Chapter 3

"They're dead, kid."

"What?"

He juts his chin at the sky. "The stars."

He clasps my shoulder, crouching down, and points a finger roughly up at the heavens. Something sickly sweet and bitter hits my nose when the breath puffs out of him like smoke, and I wrinkle it, craning my head back. He doesn't seem to notice. Or he doesn't care.

"Those twinklin' lights?" I follow his gloved finger. "That's from billions and billions of years ago. They're so bright, because what you're seeing is them exploding. Dying. We're so far away, it's only reachin' us now. We're just seeing the…echo." He nods, barking a short laugh like what he's saying is a joke.

I blink a couple times, not understanding. "But…"

"But what?"

"Momma said?—"

He snorts, and I get another big sniff of his breath. I hunch my shoulders, trying to lean away, but he won't let me. I don't like it when he smells like this, and he's been smellin' like this a lot. It's sour and sweet, like the rusty spots on his truck that always makes my fingers smell funny after I scratch at it.

And it makes him…weird.

I don't know how to explain it.

I just don't wanna be here.

I want my real dad, the one who smells like smoke and beer and gasoline, and doesn't joke about sad things.

"Mason… your momma… she's got a good heart," he tells me, his words hitching and running together, "but I'd be careful about… listenin' to her." He wags a finger in my face, then burps. "She don't know shit."

My frown deepens.

"Come on…" he says, steering me back toward the house. "It's cold as fuck out here."

I look over my shoulder, staring up at the glittering lights in the sky. It's started to snow—big, fat flakes floating down. And I hear Momma's voice in my head from so long ago, I can't even remember when it was she told me. Last summer maybe?

"The stars are angels," she'd said, fingers running through my hair as she pointed up at the twinklin' sky. "It's why we make wishes on them. God sent them to light up the scary dark, and watch over us, hear our prayers, our dreams…"

Later on, as I lay in my bed, headphones covering my ears, my new CD Momma got me for my birthday playing—Pearl Jam, the band's called—my night light projector painting blue galaxies across my ceiling and walls, all I can think is?—

If the stars are dead…

Where are the angels?

AGE 6, AUGUST

We moveto a place called Shiloh, like the beagle in the movies.

I always wanted one. I used to ask the stars—the angels—but that was before I found out the truth. I don't tell them or ask them for anything now.

Pennsylvania looks about the same as New York—not like the city where we visited last Christmas, but more like where we lived, just outside of Buffalo, with trees and fields and winding back roads. And cold, snowy winters that would bury us in our house.

I wasn't happy about this—the move. I'm not happy about a lot of things these days.

But according to the pictures on the map Momma showed me, Pennsylvania is right next to New York. Where we live now, and where we lived there, not even a whole ruler away from each other.

Good, I remember thinking. Dad won't have to look too far to find us when he comes for me.

Momma still won't call him, even though it's been over a month since that rainy day he drove away.

I hear her crying sometimes, late at night when I'm s'pposed to be sleeping. One time, I crept down the hallway and peeked into the kitchen to find her sitting at the table with a bunch of open mail. She was on the phone, fingers rubbing the curly-cue cord between her fingers.

"That asshole. That fucking asshole," she was saying.

Bad words. Grown up words.

With one eye poking out from behind the wall, I watched the way her back rose and fell as she broke into sobs.

She was nodding and nodding, and eventually there was a sniffle, and a long sigh. To whoever she was speaking to on the phone, she said, "Yeah, I know. Nothing I can do about it now. I think it'll be good for both of us. I'm just surprised they left it for me. You know I never wanted to leave Shiloh…but my parents… Yeah, I know. God, how could I've been so stupid for so lon?—"

Her voice had cut out, like maybe whoever she was talking to cut her off.

She laughed, and it was a wet, sad, crackled thing. "Thanks, Linda. I'm sorry I didn't— I know, I know, but I should've—" She sighed again. "Thank you."

And I remember thinking how young she sounded in that moment. Like she wasn't just my Momma anymore, but someone who needed takin' care of. Just like Dad said.

It made me forget how mad I was.

"Are you gonna die?" I'd asked her later, after she caught me sneaking back into bed.

She didn't yell at me for eavesdroppin'. She just tugged on my hand with her much bigger one, and had me sit next to her on top of my rumpled Avengers sheets, holding my hand in both of hers in her lap.

Shaking her head, she said, "What? No. Why would you think that?"

"Dad…he said you couldn't survive without him."

