Strange Things Happen At The One Two Points 3/9
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Something is squirming in Frank's stomach and his heart is trying to break free from his ribcage. Lindsey's slicking his hair back with meticulous care, a hint of a smile on her face, while Brian gives Jimmy last minute advice on the introductions speech. "Remember your audience, Jim. No fucking obscenities tonight. And absolutely no bargaining with them."
"Yeah, yeah, take a chill pill, cocksucker, I could do this in my dreams."
Gerard wanders backstage with his hands in his pockets, a cigarette dangling from his mouth. He steps up to Frank and beams at him, then grins at Lindsey, says, "Here you are," and hands Frank his cigarette. "For the nerves."
"You're a lifesaver, seriously," Frank sighs, dragging in smoke and breathing it out through his nose, closing his eyes and focusing on Lindsey's hands in his hair and the too loud noise of the people on the other side of the stage, all waiting to see him perform a fucking miracle tonight.
It hits him then, cold sheer panic. "I can't fucking do this," he says, louder than he intended, pushing Lindsey's hands away and fleeing outside. He hunkers down by the box just outside the tent and digs his hands into his greased hair, making a mess of Lindsey's hard work in just seconds. He scoops fresh air into his lungs, but soon replaces it with cigarette smoke.
It doesn’t take long for Brian and Gerard to come looking for him. They loom over him while Frank smokes, close enough that his anxiety becomes twofold.
"Frank, don't fucking do this," Brian says, and Frank looks up to see Gerard frowning at Brian.
"If he doesn't feel up to it-"
"He's breaking my fucking balls - you're breaking my balls, Frank."
Frank focuses on the smoke and digs his fingers into his chest, painfully hard, rocking back on his heels. He's often imagined being on that stage, on any stage, doing something amazing like making snakes dance or throwing backflips and volts in the air.
"He's got stage fright," Bob comments from the tentway, studying him with a frown of his own. "If you're gonna hurl, just... be sure to do it some place I don't accidentally step on it, okay, kid?"
Frank lifts his head up enough to give Bob his best death glare. He just takes it, without a flinch, then turns away and heads back inside the tent. Fucking Bryar, Frank glowers, pressing the stub of his cigarette in the dirt.
"I'll fucking do it," he says after a quiet, nervous moment, mostly single-mindedly, ignoring the angry flip his stomach makes.
Brian heaves a sigh of relief and nods, following Bob into the tent.
Gerard's smiling encouragingly, and Frank can't help giving him a small smile of his own. "What?" he asks when he can't hold his smile up any longer.
Gerard just shakes his head, his grin just growing, splitting his face.
"Oh, shit, what about the sheriff?" Frank asks when they're backstage again. Lindsey's finally given up on his hair and is instead talking with Jimmy, smoothing out the moth-eaten black jacket he's thrown on himself.
"Huh?" Gerard asks in a moment of confusion. "Oh, Stump? Frank, come on, you're far away from home. He doesn't know who you are."
"If you're sure," Frank says doubtfully, eyeing at the crowd from a crack in the tent. They look like they're growing tired of waiting. He wonders how much time he has left before the show.
It turns out that Gerard was right. Stump seems too distracted chatting with Brian to pay much attention to what’s happening on stage. Jimmy's managed to rile up the crowd really well, making promises Frank knows he can't keep.
"Just trust them to carry the show and go with it," Bob says in a moment of kindness, before giving Frank a hard shove to the stage, making him stumble his way to the spotlight.
The crowd goes silent. Everyone’s eyes are on Frank. Frank flinches as Jimmy wraps his long, spindly arm around his shoulders and yells loud enough to break ears, "And finally! Brother Francis Saaaaaint Anthonyy!" Like a goddamn baseball commentator. Frank's seen him listening to the games with Bob sometimes, sitting in Brian's truck with the windows rolled down and cheering or yelling at the car radio depending on the score. He’d rub the ache in his wrist and say stuff like, "If only I were there, if only, if only," staring into the distance, while Jimmy would shake his head or nod fervently.
"Let's hear it for the Holy Spirit! It can only touch those who believe! Who here feels the power? Who here wants to be saved!" Jimmy chants, then turns to Frank and hisses, "C'mon, debauchee, don't just stand there all stiff-like, take a bow or at least wave your hand to the audience."
"Uhhh," Frank rasps with a dry throat and takes an awkward bow, feeling stupid as soon as he's straightened up.
The show goes on in a blur. One moment he's standing there, fiercely hating himself while listening to Jimmy quoting the Bible at random and talking about the supposed miracles Frank's obviously never performed, the next Jimmy's hoppled into the audience, pushing an old woman in her wheeled chair towards the stage, telling everyone how Frank will make her walk again. Which, just no. He can't do that. He can't.
