Awkward Teenage Blues

GUTHRIE'S HEART pretty much fell out of his body when the first text appeared on his phone.

This is Jock-o—how you doin' kid?

He'd stared at it in shock while he and Tad had been waiting in line at the sub shop. Jock? Texting him now ? This was apparently his punishment for not changing his phone number out two years ago, when his father had made it known that Guthrie was nothing to him.

I thought I was dead to you. Can we go back to that?

That's not fair, Guthrie. Your dad made that decision, not me.

And you sure stood up against him, didn't you? I'm blocking you.

So Guthrie had.

But Jock wasn't stupid. Sure, his father had treated his little brother like he was stupid, but Robert Coltrane Woodson was, in fact, a pretty smart cookie. Unlike Butch, he might have gone to college if the family had believed in education.

Guthrie had managed to put the text and its implications out of his mind. That blissful moment on the couch with his head in Tad's lap made him feel safe and cherished and loved. That feeling sank into his bones, making him feel confident and joyous and so, so ready for Tad to come to bed and touch him with that amazing sensuality Guthrie had just discovered.

And then his phone had buzzed again.

Goddammit, I can only afford one burner so don't block me on this one!

Fuck. This was pretty tenacious for Jock. He was usually the first to quit. Guthrie remembered plenty of times when, "C'mon, Butch, the boy wasn't doing no harm," turned into "Never mind, never mind, he's your kid," before the first sentence even ended.

I'm broke too. I got nothing you need. Go away.

Guthrie had been pretty sure his dad and Jock would piss away their Fiddler and the Crabs money. Tad had said it—Guthrie had marketable skills. He'd spent that money on the ability to have a resume and some hope and a day job that would fill in the lean times. Suddenly the embarrassment of his dwindling bank account wasn't quite so acute.

C'mon, Guthrie. Don't be like that. Your dad is sick and I need help. I can't be the only one taking care of him.

Oh Jesus. How sick? Guthrie asked, hearing Tad moving around in the bathroom.

Ain't gonna see September.

Guthrie closed his eyes and swallowed. Well he don't want to see me, so I'll have to live with that. He pounded the text in, trying to keep his hand from shaking. Jock, you two made it really fucking clear that I was not wanted and I was not family. Hurt like hell, but at least I can peace out of this. PEACE. FUCKING. OUT.

And with that he muted his notifications and set the phone down on the bedstand. Tad had emerged from the bathroom, freshly scrubbed and sexy and oh so hopeful. Suddenly Guthrie needed him— needed him, needed the completeness of his touch, the wholeness he felt when Tad was inside him, and the glory of his skin.

As their bodies moved together, Guthrie felt the need overtake him, opening up and swallowing the moment whole. Take me , he begged in the silence of his own skull. Take me and bless me from the inside out. I need you to make me the man I want to be.

When their breathing had stilled, Guthrie rolled into Tad's arms and hid his face against Tad's shoulder, turning his back on the incriminating phone.

But even as he fell asleep, he knew the man he wanted to be hadn't seen the last of that text stream. The man he wanted to be had some unfinished business to tend to.

HE'D GOTTEN up to pee the next morning when his text notifications came back on, and his phone buzzed repeatedly while he did his business. When he came back, he took a breath and checked, the texts coming thick and fast as Jock detailed a four-hour trip from Sand Cut to Sacramento, including pit stops and engine noises, including the cheerful acknowledgment that hey, Jock had figured out how to track Guthrie's phone. That last one horrified him, even more so when he saw the last two texts in the stream.

Look, I'm here. I'll be waiting outside until you come talk.

If you've got coffee, that would be real fucking human.

Guthrie checked the timestamp on the last one and sighed. Two hours. Jock had probably fallen asleep in the front of his old truck—a Ford instead of a Chevy because God forbid Guthrie follow in his family's footsteps without a fight—with his arms folded and his head leaning against the windshield.

Thank God the temperature had dropped the night before because Jock and Butch hadn't been too pro on hygiene, and there was nothing like the hot cab of a pickup truck to really ripen the sweat on a middle-aged man who had a long association with alcohol.

