Highway Runs

THE CATS were the last things to put in the SUV.

After the wedding, August sped by. Tad and Chris had finished their workload with SAC PD and had, with little fanfare, resigned. Chris had been well-respected, but Tad wanted to think their farewell bash hadn't been all riding on his partner's coattails—their cake had been fashioned like a gravel pit, with two tiny plastic figures in suits at the bottom screaming, "Take us back!"

They'd both gotten a little drunk, and Laura had picked them up to take them home. Tad had rolled into the apartment saying, "Guthrie, you'll never believe what Chris said—" only to realize that Guthrie wasn't there yet. That he'd be relocating his entire life up in Colton and the most important person in it would still be missing.

April had found him collapsed on the couch the next morning, his cheeks still wet from his boozy cry.

God, he missed Guthrie.

Their communication had been somewhat less worrisome since their long talk in the hotel room that night, but Tad still knew he was leaving a lot out.

He even knew why. Some of it wasn't even "My life sucks right now, and I'm trying to spare you." Some of it was "My life sucks right now, and I want to concentrate on the happy when I'm talking to you."

Tad got that—but he absolutely hated the thought that Guthrie was suffering, was in pain, and he didn't want to tell Tad.

But finally he trusted that Guthrie would tell him before things got so bad he felt compelled to go out drinking in a place that wanted to kill him just for breathing.

Although he trusted Guthrie when he said that wasn't his intention.

"WOULD YOU just believe that I went to a bar because bars are comfortable for me, and all I wanted was a beer and to be somewhere not with that jackass who spawned me? It was just… you know. Bad luck."

Tad had eyed him, splayed under the comforter in the hotel room, his hair falling forward into his face as they recovered from their second round of sex and blinking like he was trying hard to stay awake.

"Guthrie's luck," he said grimly.

"I'm not so special I've got my own brand of luck," Guthrie muttered, uncurling enough to prop himself on his elbow and scowl.

Tad smiled and pushed that glorious hair out of his eyes. "Don't be modest," he said. "I'm telling you, Guthrie's luck is going right next to Murphy's luck in the bad luck hall of fame."

THAT CONVERSATION in the hotel room had been a good one, had unearthed so much of the crap sitting next to Guthrie's heart that had terrified Tad, had worried him.

Tad's life hadn't been easy. Money had been tight, and growing up poor left a scar on a person—there was always a chip on the shoulder, something to prove. There was always a need to be as smart as, successful as, fast as, important as, good as the slick kids with all the money who would be living somewhere better when their daddies got them into the prep school. But Tad's mom had been the best, and she'd loved him, and April had been a good sister, and they'd loved each other. Tad had known love was a real thing, and he'd never wanted to do anything with his life that couldn't be achieved with hard work and smart thinking.

Guthrie'd grown up with one caretaker and a father who'd abused him until he'd had to take care in secret, and love was for songs, for scam that was the family business, and not ever for real. He'd grown up in a profession that depended as much on luck as on skill and a family that did its best to fuck his luck. He'd grown up working so hard to make himself better he'd never understood that so much of him was very much good enough, just by being Guthrie. The more they'd talked, the more Tad had understood why Seth Arnold had been so important, even if he'd never loved Guthrie back. Because he'd loved Guthrie as a friend. Because he'd valued Guthrie as a colleague… and as a musician. Because his family—as splintered as it had been when Guthrie met him—had been a family, and Guthrie had learned what to shoot for. He'd learned he could be good enough. He'd learned that love was real.

And then he'd met Tad and maybe a lot of his quietness, his keeping things close, was driving Tad crazy, but it was because Guthrie was learning how to make love work when it was a two-way street.

So it was the end of August, and Guthrie's recording date had been moved—something about studio time—and his father hadn't passed away yet, and his whole life was in flux.

But he'd asked April to make a blanket for Emmeline and had even sent a pattern with a hesitant, "Can you make this?" because he thought it looked like what a princess would have. He'd even ordered the yarn on his precious internet time and sent it, because he wanted to be part of it.