When she gets closer, she pushes down the scarf covering her face and gives Frank a wink. And Frank realizes with a start that he's just been winked at by Tegan Quin. With skills like that she should go to Hollywood and become the next Big Thing. Every twist and bend in her body, every crackle in her voice, the way she's just drawing sympathy from the clueless people in the audience: that girl's a goddamn con artist, but her gifts would go to a better use in the film industry.
"And now, my friends. I need each and every one of you to hold hands with the people next to you and focus all your energy into praying the Lord God! Brother Francis will show you the true power of faith!"
Frank stands there, blinking, waiting for something to happen. Jimmy saunters up to him and whisper-threatens him with so much impatience that Frank maybe wants to punch him. "Put your hands on her legs, or I swear to God."
Frank watches with morbid fascination as Tegan starts thrashing in the chair as soon as his hands touch her shins. After a while, she stops moving and collapses onto herself in the chair, panting hard. Her face is still hidden behind the scarf, her sharp chin the only thing peeking out. Jimmy coaxes her to stand up and walk, holding her hand in mock-support, and she's still all show, so exaggerated that Frank's nervous about it blowing all over.
But the audience is sold, that's not the problem, the problem comes when a thin, middle-aged man in brown clothes and a hat comes rushing through the people, struggling to carry an old woman in his arms.
"Help her!" he demands, resting her down on the ground with care, supporting her head in his lap. "She's dying, fucking help her."
"I-"
"I'm terribly sorry, good man," Jimmy rushes in, stepping in front of Frank. "But don't you see that Brother Francis is tired! Absolutely no more than one miracle a day, you don't want to exhaust our healer."
"He don't look too tired to me!" someone heckles, and another, "Yeah, what's the matter, you some kind of a fraud?"
The old woman rasps something, too quiet to make sense of her. Frank kneels down beside her and puts his hands on her chest. Her wrinkly, too loose skin peeks from under her nightgown, she feels almost rubbery to the touch.
Frank concentrates hard. Maybe if he manages to take a small amount of energy from everyone in the tent, he'll be able to cure her and no one will be hurt.
The woman stares at him with tired, brown eyes, lifting her hand up to cover hers with Frank's. She whispers something Frank can't quiet make out. He bends down, bringing his ear close to her mouth, listening to her weak protests. "Please, no. No."
"What?" Frank looks at her, confused.
"Please, don't." She reaches up to touch his cheek with the flat of her hand. "God takes what's His," she whispers, "God takes what's His. No man has the right to define that. No right."
"What's going on?" the man in the brown suit asks. "What are you doing? Why isn't she getting better?"
Frank stands up slowly, making sure she's as comfortable as she can be on the ground. "She said no," he says to himself, trying not to think how much her words reminded him of his mama, then repeats it louder, looking at the crowd. "This woman doesn't want to be healed. There's nothing more I can do for her. I'm sorry," he adds, speaking to the man.
He glances at Jimmy and then turns to walk away from the stage, shrugging out of the too-tight tailcoat, flinging it on the ground. He's not paying any more attention to the yells and the confusion behind his back. He's done here, he's done humoring these people. The evening's left nothing but a bad taste in his mouth.
He sits outside on the back of Brian's truck, letting the sounds of the cars and the people become a distant lull in his ears, gazing up at the evening sky: it never changes, it's always full of stars.
He falls asleep there, after a vague conversation with Brian, another one with Jimmy, a goodnight's wish for Gerard and a ‘thanks’ for bringing him his clothes. His frayed dungarees and the dirty white shirt are oddly comforting after having been forced to wear clown's clothes all evening.
The minister haunts his dreams. He tosses and turns on his hard, plywood bed, and gasps awake in the middle of the night. Every muscle, every bone in his body hurts, and patches of his skin feel raw and hot.
It had been a clear, cloudless day in the desert. Frank was standing there alone, in the middle of nothing, listening to a shrilly, tinny countdown from a loudspeaker. When the numbers came to zero, an explosion swept up the sand and dirt in the air and blew it towards him in a fast, suffocating cloud. In the middle of the storm the minister took shape, knelt down beside Frank, eyes black like the hem of his cassock that was flapping in the wind. He looked into Frank's eyes like he was searching for something, and said with a booming voice unlike anything Frank had ever heard before,
"Ye offspring of serpents, who warned you to flee from the wrath to come?"
Frank rubs at the tightness in his chest and his fingers bump against something smooth and solid. He digs out the old photograph from his chest pocket and studies it in the moonlight. The little boy in front of the Ferris wheel stares back at him with blank eyes. For all this time he's been carrying it around without a real purpose, just holding onto it like it matters somehow. But it's just a photograph. He considers throwing it away in the dirt, but then realizes that it's not his to throw away.