With a sigh he slid on some clothes—including the new cargo shorts Tad and April had snuck into his drawer, like he wasn't going to notice that—and stepped into his flip-flops in the hallway. His hand was on the doorknob when he realized that there was only one pair of flip-flips left.

Why was April outside?

His heart almost jumped out of his rib cage when he saw her standing by Jock's truck, wearing one of Tad's oversized T-shirts over sleep shorts, her arms crossed in front of her and a scowl on her face as she chewed Jock a new one. Jock was parked in a neighbor's spot, Guthrie realized. Jimmy Collier worked the night shift and would be there any minute. She must have seen the truck and gone to clear it out. Jimmy had been a big help when they'd brought the kittens home.

"And I'm saying," April growled, "that you can park somewhere else while you wait for him to wake up. Like the delta. In the river. Or maybe the junkyard. Or Utah."

"Little missy," Jock replied, one of his best shit-eating, women-hating grins on his face, "I get that you're trying to stand up for your man―"

"I'm standing up for my neighbor, you asshole. I don't even know who you're here to bother, but I hope it's nobody I know. Now move!"

Guthrie made sure to clear his throat before putting his hands gently on her shoulders. "I'm afraid he's here for me, darlin'," he said softly. "Go on inside and try to make sure your brother doesn't hear this, okay?"

She turned troubled eyes to him. "Oh, Guthrie—oh no. This guy's your people?"

Guthrie swallowed. "Not anymore. But, you know, the past ain't always in the past. This is my uncle Jock, and he's here—"

"To take you back to your family," Jock said loudly. "You got responsibilities, Guthrie, like it or not. He may not be much of a daddy, but he is your daddy—"

"I'm pretty sure he told me I wasn't his son, Jock. You want me to come back now and walk him into the next world on your say-so?"

"Oh, Guthrie," April murmured, her soft gasp cutting into his anger and his hurt. "Oh no. You can't go. This… this is bad—"

Guthrie closed his eyes. "Please," he begged her. "Don't let your brother see me have this conversation, okay? Just please." He gave her a little nod back into the apartment and waited until he heard the door click before he turned back to Jock.

"Talk," he said grimly.

"You didn't have to send her away, son," Jock said, his salacious grin churning Guthrie's stomach. "She had the cutest set of titties. You live with that?"

Guthrie's hands started to sweat with the effort to not clock Jock in the saggy jaw.

And it was saggy. He could see the age in Jock's once-handsome face, the slackness that alcohol and a bad diet had given him, the lines and wrinkles that Guthrie hadn't seen two years ago because parents and parental figures didn't really age.

But Jock had.

And that, in the end, was what stayed Guthrie's hand.

"Jock, if I ever see you talking to that girl again, I'll break your jaw. Then I'll break your fingers. Then I'll go to work on you. If you touch her, I'll kill you. I'm not exaggerating. I've reinforced my guitar case to ward off muggers. Gave the last one a concussion. I will beat your head in if you attempt contact in any way. That girl does not need you."

Jock's eyes went wide in surprise, and he regarded Guthrie in shock.

"Boy, you can't possibly mean—"

"Every word of that." Guthrie shook his head. "These people you followed me to—they're good people. I've seen you grab too many asses, take too many liberties. When I was a kid I could think, ‘Oh, that's just Jock, he don't mean nothin'.' But I'm grown now. Just being Jock don't get you a pass, not with someone who cares about me like that girl and her brother do. So if all you got is a weakshit pass on a girl I'll protect with my life, you can motor on your way."

Jock's jaw hardened. "She's sallow," he said with a sniff. "Probably on the junk anyway."

Guthrie turned as crisply as he could in flip-flips and was waylaid by Jock's honest plea.

"No, no—don't go. Guthrie, I wasn't shitting around about needing you. Man, it's your dad. Like I said, he's sick."

"What's gotten him?" Guthrie asked.

