experimented on by Prentice-Cambrian’s flunky scientist Lester Brenhurst, Carson covered for us at no small risk to himself.
The guy was like an older brother to me.
And I had to admit it: no matter how much I looked for it, he never treated Lina like anything more than his best friend. Now that I knew what I knew, somehow, it was obvious to me that I’d never had a thing to worry about.
So, sure, it was a little weird when Car came back with Tim, and the rest of Jesus Horse showed up with their girlfriends and everybody else. But after everybody settled in with their pizza and beer (I got my own pizza, but a while back everyone had come to agree that no one let me drink anything stronger than soda), things almost felt normal.
Lina stuck close by me. I felt a little guilt when she’d hold my hand or touch me; I think I wanted her to be angrier with me over what had happened that afternoon. Maybe she wanted things to feel normal, too.
I tried my best to go along. We went down to the converted three-car garage when practice started, and I hung out there with her as long as I could take the volume. I tried to convince myself life would keep moving forward and we’d work through this stuff.
Except for the fact of some dude out there in the world who had never been punished for almost raping my girlfriend.
The thought of it twisted through my brain like a worm through dirt.
I tried to be cool. I sat there with Lina, earplugs jammed in my ears to protect my inhumanly sensitive hearing, and watched Car, Crystal, Alex, and Tim run through their set.
With every tune, horror movies played in my head. Lina, helpless, while some faceless fucker hovered over her…or Lina, struggling but not strong enough to twist free, the weight of her would-be rapist pressing down…
If I sat through another song, I felt like I would rip out of my own skin. I had to get out.
Even with my ears plugged, the vibrations of the bass guitar and drums always get to be a little much for me, physically. Lina was used to my sensitivity, so when I got up to go back up to the house she didn’t seem to realize I was messed up. She kissed me on the cheek, squeezed my hand, and mouthed “I love you.”
I silently said it back to her and pushed down the urge to cry as I passed through the side door of the garage and around to the front door of the house. What a day, and it wasn’t over yet.
In the house, Katrina Lombaugh and Tammy Akui were sitting at the dining room table drinking Corona beer and playing some card game.
“Hey, little Nate,” drawled Katrina. She raised her beer bottle. “They taking a break?”
“Just me.” I dug the earplugs out of my ears. I could still feel the vibrations of the music through the carpeted floor, but the Cocteau Twins record playing at a reasonable volume in the living room was still a nice break. Elizabeth Fraser’s otherworldly caterwauling was almost soothing.
“Want in?” She indicated an empty chair at the table with a nod of her head.
I shrugged. “I’m just gonna hang out. I’ll watch you guys play.”
Tammy smiled, and her eyebrows went up. Katrina caught the expression and smiled slowly. “Big fun, you betcha.”
I laughed, and sure enough, rather than actually watch them play Go Fish or whatever, I dug around in the bookcase between the dining room and the living room.
“How’d your TV thing go, little Nate?” Katrina shuffled the cards.
“It was awesome.” I groaned with enough exaggeration to convey the opposite.
Tammy said, “That host looks like a child molester.” Her voice was low, her short laugh even lower.
“He smells like shit,” I said.
“Figures.” Katrina, no different from everybody else in that crowd and, hell, might as well face it, everybody else in the country by now, knew the score with my enhanced senses. “Must have been a nice treat for you.”
“Not,” I said.
“The world is asshole-heavy,” Tammy said. She nodded to Katrina. “Gimme three.”
The world is asshole-heavy. Fuck, yeah.
I put down the issue of RE:Search I’d been thumbing through.
“Hey, you guys.”
“Yeppers, little Nate?” Katrina frowned at her cards. “Dealer takes two.”
“Um…you two remember a party at Preston’s, a couple of years ago? Were you guys there?”
I’m a body-language speed-reader; it’s a side-effect of my super-sensitive sensorium. Katrina, she was a smart one; I could see her try to control her reaction. Tammy, on the other hand, didn’t seem to care.
“Whoo! That was a pretty big night!” She laughed.
Katrina glowered at her. “You were still with Ian, right, honey?”
Tammy frowned. “Yes, Katrina. Thanks for mentioning. And you were with that alcoholic guitar player…what was his name, again, honey?”
Katrina’s nostrils flared. “His name is Ernie.”
The two of them exchanged a steady look that I guess signified some kind of truce: no territory gained by either side. Not that I had any clue what had them suddenly so bitchy with each other. There was so much history in this crowd; sometimes I felt like I’d never know everybody’s whole story.
Tonight, though, I was only interested in one little part.
“So, um…yeah…”
Katrina gave me a big-sister smile. “We aren’t gonna tell you about it, little Nate.”
I laughed. “You don’t even know what I’m talking about!”
“Sure we do,” Katrina said. “But you’re not getting anywhere with us.”
Tammy snorted. “Oh, c’mon. Who cares? It was two years ago. Everybody was stupid.”