The next time he wakes up the sun is already high in the sky, burning hot on his cheeks and the bridge of his nose. He sits up and notices Gerard and Bob in the distance playing catch. Bob's holding his hand close to his chest and he has the mitt on, his back slightly bent, waiting for Gerard to chuck the ball at him. Gerard's frowning like the whole concept of the game is a total mystery to him, which, Frank thinks, it probably is.
Bob yells, "Come on, Gee, just like I showed you," and Gerard mumbles something Frank can't make out, takes aim and then chucks the ball in Bob's vicinity. It makes a strange curve in the air and changes course, flying past Frank's knee and hitting the truck's tailpipe, rolling underneath it.
There's something really fucked up with Gerard's aim, Frank thinks. But as they come running to him, he hears Bob proclaiming that Gerard's aim has really improved from the last time, and how he's actually putting some force into his pitch now, throwing with his whole arm instead of just his wrist.
"Christ, Frank, did I hit you?" Gerard despairs, grazing Frank's knee with his fingertips. He reeks of sweat, the front of his shirt is damp just below the collar.
"It hit the tailpipe," Bob grunts callously before Frank has a chance to reply, nudging Gerard away from Frank and dropping to his knees, peering under the truck.
Later, when Bob's been called away by Brian, and Frank's taken a quick shower in the makeshift shower that he'd helped put together behind the girls’ trailers, Frank asks Gerard about the photograph.
"No idea," Gerard shrugs, frowning at the photo. He shows it to Mikey and says that Mikey doesn't know either, but that he should ask Ray about it. "If somebody knows these things, it's Ray fucking Toro."
Frank's only seen Ray a few times before, and never talked to him. Ray's kind of a legend amongst the carnies, Frank's found out talking to people. He mostly stays inside his trailer that's been dubbed as the Management Trailer, an insider joke that Frank doesn’t really get, withdrawn from the rest of the carnival. Everybody knows Brian's the owner and the boss around here, but even Brian talks about Ray like he’s the real brains of the organization, the man with all the plans. Sometimes at night when Frank can't sleep -- or rather, tries to stay awake -- he lies on the ground near the Management Trailer with his head propped up on his arms and listens to Ray playing his guitar, letting the music penetrate his mind and cradle him like a child.
Ray tells him that he's been expecting him when Frank finally ventures in to his trailer. His hair is the first thing Frank notices, the fluffy, curly ball on top of his head bouncing gently while he moves.
"You knew I was gonna come see you? Did Gerard say something?" Frank asks, trying to tear his eyes from the hair, a voice inside his head much like his mama's chiding him for staring too long.
Ray looks at him, his eyes crinkled with amusement. "It was just a matter of time, Frank. Sooner or later everyone sees me."
"Everyone in the carnival you mean?" Frank asks, puzzled.
"Right, sure, what else would I mean?" Ray says, gesturing for him to sit down.
Frank eyes at Ray doubtfully for a moment before shrugging and taking a seat. He looks around, smiling at the cozy, lived-in atmosphere. It reminds him of Gerard and Mikey's trailer, even though it's much lighter here and there’s less fabric, no strange artifacts Frank can't figure out, and it lacks any specific smell that he would later be able to connect with the place.
"What's on your mind?"
"Huh?"
"As much as I appreciate the company," Ray says, and Frank wonders if he's just being sarcastic, "I'm curious, what brought you here today?"
"I thought you already knew."
"I can't read minds, Frank. The only one here that comes even close is Mikey. But even he -- well, it's not the same as driving a bike, I don't think."
Frank gets the photo from his pocket and hands it to Ray, watching his face change from thoughtful to surprised in a matter of seconds. "You know this kid?"
Ray gives the worn photograph minute study, frowning and turning it in his hands. Then he looks up at Frank and hands the photo back to him, shrugging his shoulders. "No idea," he echoes Gerard’s words. "Where did you even find it?"
"The supply trailer," Frank says, so disappointed. "Bob told me to clean it the other day."
Ray quirks his brow, his hair drooping at the front. "That's an old carnie prank, he's been doing that to all the rookies for as long as I can remember."
"Yeah, well, the trailer exists," Frank says, then corrects himself, "Or, existed. I was inside it, that's where the photo's from."
"That's just weird," Ray says unhelpfully. His voice is raspy and shrill, like he hasn’t been using it much.
"So you can't tell me anything?" Something about the photograph has started to feel important, like he really should figure this out.
"Uhhhh," Ray looks uneasy. He sinks his hand into his hair and scratches his head. "You could try your luck with uh, Ozzy. He used to run this place, when we were all just little kids. Getting older he started to kind of... lose it, and Brian bought the carnival from him for a song. He might have seen the kid around. I mean, this is our carnival, I recognize the Ferris wheel." Ray shows him the photo, pointing at the sign next to the ‘wheel. “Romance. It’s the same one we’re still using.”