"Everything," Jock muttered, shaking his head. "Liver's shot, lungs are shot—if the cirrhosis don't get him, the cancer will. He's got a month, maybe, and he wants to go out at home. But home is… you know. Not like we stayed there much anyway. I gotta work on shit like plumbing and electricity so the place don't go up with us in it, and he needs everything, from a drink of water to a trip to the bathroom to piss. He's my brother, man, but I can't do it all!"

"Don't you get a nurse from the state?" Guthrie asked, scowling.

"Five days a week," Jock said, nodding. "And some of the folks around town regard your dad fondly. So we got some help. Backup's not twenty-four seven, but it will be if you come help me see it through."

Guthrie shook his head. "Why? Give me one good reason to see it through."

"We took you in when you was little!" Jock whined. "Me and your dad. It was us or foster care!"

"I was your kinfolk," Guthrie said flatly. "That was your job, and you did the minimum amount. Remember when I used to show up behind the diner to eat the scraps 'cause you and Dad would leave for a gig and forget to leave me food? The only reason you started taking me with you is cause Rick Cobb threatened to take me away, and we all know the money you got from the state in child credit was what kept you and Dad in beer."

Jock sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. "Yeah, me and your daddy, we gotta make our accounts square with the Lord, and believe me, he's gonna settle up soon. But you're gonna have to do your own settling up. You want leaving your old man to rot in his own shit to be on your ledger?"

Guthrie shook his head. "I wanted to be able to leave the two of you to your own bullshit and not have to worry about you again. He threw me out , remember? Realized you weren't going to get any more money off Fiddler, so suddenly I wasn't worth anything to either of you. There I was thinking, ‘Yeah, well, my family ain't perfect. They don't get me, but they're still my dad and uncle Jock, and Fiddler walks across the stage, and Dad tells me he don't want no faggots in his band, and I can't sleep under his roof if I'm gonna be that way. Message received, Jock. I don't have to be in his fuckin' band, and I don't wanna be under his goddamned roof, but you can't have it both fuckin' ways. I can't be trash when you don't need me and blood when you do."

Jock stared down at his shoes in something like shame. "Your dad shouldn't a done that, Guthrie. You…." He looked up miserably. "You heard me try to stand up to him, didn't you?"

Guthrie held out his hand and wobbled it back and forth. "You tried, sorta. He said, ‘Shut the fuck up, Jock,' and you gave it up and went out to nail a waitress who kept trying to feed you Altoids 'cause your breath is fuckin' gross, and I don't know what happened after that 'cause I was fuckin gone . Remember that , Jock? 'Cause that was the last time I saw you, and I been happy about that!"

Ugh. His dad's twang was throbbing in his voice, and he hated it. He used to only hear the syllables, the music in it, and he'd thought having his dad's and Jock's Alabama music in his tones was a good thing. Then he heard the things they were saying in it, and he'd hated those things so much he'd hated his own voice. Going to school had helped him weed some of that out, and he'd since reconciled that the music was real and their words were their words and not his, but he hated that his grammar and his intonation and the whole fuckin' works went sliding down the hill the minute Jock showed back up in his life.

Jock glanced away. "I'm sorry about that, Guthrie. I… I shoulda stood up for you better. You're not wrong. But I'm begging you— begging you now. Don't leave me alone with this. When your dad is gone, I got a job at Walmart, which will help me keep the house since it's all paid up. But I gotta fix the house—them nurses won't come in if there's no place to take a piss, right? So I need your help. I'll do anything—"

"Jock, I got gigs," he said, and while his voice was hard, he knew in the pit of his stomach that it was the last argument of desperation. "I'm playing a wedding at the beginning of August and cutting a new album with Fiddler at the end. I would leave the devil himself puking blood to get to these two gigs. I'd steal cars and deck policemen to make it on time. I can't go down to Sand Cut in mid-July 'cause you won't let me back up—"

"I will," Jock said, relief flooding his voice. "I will. You know us, Guthrie. Gigs are sacred. You got gigs, and we'll let you work 'em. I won't hold you back from no gigs!"