Her eyes got big and round at that, and she was shaking her head. "No, kid, no. We're gonna be just fine without him. Both of us. I promise you."

The next day she told me we were moving.

Now, Momma's pulling our car down a long gravel driveway toward a big white house with green shutters and weeds growing all around it. It's finally stopped raining.

Our new house is so much bigger than our house in New York. And there are no wheels or cinder blocks. No blue tarp covering the corner of the roof where the rain would come in through the kitchen sometimes.

Behind it, over the trees, I can make out the tall, concrete train bridge we'd passed under earlier. Fog hovers around it, slipping through the arches like smoke.

Momma told me it was famous—the biggest of its kind in the world.

I told her it looked haunted, and she laughed, a twinkling, magical thing, sounding lighter than I"d ever heard her.

It made her look real pretty, prettier than she ever looked.

I was bummed Dad was missing it.

That's when I remembered—again—that I was still mad at her.

"He's not coming back, Mason!" Momma finally snaps.

"He is too!" I scream back, my voice bouncing off the empty walls and corners of my bedroom.

"He's not," she says slowly, eyes pinched at the corners.

"You lie! You lie, you lie?—"

She wraps her arms around me, shushing me.

Boxes packed up with my belongings surround us—my Avengers poster, rolled up along with my other posters. My comic books. My action figures I kept hidden in my closet. My clothes. My CDs. My PlayStation Dad bought me last year after having to cancel on our father son campin' trip with my friend Kyle and Jake and their dads.

It's all wrapped up and put away. Gone. My room is no longer my room.

"He promised!"

"I know."

"He'll come back for me."

She pulls away and cups my cheeks, rubbing my tears away with her thumbs.

"I hate you," I tell her in a thick, wet voice, snot and tears makin' a mess of me.

And she says quietly, seriously, "I know."

"This is all your fault."

She nods. "I know you think that. I can take it."

"I'll never forgive you."

"I can take it," she says again, but this time, the words are said to the ceiling.

After spendingall afternoon unpacking boxes and settin' up our new house, Momma takes me to Chickie's for an early supper—a '50s style diner she said she used to hang out at when she was a teenager with the best chocolate shakes.

"There's someone I want you to meet," she tells me.

Because the weather's cleared up, we walk.

I'm glad. Her new car smells like feet.

"It's nice here, isn't it?" she says as we walk alongside the glittering road.

I shrug.

She sighs.

I don't always remember to give her the silent treatment. Sometimes it's really hard to stay mad, but I feel like if I act like this is okay and that I'm not mad, it means I'm turning my back on Dad. And I promised never to do that.

Wyatt men never turn their backs on family.

That's what he told me once. His daddy left him when he was just a kid—he was something called a deadbeat. Dad said it made his momma real sick, for years, and then he lost her too.

"He had no business calling himself a man. We don't abandon our families. Ever. Even when shit gets tough, we stick through it. We Wyatt men don't give up, ya hear me? Promise me, son. Promise me."

So I did.

And he promised me right back.

Which is why I know he's coming back, despite what Momma says. She'll see. He'll be back.

A car passes by, and Momma holds me off to the side. When it's gone, and we continue walking, she says, "You excited to start school in a couple weeks?"

I grit my teeth and shake my head.

She knocks our arms together. "You'll make new friends straight away. I just know it."

"How?" I say, before I can stop myself.

She ruffles my hair, before reaching for my hand. Her nails are painted bright red. They've never been painted before, not that I can remember. She's been dressing differently too. Before it was always big sweaters and cotton pants or jeans, or skirts and dresses that went down to her ankles if we had to dress fancy for something.

Today she has a black dress on with red and pink roses all over it that stops right above her knees, swishing with the breeze brought on by the passing cars, and red flip flops that match her nails and the flowers on her dress.

Even her hair's different. She cut it to her shoulders just before we left New York. It's all full and silky and wavy now.

And around her throat, she's wearing a black necklace with a silver heart hanging from it.

I wonder what happened to the gold chain one with the cross.

I wonder what happened to her wedding ring too.

She gives my hand a squeeze, hers so much bigger than mine. Softer too. Warm. "Well, silly, because how could anyone ever not want to be your friend?"

I scowl at that, even though I feel all hot around my neck.

"You're the coolest kid I know."

I'm not though.

I like comic books. Superheroes. It's the one thing Dad used to give me crap about sometimes when Momma wasn't around, and his words were runnin' altogether, and there was that weird metal smell on him. He'd say that stuff's only for kids. For losers. But then he'd also say I'd grow out of it, and ruffle my hair, so I guess he didn't care that much… yet… as long as I stopped playing with my action figures. Or dolls, as he would call them. Those were a big no-no.