Wanted Olivia to know he was coming and, Tad suspected, wanted Tad to trust that Guthrie wouldn't break his promises.

Tad was more secure in them now.

But it still hurt to leave.

He sat in the SUV—as April did one more run-through around the apartment, making sure they hadn't, say, left the vacuum sitting in the middle of the floor—and gave Chris a wave. Chris and Laura, by virtue of having much more stuff, had rented a U-Haul, and Tad and April had taken a small corner of it. There was some concern as to whether or not the truck would go on the winding roads, but Aaron knew where their small housing "development" sat and assured them it was as straight as the roads around Colton got and their truck was well in established guidelines. Tad had laughed at the "development" moniker. The houses were about five acres apart and well off the road, but they were prefabricated, and the county provided services like trash pickup, electricity, and gas. They had U-shaped driveways and peaked roofs to deflect snowfall, and apparently differences in parcel shape or flora and fauna be damned, that meant they were identical.

Tad's house—he was renting for a year with the option to purchase if the job worked out—sat on a parcel with a small stream. When he and April had gone to check the place out the week after the wedding, they'd seen three deer, eyeballing them with suspicion and not fear. Chris—who had purchased his property outright—had already contracted workers to fence in a yard to contain the big slobbering dogs his wife had plans to rescue as soon as they moved in.

There was a service track that wound behind their parcels that they could run on during their days off, and Laura already had plans to teach April how to cook and to, probably, mother Guthrie within an inch of his life.

They just needed Guthrie to get there.

April emerged from the apartment, one hand clenched around a couple of odds and ends she'd found on her last sortie. She gave a thumbs-up so Chris could start the U-Haul and then turned and locked the doors. The expression on her face was both excited and devastated, and as she slid into the SUV, she gave Tad a half-guilty glance before dumping the last few items she'd found on the console between them.

One of Guthrie's guitar picks, probably lodged in the molding by the kitchen table, two catnip mice he'd gotten the day before he'd gotten the call from Jock, and a special ergonomic crochet hook Guthrie had picked up at a store in San Rafael for April when he was still working down there once a week.

Tad checked the haul and swallowed.

"Text him," he said. "Take a picture of the cats in the crates and tell him they'll miss him in the new place."

"That's mean," she said, but she was turning in her seat to get a picture of John Lenny Bruce and McCartney You Fucking Asshole as she spoke. She paused for a moment and took a shot of Tad, who tried to smile, and then she sent the pic.

You'd better join us in Colton, you prick. Email us tonight if we're not getting your texts. We both miss you.

With a swallow she set her phone down on the console and did her belt.

"Ready?" he asked.

"Let's blow this place," she said. They fist-bumped, and Tad put the SUV in gear.

FIVE DAYS before Guthrie absolutely positively had to leave for San Francisco, the unthinkable happened.

His father—almost dead, damn him—snatched Guthrie's phone from his pocket as Guthrie was leaning over to retrieve his untouched dinner tray and dropped the thing into the gears of his electric recliner. As Guthrie stared in shock, trying to figure out how to get the old man out of the chair, Butch, wheezing with glee, hit the button that raised and lowered the thing, and Guthrie heard his phone's components crackle as the chair's gears crushed it into powder.

Guthrie stared at his father in shock.

"The actual fuck," he said, numb. "Why? Why would you do that?"

"I gotta die," Butch cackled. "You don't get to be happy!"

Guthrie blinked. "You think you're going to keep me from being happy if you wreck my phone, old man?" he asked.

"Won't be able to talk to all your fancy friends that way," Butch said smugly. " You're gonna be—" He coughed, wetly and laden with blood. "—all alone."