Guthrie felt the sand slipping from underneath his feet. This is what Tad must have felt right before he pitched off that cliff into Daffodil Canyon. He took a deep breath and heard all his harsh words in the last ten minutes. God. God, Tad can't see me be a nine-hundred-pound gorilla, not even to fend off Mr. Hyde. I'd rather die.

"There's no ‘letting me work them,'" Guthrie snapped. "If you try to stop me, I'll hurt you."

Jock swallowed and backed away. "Jesus, Guthrie, you got mean. Why you gotta be so mean? I used to feed you, remember? Keep ole Butch off your ass? You don't gotta be mean to me. We're gonna be the only two guys in the boat in the next month or so, you know?"

Guthrie shook his head. "You kicked me out of the family—and even if it was Dad who done it, you walked away and let him. And then you show up here and disrespect someone I care about—"

"I thought you were a faggot," Jock said, and his tone was curious even if the word was offensive. "Why you so protective over her?"

"'Cause the girl's like my sister."

"You fuckin' her brother?" Jock asked, and again, nothing but curiosity and that ever-foul mouth, but suddenly Guthrie had him by the throat through the window of the truck and was pushing him back against the torn upholstery.

"You talk to them, either of them, call them, pass them a note, tell them about how you think you know me from the good ole days, and I will shove your nose so far down your throat they'll need forceps and a tractor to pull it out," Guthrie threatened, his voice cold and faraway in his ringing ears. "As far as you and my father are concerned, these people don't exist. I don't want your bullshit in either of their lives."

Jock swallowed, and his eyes searched Guthrie's face, looking for mercy where Guthrie knew there was none to give.

"I'm sorry," he rasped, and Guthrie was so shocked he let go of Jock's collar and stepped back.

"Sorry?" For the first time since engaging in this conversation he felt confused, vulnerable—like the kid he'd been when Jock had been the one who remembered to feed him or buy him shoes that didn't have his toes finding holes to grow through.

"We… what I let your daddy do that made you hate me so much," Jock said, his eyes growing red-rimmed and sad. "'Cause… 'cause I cared for you when you were little. I thought… I thought I did an okay job. But I let Butch hurt you there at the end, and I'm sorry. But if I was ever good to you, if you ever had any fond memories of me, you'll come help me now, Guthrie. Please don't leave me alone with this. I-I couldn't have raised you alone back in the day or I woulda tried. I can't walk your daddy to the grave alone. I'm… I'm a weak man, and a bastard, and a shitty bass guitarist, and I'm not that bright, but at least I know that. Please help me. Please. Then I'll have the house, and your dad'll be gone, and you can be quit of us. You don't never need to visit again."

And now Guthrie was looking at his feet—down, down, down—as he tumbled into that canyon, the one you couldn't get out of. That's where he was going, down into hell, where you needed a backhoe and a pulley and a winch and a crowd of scientists to get you out, because nobody got out of Sand Cut alive without help.

He peered back up and sighed. "I gotta go pack, Jock. I gotta tell them I'll be back." He gave a little laugh. "They're moving, you know. End of August. By the time this is over, I'll have to go find them in the mountains. They'll think I forgot about them."

Jock shook his head, and made maybe his first step in earning Guthrie's forgiveness. "Naw, kid, they'll know you're comin' back. Any fool can see you're the type to stick."

Guthrie's face was tight, and he had to fight the tears because he didn't want to give them to Jock. Uncle Jock didn't get any tears, not right now.

Besides, Guthrie had to say goodbye to Tad first, and he'd need all his tears for that.

"WHERE YOU going?" Tad asked, rolling over in bed. Guthrie took a moment, letting the tension out of his face, his neck and shoulders, so he could brush Tad's lips with his thumb and memorize how he looked, ginger hair on end, green eyes bleary with sleep. He was tousled and grumpy and so, so dear, and Guthrie's heart gave a vicious twist.