Katrina pointed at her with a long, elegant finger. “Tammy!”
“What? It’s not like Crystal didn’t give Eric way worse than he tried to do to Lina. That asshole could barely walk when she was done with him!”
Eric.
I had a first name.
Eric. Eric what?
Katrina tossed her cards across the table, not quite at Tammy. “You are such a fucking bitch.”
“It’s cool, Katrina,” I said. “I know what happened. Lina told me.”
Katrina looked dubious. “She did?”
“Yeah. Just not the guy’s name.” I looked at Tammy. “What’s his last name, anyway? This Eric guy?”
Katrina’s second “Tammy…” was thick with warning.
Tammy smiled coldly at Katrina, gave her the finger, and turned to look at me. “His name’s Eric Finn, little Nate.” Katrina’s nickname for me sounded wrong coming from Tammy. I couldn’t tell if she was making fun of me or digging at Katrina for whatever reason.
I didn’t care.
I had a name.
Katrina stood up. She was tall and long, over six feet in her cowboy boots and the silly thrift-store top hat she liked to wear.
“Tammy,” she said with acid sweetness, “will you kindly have a word with me outside for a moment? Cunt?” Tammy’s face darkened.
“Don’t bother, Kat.” She got up, scooped her purse off the floor, and went for the front door. “You are way too hung up, woman. It was two years ago. Everybody’s moved on.”
“That’s not up to you!”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Tammy said at the door. “Get over it!” She left.
Katrina seethed a moment, then looked at me. “Believe it or not, that had nothing to do with you.”
I nodded.
“Sit down.”
I took Tammy’s place at the table. The name of Eric Finn swirled in my head.
“Nate.”
“Katrina.”
“You shouldn’t have asked.”
She didn’t seem mad, just concerned. I was pretty sure Katrina was one of the more fucked-up members of Car’s little tribe, but right then and there, she seemed pretty damn cool to me.
“I…I just had to know.”
“You shouldn’t.” I felt guilty for pushing things, a little, but damn it, I couldn’t handle how the whole thing made me feel so helpless. There was too much of that in my life.
I guess Katrina read that on my face. Or maybe she just thought I was an idiot. She sighed, shook her head, and reached into her coat pocket for her cigarettes.
“Tell you this much, little Nate,” she said. “That was one fucked-up party.”
“Guess so.”
~
Lina drove me home after practice wound down. She pulled into my driveway and turned down the radio.
“You’ve been pretty quiet,” she said. “Tired?”
I was way tired, but I knew she didn’t think that was it.
“Pretty big day,” I said. My smile felt weak.
She squinted at me. “You okay about everything?”
I flashed on my sex-crazed episode. I felt a rush of guilt about pushing to get the name of Eric Finn from Katrina and Tammy. “Are…you?” The reversal was automatic evasion, standard equipment in any teenager’s tool box.
“I’m worried about you,” she said. “This temper thing of yours.”
I looked out the windshield at the headlights on my garage door. On the radio, low, the Clash’s “Red Angel Dragnet” played on KNAC. “Yeah. Well. Hopefully it’s not a thing.”
“Yeah.”
She waited. I knew she was waiting for more.
I closed my eyes, opened them, and said, “Tammy told me who he is.”
“What?” Her voice was loud and sharp in the confines of the car.
“She told me. His name’s Eric Finn.”
Her anger felt like buffeting waves to me. “Why did you ask her? Fuck, Nate, you fucking promised!”
I remembered Katrina, so pissed off that Tammy had spilled the beans. What was it about that night? What was with all the secrecy?
“I just wanted a name.” I realized I was angry with Lina, and for a moment the realization threw me, but then it made sense.
“You promised!”
She was my woman. I’d risked my life for her.
“I think I have a right to know,” I said.
“Isn’t that nice for you.” She looked straight ahead. “Now you know. You have your name.”
“Yep.”
“Better take your precious name and get out,” she said. “I want to go home.”
I didn’t like parting angry. It scared me.
“Lina…”
She looked at me. “Don’t do anything, Nate. You promised.”
Whatever anger I felt was wiped out by the mix of disappointment and pleading I saw on her face. I thought I was right to find out. I did. But I hated the way she looked at me.
“Okay,” I said.
“Good night.” She turned away. Her hand floated over the gear shift, ready to put the car in reverse.
“I…I’ll call you tomorrow?”
“I want to go,” she said again.
I got out of the car. She put it in gear and started moving before I’d even finished shutting the door. At the corner, I saw her stop to reach over, open it, and shut it securely before she took off.
The exhaust filled my sinuses, blocking out the scents of the night and making my head a little light.
Out of nowhere—maybe because things on the ground were not so hot—I remembered that, this very night, Halley’s Comet was as close to the Earth as it was going to get this time around. That would be something.
I looked up at the sky.
It was covered with clouds.
Marc Teslowski – Two
Marc hated what this place had become.