Guthrie could only laugh. "That's it?" he asked. "That's your plan? I've got twelve other options for contacting my boyfriend, Butch. I've got ten other people I can call for help. I… I have a life , old man." Suddenly, the secret things he hadn't talked to his father about—although Jock knew them now—came spilling out of him. "I got into a bar fight, and three policemen came to bail me out. You heard that. One of them was my boyfriend, but the other two were friends . You can't wreck that by destroying my phone. Nosirree. You're gonna die, and I'm not going to your funeral. Jock might go—you'll have to ask him. But I'm out of here, old man. I'm going to the city to make money with Fiddler. You heard that right too. He don't want you. I was his friend, and he remembers that, but you? You were some redneck who made money off him, and he remembers that too. I'm going to the hills to a family that wants me. Do you know what I did when I was gone? Do you have any idea?"

"Got your knob waxed?" Butch muttered, because that was the extent of his imagination.

"I played for a wedding," Guthrie said, the moment lighting him up inside. "Two men—a sheriff and a principal—walked down the aisle, and their kids were there, and their friends and their entire town applauded, so damned happy to see them together. And then my friend went into labor, and she wanted me in there with her, along with her husband. Can you imagine that? I go from watching your dying, rotting, decomposing animated corpse to…." His voice softened, because he couldn't say this with an edge. "To watching the birth of a baby who is so wanted. So loved. So cherished . And I'm asked to be a part of the baby's life. To be an uncle. To be a brother and a friend. I've got all that beauty inside me, old man, and you think you're going to destroy that with a phone ? You watch your television shows. I'm gonna go buy myself a new goddamned phone."

Guthrie stalked out, leaving Butch with the remote control as he took his tray to the kitchen. After cleaning off the tray and putting everything away, he threw some beef and some tomato stock into Jock's Crock-Pot so they could have dinner later that night, and then emerged into the blessedly cool day to turn his face to the sun.

"Good speech," Jock said, walking out of the carport with a bottle of water in his hand. One of the things Guthrie had noticed in the last five weeks was that Jock drank more water and less beer the closer Butch got to the grave. All the activity had leaned him up a little, and his jowls and lines had eased some. He looked like a hale man in his forties now, and not a would-be alcoholic aging before his time.

Every now and then his girlfriend brought them dinner. Guthrie talked to her sometimes, but mostly he let her and Jock have some time alone. It was good to see Jock had a life he was working toward. Made Guthrie proud.

"You know the only problem with it," he muttered glumly.

"No money for a phone," Jock said with a grimace.

Guthrie put his finger on his nose. "Bingo." He'd been eking out the last of his money to pay for gas and groceries since the wedding. He'd been reluctant to tell Tad—moving was expensive, and one good late-night talk was not going to completely erase Guthrie's ethics on taking a handout. Five days. Five days until he signed that contract. Five days. The hotel was paid for, Seth had assured him. All he had to do was be there, on time, with his guitar. "It's fine. I've got my computer—email's a thing. Just…." He shook his head, thinking about the meanness of Butch's act, one of his last on this earth.

"Inconvenient," Jock said with a sigh. "I hear ya. You got any of those numbers memorized?"

Guthrie shrugged. "The top five, yeah. After the old asshole goes to bed, I'll fish the phone out of the recliner and see if the SIM card can be salvaged. That'll be a big help right there."

"Yeah," Jock said softly. "Sorry about that. God, Guthrie. I keep remembering how I looked up to my brother, and now I can't wait for him to die. How awful is that?"

Guthrie sighed. "Just remember he did that to himself. You been… been shaking off his shadow these last weeks, Jock. You keep doing that. The man in the sunlight's a good guy."

Jock nodded thoughtfully. "Good to hear," he said. "Kind of you to say. Look—I'm weedwacking that back quarter. You take over that for me, and I'll take over the whole bath thing for you. You're using your time to get all this shit off your chest. It's time for me and Butch to have our own words." He paused and took a swig of water. "You may not want to listen in on the baby monitor," he said apologetically. "My language is gonna be down at his level, and that's not something I want you to hear."

Guthrie smiled at him fondly. "Appreciate it," he said, turning his face toward the place in the overcast sky where the sun was hiding. Finally he leveled his gaze to Jock. "You got gloves?"