"My…." He took a deep breath. "My daddy's sick," he said, trying to get through this. "And I'd let the old man die, but… but Jock, my uncle, needs help with him. So I gotta go, so I can help Jock. I…." His voice wobbled. "I'll be back, Tad. You trust that, right? That I'll come back? I wouldn't leave you. I-I'll come back home when it's done."

Tad's eyes were wide now as he scrambled to sitting. "But… but Guthrie, we might not even be living here when it's ‘done,' as you say. Where are you going? Why can't I come with you and help? We could go do that while we're waiting for the transfer, and—"

Guthrie made a hurt sound. "No!" he said, almost shouting. "No." He lowered his voice. "You and April—you can't. April was trying to tell Jock to move his car, and I feel like I failed her just letting her get that close. You can't let these people touch your lives. You really can't see me with them. I'm… I'm rattlesnake mean. I got things I gotta do to survive talking to my daddy, Uncle Jock, hell, anybody in my old hometown. I… I can't let you see me be the nine-hundred-pound gorilla that rips apart Mr. Hyde. Do you understand that? I can't let this touch you. You and your sister—you're the good in my life. You're my home. You're worried about me not being able to find you in Colton? I could feel you pulling my heart in the dark. I found you when you were in the middle of the goddamned canyon. I'll find you again. But I need you to trust I'll do that, okay? I…." He squeezed his eyes shut. "Please. Please don't come see me be the bastard I'm about to become. Please—"

He squeezed his eyes shut, but it wasn't any use. He couldn't stop the tears during sex, when he was happy, and they let Tad see into his soul, and he couldn't stop them now, when he was angry and hurt and devastated.

"Please wait for me," he croaked, and Tad sat up in bed and wrapped his arms around Guthrie's shoulders, holding him so tight he couldn't breathe.

Good. He didn't want to breathe. He wanted to die, right here, where he was wanted and cared for and he didn't have to make stupid awful choices or become the man he'd feared the most in order to survive.

"Of course I'll wait for you," Tad whispered. "But… but you'll text. You'll visit—"

Guthrie shook his head, thinking about the working conditions Jock had outlined. "I'll text, but Sand Cut, California, is like Colton. It's a fuckin' technology black hole. Look for emails when texting fails, okay? I'll… I'll find time to talk." His voice broke. "I never used to like to talk, you know? But you and your sister, even Livvy—I'll miss talking."

Tad blew out a breath. "Don't forget how," he said. "And God, Guthrie, take more than that fucking knapsack. Take a suitcase. There's one in the closet. Please?"

Guthrie shook his head. "No," he said bleakly. "All my clothes are here, baby. The knapsack means I'm on the road. You need to keep being my home."

Tad's arms tightened around his shoulders. "Always," he promised. "But…. God, Guthrie. You don't talk much about your dad, but the stuff you've said… do you have to go?"

Guthrie swallowed, more and more of his childhood coming back to him. He'd thought that Jock had aged in the last two years, but it wasn't until just then that he'd realized how young Jock really was. He was younger than Larx and Aaron George. He must have been a teenager when Guthrie was a little kid. Guthrie's father was in his late fifties, but Jock—he must have been at Butch Woodson's mercy since he was a little kid. Unlike Guthrie, though, Jock never escaped.

Jock had done his best, Guthrie knew, remembering his anguished plea, his acknowledgment that he was a weak man but didn't know what else to do. Jock had been the one to remember breakfast bars and blankets—probably because Guthrie's dad had forgotten them for Jock. Jock had been the one running interventions whenever Guthrie managed to piss the old man off. Sitting here in this safe space, with his lover's arms around him, Guthrie had a clear memory of Jock showing Guthrie a rhythm with his finger on the sly so Butch wouldn't take his head off after the performance. Guthrie had been fourteen and pressed into service. Playing the drums right then had been like mowing the lawn.