I frown, rememberin'.

That made me mad.

Sad too.

I was worried he'd take them, throw them out, like he did with my teddy bear when he found me sleepin' with it once.

"You're in kindergarten now. This is for babies," he'd said. I never saw my bear again.

So I hid them—my superheroes—kept 'em all safe in my closet, hidden inside a bunch of folded clothes, since Momma was the only one who'd see them when she went in there to put away laundry. She'd always smile and wink at me when she found them. It was our little secret.

Now I can take them out and play with them whenever I want…

"Mason?"

Sniffing, I look up at Momma. I didn't realize we stopped walking. The sun's peeking out over the trees, making her head all dark and fuzzy around the edges, so I have to squint.

"I have a really good feeling about this," she tells me in a quiet, very serious tone. Like maybe she's done trying to pretend like everything's actually okay.

"How do you know?" I ask her.

She tweaks my nose, and she tells me, "Moms always know."

We continue walking, having to pass right under the bridge, through one of the dark, looming arches, just like when driving through. It's even scarier like this…

So tall, it touches the sky, disappearing into the gray clouds.

"Are there trains?"I ask, tipping my head all the way back to see the top. My voice echoes, bouncing off the concrete wall. Wind rushes through, blowing our hair around, and makin' my ears feel all thick and weird.

"No, they don't come this way anymore," Momma says loud enough for me to hear her.

"Why not?" I ask when we reach the other side, and it no longer feels like someone's coverin' my ears real hard.

"They don't have a reason to, I guess. There are more roads now. More towns close by… It just…happens."

It's busier on this side of the bridge, with more buildings pressed together, and cars driving back and forth. I wish I didn't have to hold Momma's hand. But I know it's the rules when she takes me for walks—to make sure I don't get hit by a car—so even though I'm still mad, I don't put up a fight about it.

There are people walking all around once we get up to where all the buildings are. There's a park. A white church steeple poking out above the rooftops. In the distance, there's a chain link fence wrapped around a football field and, in the back, what looks like a school.

Shiloh reminds me a lot of home, especially the further into town we get. There's a man mowin' his lawn. A lady watering flowers. A group of kids play basketball in a driveway, and a couple others run through puddles on the sidewalk…

Some look our way, but no one waves like back home. People were always saying hi and waving at Dad and I when we'd walk through our town, that or coming up to shake his hand real hard. He seemed to know everybody. And everybody seemed to know him right back.

Not here though.

And Momma's a lot shyer than dad. She's not waving or smiling either. Maybe if she made an effort, these people would say hi. At least, that's what Dad would sometimes say when we were out and Momma got all quiet around his friends.

Momma leads me across the street to a red and silver aluminum building, up a couple steps, and through a glass door that has a bell ringing out when we walk through.

A blast of cold air carrying the scent of cheeseburgers and a man belting on about a wayward sun through the speakers rush over me, and my eyes widen, jaw hanging as I take everything in. All over the walls, there's posters of rock bands and CDs and big black discs Mom told me are records, which were the CDs she listened to when she was younger.

And in the corner, next to the counter and coat racks?

A big red jukebox.

I feel my mouth lifting into a big scrunchy-eyed grin just as drums and guitar kick off, and I twist around, throwing my head back to look up at Momma who's already smiling down at me, her brown eyes twinkling. "Cool, right?"

I nod real fast. "Who is this?" I whisper in awe.

She opens her mouth to tell me, but never gets a chance.

"Sherry!"

Momma's head snaps up, and she releases my hand, and then she's rushing toward a short, curvy woman with long black hair heading toward us past all the empty red booths lining the windows. They throw their arms around each other at the same time, hugging tight.

I tilt my head, biting my lip, wondering who the lady is. Momma said Shiloh is where her and Dad grew up before they had me. I already knew this story though. Dad told me. Said how they moved to get a fresh start in life 'cuz her parents—my grandparents—kicked Momma out. Something about babies and wedlock. Not sure what that meant.

So they did something called loping and got a house of their own and then had me.

Momma's busy talking to the lady, so I creep past them, trailing my finger over the backs of the empty barstools. Except for a couple old ladies sitting in the back corner booth, and a guy boppin' his head and chewing gum looking over a newspaper behind the counter, it's empty.

I mouth along to the song, catching the words, trying to memorize them. I need paper. Markers.