"In the carport by the Weedwacker," Jock said. "And I appreciate it back. This place'll be almost shipshape in a week. You'll be leaving me in a real good place."

Guthrie shrugged. "Yeah, well, we're kin."

THE NEXT evening, Guthrie was sitting in the living room next to Butch, working on his computer and pretty much ignoring the old man as he mumbled at the TV, when suddenly Butch said, "You fuckin' puke. Not even gonna listen to me when I'm dying?"

Guthrie shut his computer and set it very carefully on the end table far away from the old man—he knew what his venom would do now.

"You got something to say to me?" Guthrie asked, steeling himself for the worst.

"You'd better come to my funeral," Butch muttered.

"Nope."

"I've earned it!" Butch whined, tears sliding down his face.

Guthrie turned toward him. "You earned a coffee can full of ashes in a pauper's grave. And either way, you are not my problem once you're gone. Don't you get it? I'm only here for Jock. You… you forfeited any right to me being sad when you're dead by being an awful human being when you were alive. Can't fix it now."

"Who's gonna sing over my grave?" Butch asked, sounding legitimately worried.

Guthrie shrugged. "Maybe Jock'll find a reverend or someone. Not my worry."

"I always thought you'd sing ‘Independence Day,'" Butch mumbled.

Guthrie thought about the old Springsteen song, a memorial to the Boss's own troubled relationship with his father.

"I think you gotta remember some tenderness there," Guthrie said. "You never sat me up on your lap and told me to drive, old man. You grabbed me by the arm and threw me in the truck and told me to stop crying. You want Bruce at your funeral, you gotta be a redeemable character. No two ways about it." He was saying these things without heat, without any anger, really, but Butch was weeping, and he started to feel bad, like he was torturing an old dog. The dog may have bit people when he was younger, but now he was just a dumb, pain-riddled animal.

"You're not even gonna respect my last wish?" Butch mewled, and Guthrie almost… almost….

"Fine," he huffed. "I promise—"

To what? To give up his future for duty to a man who'd just the day before tried to destroy his means to communicate with anybody who really loved him? To sacrifice every good thing in his life for someone who'd spent his entire life reminding him how much he didn't matter?

"Promise wha—" Butch wheezed.

"Promise to pass that along to Jock," Guthrie said. "He'll be at the service." Guthrie flipped the computer shut; he'd just finished sending out a blanket email to all his contacts, asking for their phone numbers since the SIM card to his phone was as mangled as the rest of the thing.

"Boy!" Butch gasped, genuinely hurt, Guthrie thought, but Guthrie couldn't.

"I'm gonna go make dinner for Jock. You done with your broth?"

"But… but boy —"

"I'll take that as a yes."

Guthrie walked out of the room with his tray, dimly aware that this was the nine-hundred-pound gorilla he'd feared, and he wasn't yelling or screaming or violent. He was simply done. Any dream he'd had of having a father—his real father—who cared for him, who wanted what was best, had died a sad death in these last six weeks. The man who was washing up for dinner didn't have any illusions of Butch telling him he was sorry and wanting to make up for all twenty-eight years of bad shit in one tear-filled reunion.

But he did have an image of Aaron George scooping his stepdaughter up in his arms so she didn't have to walk fifty feet to her vehicle in labor. He saw Larx bringing his daughter in to hold her new niece and spill the tea about the baby's mom. He saw Elton, holding Olivia's hand and reminding her that she was strong, and they were going to be parents together, and it was going to be okay. And Chris Castro, who took him to IHOP to make sure he took his pain meds and then to make sure he and Tad would be okay, and who apparently hopped in the car to zip to Monterey so he could spend time with his partner and see another city.

Dads. He knew what those were about now. He knew what being cared for could feel like. He'd gone up to Colton to play for Olivia's dads, and he'd done it for free because they were good people—good fathers.

He didn't need Butch. He didn't need to be mad at him for not being who he'd needed.