"Baby," Guthrie said, taking a deep breath, "I gotta go back. For the same reasons I had to bring April up to the canyon that day. Or you had to take a risk and do some tough love for your baby sister. Because nobody gives us a blueprint or a checklist to be the kind of men we need to be, but sometimes we recognize it when we see it. I see it. If I'm gonna be the kind of man who deserves you, I'm gonna be the kind of man who goes and does this. Just…." He clasped Tad's hands where he'd laced his fingers around Guthrie's shoulders. "It's gonna be a bit. I'll find you in Colton if you gotta go while I'm still in Sand Cut, but please, baby, wait for me."

Tad sputtered some tears of his own and sang softly from Guthrie's impromptu concert that lonely dark night. "I will wait for you…," he sang.

Guthrie turned and took his mouth in a salty, painful kiss. He pulled back and said, "Good. 'Cause I'll come find you."

He took a deep, shuddery breath and stood, turning to cup Tad's cheek.

"Promise," he said, meaning it with all his soul. "I gotta go."

Because if he put it off, said he'd be in Sand Cut tomorrow, told Jock he'd get there eventually, he wouldn't. He'd stay here and pretend he was the good guy— Tad's good guy, and that was all that mattered. He knew that being Jock's good guy wasn't going to get him a job or a boyfriend or even the family he found he so desperately needed—but you didn't get to choose who you got to be the good guy for. You either were or you weren't. He'd promise to Tad, because he knew he'd keep it.

He wasn't sure he was strong enough to keep a promise to Jock if he didn't leave right the fuck now.

He took one more look behind him, though, and saw Tad wiping his eyes.

"Don't cry, baby," he murmured. "It's not long. A month? Two months at the most? I know you're the kind to stick. Have a little faith in me, right?"

Tad nodded. "Right," he rasped. "Drive safe." His eyes were red-rimmed, and he looked as shitty as Guthrie felt, but that was as good as it was going to get for the moment.

"'Course."

When he got to the front room, he found April had packed his laptop and his guitar in their cases, and had provided, against all imaginings, two of the household's travel mugs, both filled with coffee.

"Aw, darlin'—"

"I put your sleeping bag and pillow in the lockbox in the back of the truck," she said, clutching his cat to her chest. "And some egg crate and blankets. Don't stay anywhere you're not welcome, Guthrie. You taught me that."

"You heard," he rasped, suddenly afraid. He hadn't counted on them knowing he planned to sleep in his truck. God, he didn't want Tad to know how bad this was going to get.

"Every word. Open windows." She swallowed, her eyes growing red and shiny. "I won't tell him. But… but you're coming home, right? Even if home's in Colton?"

He held open his arms and she went, cat and all. He hugged them both gently. "I know you think Tad's your only family," he whispered, "but you're wrong. I'd come back just so you could be my sister. With your brother waiting here, you can't keep me away, you understand?"

She wiped her face on his shoulder and pulled back to kiss his cheek. "You're just like Tad," she said. "Take that as the compliment it is. Come home when you can. Don't look back."

"Will do, hon," he said. He was good at loading up—had the computer case and the knapsack over his shoulder, both the mugs in one hand and his guitar case in the other. Still clutching Lennon in her arms, April opened the door and nodded her head as he left.

Jock was still waiting in the parking lot for him, and Guthrie walked up and nodded brusquely.

"Grab one," he said. "And don't you say another word about the girl who made you coffee."

Jock smiled hopefully. "Think we can stop in Vacaville for food?" he asked.

"Don't see why not," Guthrie said. "I'll need gas by then anyway. How's your truck running?"

"Like shit. Exhaust leaks like you can't believe."

Awesome. "Then I'll go in front. Watch for me to pull off. First stop, Vacaville. Any particular place?"

Jock closed his eyes. "Think they got an IHOP?" he asked, and Guthrie almost laughed.

"I know it for sure," he said. He wanted to text Chris Castro and have him check in on Tad, but he knew the guy would already. He just hoped "check in on" didn't mean having Tad dump him at the first possible opportunity.

Guthrie had every intention of coming back.

FIVE HOURS later, his stomach still grumbling from the stop at IHOP when they got gas in Vacaville, Guthrie passed through the tunnel that marked the end of civilized internet and the beginning of the peculiar ecosystem that made up every small town.