I glance around the counter covered in paper placemats, and rolled up silverware, and then I see it, right next to the register—a cup of pens.

I scramble up onto my knees on the nearest stool, and grab one, and then flip the paper placemat over just like I would do in the diners back home Dad would take me to.

Nodding, I sing quietly along, and start carefully spelling out the words. I'm not very good at it yet—writing, spelling… though I can read pretty good. Swaying side to side, I'm in the middle of spelling C-A-R-R-Y O-N, when a gruff voice says, "Whatcha doin', kid?"

I whirl my head around, and my jaw drops, eyes bulging.

Holy crap, it's Wolverine!

His furry brown brows the same color as his beard dip low over equally dark eyes. I can't see his mouth, but there's a sort of shine to his eyes that makes me think he might be smiling, or at least trying not to.

"Um," I say, curling back, and hunching my shoulders. He's even bigger than Dad! I chew the corner of my lip, and turn to look back at my scribbles over the paper. "Momma's busy talking to the lady, and I need to know the song so she can put it on a CD for me later."

He grunts. "That so?"

I nod, feeling my face grow all hot.

"May I?" he says, holding his hand out. I look at his nails, his knuckles…

No claws.

I blow out a slow breath, nod, and hand him the pen.

"It's kind of a long name, so I'll write it first, then you copy it, 'k?"

I nod. That's what Momma does for me too.

"You can write out the name of the band though. It's easy. Kansas."

I watch him carefully write in big bold letters across the page—right where I'd left off: WAYWARD SON.

I have no idea what that first word means, but I carefully sound it out. And he spelled sun wrong, but I don't tell him that. I don't want the claws to come out.

"Like where Dorothy's from?" I say instead, wrinkling my nose.

He huffs what might be a laugh—it's very, very short and rumbly. "Yup. Kansas like the state."

"Why?"

"Why not?"

I shrug.

He hands me the pen back. "There you go. ‘Carry on Wayward Son.'"

I look up at him and say, "Pennsylvania would be a really stupid band name."

His eyes fly open and he snorts. Nodding, he rubs a big hand across his beard. "You're not wrong, kid. Not wrong at all."

I'm about to ask him what wayward means when Momma calls for me. "Mason?"

The big, hairy man steps to the side, turning to face Momma as she joins us.

Her face brightens, her mouth opening. "Hi Ga?—"

"Momma, have you ever heard of Kansas?" I rush out, cutting her off. "The band, not the state."

"Yes, Mason. I know Kansas." Her lips twitch with a smile. "Did you thank him for helping you?"

I whip around and look up at the big, hairy man. "Thank you, sir," I say in my tough voice.

He gives me a wink and says just as tough, "Anytime."

"This can't possibly be Mason!" I turn back around just as the lady with long black hair approaches. She looks down at me, smiling so hard, little lines sink in around her mouth and eyes. "He's all grown up."

My forehead wrinkles. "I'm only six and a half."

They laugh, even the man next to me, though he sounds like a rumbly bear.

"Those eyes!" she says, turning toward Momma. "Pictures didn't do them justice."

Momma gets a bashful sorta look about her face. "I'm so?—"

The lady holds up a hand. "No more sorries."

Momma nods, and the lady smiles down at me once more. "You don't know me, but I'm Linda. I own this place. Your mommy used to hang out here with her friends when she was younger."

"Music's a little different this time around," Momma teases.

The lady, Linda, waves a hand at the man next to me. "That's all him. This is what I get for giving in and getting one of those new-agey jukeboxes."

"Just trying to roll with the time, Lin."

"You're still a good decade behind, honey."

A bell rings, and a group of people enter the diner.

"Let me go get them settled. You two sit wherever you want," Linda says, before rushing off.

Momma tells me to stay where I'm at—she's gotta use the restroom. It's then I notice how red and blotchy her eyes and face are.

"I've got him," the man says, and Momma smiles, nods, and murmurs a thank you before disappearing around the corner toward a back hallway.

The song draws to a close, and a new one kicks on. Some oldies song, like Carl, Dad's mechanic used to play when we'd change Dad's oil.

The big hairy man arches a brow, gesturin' at the pen and placemat, and I smile, nodding.

While Momma's gone, he tells me his name is Gavin—I tell him he looks like a Logan, and he laughs at that, that low, deep, grumbly laugh.

He tells me he used to be a Marine, that he's Linda's husband, and he's a bartender.

And his favorite band is Creedence Clearwater Revival.