For twenty years, the bar had carried the name of its owner: Grayson. Not “Grayson’s.” When the original sign arrived for inspection, Red Grayson hadn’t noticed the apostrophe and the “s” were missing on the sign until two days after the thing was hung. When some people laughed about it, Red just laughed along with ‘em.
When it came time to replace that sign, Red made sure that apostrophe “s” stayed off. Twice.
Throat cancer took Red about a year and a half ago, and his family sold the place pretty quickly.
To a woman.
Nothing wrong with that in principle, Marc knew. But this was Grayson. It was Marc’s place. Hell, it was the place for a lot of blue-collar types like Marc who wanted to relax and drink where they didn’t have to be too concerned with who they might offend.
Worse, the clientele took a turn for the younger when the woman—Kelsie or Karly or some other horrible, cutesy, sorority-princess name—took over.
Still, Marc had nowhere else to go. He could sit at the bar and drink the same beer Red used to serve and watch sports on the TV hanging in the corner and willfully ignore the shrill, over-loud voices of the kids and their dart games and pinball. He could be alone in this crowd.
At least there wasn’t any live music this Friday night. Even though the jukebox was loud enough to raise Christ, he’d gotten real good at blocking out most of the new-wave shit the punks paid to hear, and every now and then someone would drop a quarter for REO Speedwagon or Loverboy or Pat Benetar or something Marc could appreciate.
Bottom line, even with the kids and the yuppies and the goddamn woman behind the bar when it should be Red Grayson and the name should also be Grayson…
It still beat the shit out of sitting at home.
A man’s home was his castle. Yeah, it was corny, but it was true, too. When Marc was growing up, his pop ruled over his castle, that was for damn sure. Marc had done his best to follow suit, keeping on Byron’s ass and making sure Jeri kept the house up, and if either of them fell short, well, Marc didn’t let that shit slide.
If he did…well, Marc could almost hear the old man’s voice, riding him. It sure as hell wasn’t too difficult to call up any of the times he’d taken the belt to Marc’s ass.
Now, though…with Byron gone, there wasn’t much of a house for Marc to be master of.
He reflected, for the millionth time, that he was running out of things he could control. They’d been pulling responsibilities from him at the distribution center where he worked, little by little, citing “all you’re going through,” but Marc didn’t need their fake kindness. He knew his fight with the Sovereigns was a distraction.
His so-called friends sure thought so. He didn’t even bother calling Vic or Sam or anybody. Over the last eleven months, they’d all gradually gotten too busy to come down to Grayson and have a beer with ol’ Marc.
He knew what that was.
On this barstool, he could at least pretend things were still the way they were supposed to be. In fact, if he stopped coming here, that would be like giving in to the whole fucking mess the last year had been.
On the TV, a promo for the eleven o’clock news played. Marc couldn’t hear what the anchorman was saying.
Then Marc saw his own face, livid, blotched and red, followed a split second later by fucking Nathan Charters growling at him.
Apparently they would be running something about The Azarrio Show on the news that night. Like that was really news.
“Hey! That was you!”
Marc had not registered the presence of the kid on the next barstool. He looked at him now: clean cut, smooth-faced, wearing a light blue suit coat over a pale pink dress shirt. The guy’s tie was loose around his neck.
Fucking yuppie.
The game was back on the TV. Marc focused on it.
The kid yelled cheerfully in Marc’s ear. “You’re that Tekonski guy!”
No escape. Not even here. Not anymore.
“The name,” Marc growled, his eyes on the television, “is Teslowski.”
“Yeah! Teslowski! Dude!” Marc peripherally sensed the kid turning on his stool. “Shane! C’mere!”
Another off-duty day trader fresh out of business school crowded up on the far side of the first guy, who slapped the bar very close to Marc’s hand.
“Check it out! You know who this is?”
Marc said, “I’m trying to watch the game. You mind?”
Shane gawked at him. “Whoa! You’re that Sovereign kid’s dad! Check it out!”
Marc turned to face them both. He stood up.
“My boy is not a Sovereign.”
The yuppies grinned at each other. The first one nodded up at Marc, all casual, baby-practice intimidation.
“Sure, man. Sure.”
They laughed at him.
They.
Laughed at him.
In his place.
It didn’t take a thought. It didn’t take a second. Marc slapped his open palm against the back of the seated kid’s neck and shoved it firmly against the bar. Condensation splashed.
“The fuck?” Shane yelped. The first yuppie flailed. Marc applied pressure.
“My kid,” he said, louder, “is not a fucking Sovereign, you little shit!”
The new owner, Kristy or Karly or what the fuck ever, sauntered over behind the bar.
“Marc,” she said. For a tiny moment, he didn’t understand how in the hell she would know his name. Then he realized how stupid that was. He was on the damn news, all the time. Who didn’t know his name?
The Sovereign Era (Book 2): Pilgrimage Page 5