The view before the tunnel seemed welcoming—eucalyptus trees, hills, bright sunshine and cool shade was a refreshing change from the Sacramento heat. And the smell… something about the air when you got twenty or so miles from the ocean. Guthrie could admit he missed salt and eucalyptus and the faint tang of fish on the breeze. Living on the edge of a storm was exciting; there were zero lies there.

But there was no rest there either.

The sky in Sand Cut was almost a perpetual fog or storm gray, with the truly sunny days or truly rainy days few and far between. As Guthrie had grown older, had toured some more of the state, he came to recognize the kind of emotional constipation of such a sky. There was no moving on for actual residents of Sand Cut. His father seemed to have known this too. When the band had been doing good, his dad and Jock had kept a trailer in San Rafael. Guthrie had gotten his own apartment—and a better one after they'd cut the Fiddler and the Crabs LP—but just because he'd still been in a band with his father and Jock hadn't meant he'd wanted to be like them.

Of course, once Seth had gone, graduated from college, took off for Italy and the destiny he'd earned with all that was good in his heart, Guthrie hadn't had any reason to visit Sand Cut, to see the crumbling house sitting on an acre of rusting vehicles, nettles, and spiders, or to sit on the hood of his truck, scenting the wind, trying to find proof of sea or farmland or city—because this small town between the tunnel and the sea was too far away from any of them for "out there" to be real.

But this was real, Guthrie thought, driving over the cracked pavement of the main drag to take a right after the drug store and before the liquor store. There was a fire station, a library, a grange, and stretches of property after that. And then, about a mile out of town, it appeared. Three acres of overgrown land. A stream sat on a corner of it, so the blackberry bushes had taken over a good quarter of the property without the house. As they'd grown, they'd devoured an entire Honda Civic and an old electric stove. Guthrie had hidden out by them when he was a boy, but all he could make of them now was the occasional glimpse of orange primer or crap green enamel.

The rest of the property was in the same state of disrepair and entropy, although Guthrie could see where Jock had started to make inroads in upkeep.

Jock was actually a better carpenter than bass player, and he was pretty good at things like keeping the nettles and growth tempered and the house painted, when he was given a little bit of money and some time. About half the place had been cleared out, and most of the junk that had lived on the lawn had been hauled away. A pile of clean new lumber sat by where a dilapidated carport had been torn down, and Guthrie could see most of the new structure in its place. Jock wasn't kidding about working on the place, and Guthrie's conscience gave a twinge at the thought of Jock out here alone, trying to take care of Guthrie's dad and make sure the one thing he'd have after Butch passed away wasn't going to crumble into dust.

Guthrie parked the truck in a bare spot under a small copse of cypress and oak trees, knowing he'd appreciate the cover when he was sleeping in the bed. It did rain every so often, even in the summer, and the trees might keep the fog from swallowing him whole.

He slid out and stretched, hearing his back crack and the muscles and joints taxed from the beating giving a sigh of complaint as he did so.

After about two minutes of side-of-the-road yoga, there came Jock's truck, smoking like a pack-a-day trucker, pulling into the yard and heading toward Guthrie's truck. There was another vehicle there, a small red Toyota, about ten years old, huddling in the same direction Guthrie and Jock had parked.

Jock emerged from the driver's side and gave his own painful stretch.

"Looks like Jolene's here," Butch said, smiling fondly. "Woman offered, but we had to be back before her shift started at the bar. I should go in and relieve her before I tell your daddy."

"Before?" Guthrie asked, although he knew.

"It's gonna be ugly, Guthrie," Jock said with a sigh. "Just… if you could maybe remember you're doing this for me and not your dad, the next few weeks might be easier."

Guthrie gave his own sigh and shooed Jock away. From inside the house, he heard the unmistakable bellow of Butch Woodson.

"You're lyin', you fuckin' whore. Jock would not come back here with my no-good son, 'cause the little faggot's no blood of mine!"

Guthrie took his last breath of free air and decided that maybe it was time he faced the ugly head-on.