He just needed to get this shit done and get home to where Tad waited for him, and April, and their cats, and their life.

He had a family, one he'd made. One that would sustain him. One that had driven down here to this godsforsaken shithole and pulled him out so he could breathe.

This was like the worst job he'd ever had since being Butch's son in the first place. He could endure. It was his signature move.

TWO DAYS later he stood in his father's tiny, grimy room—the only room in the house that Jock hadn't fixed up, at least with a fresh coat of paint and some new flooring—and surveyed his father's body.

It was small in death and twisted with pain, the once-healthy flesh converted to sallow, waxy skin. The smell of nicotine oozed from his pores even as the flies started to settle.

Guthrie swallowed hard, wondering if there was any hidden grief in the corners of his soul, but all he could find was a sweet, melancholy relief. It was over, and he wouldn't have to leave Jock here alone to deal with the body.

With a sigh he dragged the sheet up over the head of the corpse to keep the flies from gorging and went to use the landline to call in an unattended death. When the call was made, he went outside, where Jock was already working on the last corner of the yard, hacking the blackberry bushes back to the creek. It was work that demanded hip waders and long gloves, and Jock had been doing it in the early morning to escape the heat, and resting in the afternoon.

Jock stalled the small chainsaw as he saw Guthrie approach and hauled his goggles up over his eyes in the silence. He said nothing but nodded hard, once, and then gathered his equipment and turned to trudge back to the house with Guthrie.

"You called?" he asked, winding the cord of the chargeable saw as he came to it.

"Yeah. They should be here in half an hour."

Jock sighed. "I suppose I should go say goodbye."

"If you like," Guthrie conceded.

Jock sighed again. "You know, all I can think about is how sorry I'll be to see you go."

"I'll be back," Guthrie told him. "After Christmas. You'd better have a tree, and a job, and be all clean and shiny and happy for me. Can you do that?"

Jock practically lit up. "You'll come around Christmas? Wait until you see the place then."

Guthrie smiled to himself, thinking Tad might want to come, and then remembered something important. "He wanted you to sing," he said. It was only a small lie. "Over his grave. He didn't say what—I mean, you can sing ‘Born to Run' and he won't know. But that would've made him happy."

Jock's returning smile told Guthrie that maybe he knew the truth there, but he'd take the small gift. "I'll think of that, then," he said. "While we're doing all this other shit. It'll get me through."

GUTHRIE LEFT two days later, early in the morning. The service would be in two weeks, because those things went slow, but Guthrie's truck was on its last legs, and he planned to be in Colton in two weeks, so he couldn't make any promises.

Jock didn't ask for any, but he did haul Guthrie into a big, tearful hug as Guthrie loaded up his truck, his hair fresh from washing.

"Hey, boy," he said, voice choking. "Stay there a minute. I got a thing for you."

He ran into the house and came back with—oh God.

"Jock?" Guthrie asked, surprised. He knew exactly how much money Jock had on a day-to-day basis—between the two of them, they had just enough for Jock to pay the property taxes, buy the supplies to make all the improvements, and then eat.

"It's your daddy's," Jock muttered. "His money, I mean. I… that first day I took his death certificate to the bank and unlocked his funds. There wasn't a lot there. I was his only beneficiary, so I hope you don't mind if I use the rest for his funeral and stuff. But there was enough for this. I figured the old bastard owed you. And I know I definitely do. So you keep it. I asked the guy at the store, and he says it's all charged up, and there's every kind of car charger known to man in the box. I-I know you've got to go, but maybe… maybe you can sit at the table for some coffee while you fix that up."

Guthrie stared at the brand-new phone—not a burner but the latest model, with a solid case—and wanted to cry.

"For this, Jock," he said, voice choked, "I'll drink an entire pot."

He reached into the truck for his computer and all the info and dragged it back into the house. Yeah, sure, he'd planned to be out of there by seven in the morning, but God, if big gestures weren't worth the wait.