"Great," Frank says, not sure how he could have missed it, excitement churning in his stomach. "Where can I find this Ozzy?"
Ray looks uneasy again. "He's sort of... in a rest home. When I said that he lost it, well, I really meant it."
Frank sinks back in his chair and looks at the photo. Something about the boy looks almost familiar. He can't pinpoint what it is, but the feeling in his gut is stronger than ever.
"Great, so. Where is this rest home?"
"That's the other thing. To get there, you'd have to travel through Babylon. That town's never been anything but trouble for carnies. It's... the people there make me nervous, you hear stories about them and know it's better to keep your distance."
"Babylon?" Frank wonders out loud. "It’s from the Bible, right? The name?”
“Are you a man of the Book?” Ray asks, giving him a curious look.
“Nah. But my mom, she made me go to church with her every Sunday, even when I became of age. I can still recite all the hymns and prayers by heart. You pick up a thing or two is all I’m saying."
"This thing," Ray says, "it's important to you."
"I don't know why, but strange things have been happening to me ever since I joined the carnival. Weird dreams, hallucinations, things that are there when they shouldn't be. I think if I could figure out even one of these things, maybe I'd feel like myself again."
Frank, surprised at his own forwardness, gets up from the chair. "I don't know why I'm telling you all this. I don't even know you."
"I think strangers sometimes make for better listeners," Ray smiles, reaching out for Frank. Frank shakes his hand, wondering why he never bothered to talk to Ray before.
"Thanks, man," he says and turns to leave. From the doorway he glances back at Ray, nodding at the guitar propped up against the wall. "Oh and, the way you play that guitar - fucking amazing."
Ray gives him a pleased smile, and Frank can almost see his hair fluffing up with pride.
--
Pete's had a strange night, haunted by the kind of dreams that would make Ashlee and Joe, Hayley and anyone cower in fear and tell him never to speak of them again. The one thing he hates more than anything in his life is his own mind taunting him, whispering things he can't understand. Love thyself, he thinks bitterly. If only it was that easy.
He woke up at the crack of dawn, eager to get away from his dreams. They're starting to get out of hand, and he's sure they're the kind of dreams that a man of his profession shouldn't be having in the first place.
After getting dressed in a crisp, clean cassock - Pete's starting to think there are worse things in life than keeping a maid - he got out of his room, careful not to step on any of the creaking floorboards, and spent a few hot moments looking into Ash's room through the crack in the door, admiring her body as she slipped out of the nightgown and into a sensible but stylish suit. And yeah, maybe that's not something a man in his profession should be doing either, especially since it’s his sister he’s lusting after, but indulging himself in the thoughts and images of Ashlee's body and then jerking off in the bathroom is all too familiar to just suddenly stop doing.
He eats breakfast in solitude, wondering if he could use some of the scarier stuff from his dreams in his sermons to put the fear of God in his congregation. Most of his migrants have a tendency to take his words all too literally, though, completely missing the real point he tries to preach.
When the clock turns eleven, Pete makes his way to Joe's church. Standing in the middle ship, looking around the massive structure, he wonders why it felt so impossible to find room for his migrants here. Surely two denominations could coexist in such a place. His migrants shouldn’t be punished for wanting to follow Pete instead of Joe. Ever since Pete started having a following of his own, Joe’s been showing signs of regret for allowing Pete to convert to Methodism in his rebellious youth.
Joe's sitting on one of the pews, his head bent like he's nodding off, wearing his well-loved suit that he’s worn in all the important moments in his life. When Pete edges closer, he realizes that Joe’s encased in a book.
"Hello, Joe," he says, his voice echoing off the walls, making Joe flinch. He takes the seat next to him, thinking Joe looks a little spooked.
"Son," Joe says, just managing a lukewarm smile.
"Joe? Are you well?"
"Yes, yes. I was just reading, you managed to startle me."
"May I?" Pete asks, nodding at the book, taking it from Joe when he makes no objections. He reads the title on the cover and then looks at the page Joe had been reading from, holding the book open in his lap. There's a wood-cut picture on the page spanning from side to side, a furry, horned creature lurking behind a man's sickbed. On the next page the chapter title reads, EXORCISMUS IN SATANAM ET ANGELOS APOSTATICOS.
"Joe," Pete cracks a smile, "don't tell me you've become a papist."
"Just doing research," Joe says snappishly, taking back the book.
"On what subject," asks Pete although he thinks he already knows.
"The seductive nature of evil."
Pete snorts because yeah, he knows Joe like the back of his hand. But his amusement dies almost as fast as it came. He pushes his hand into his hair, feeling very stretched and worn-out. "I have so much to do," he confesses, thoughts still lingering on his migrants. Ashlee had walked him to the church, kissed him on the cheek and told him not to worry about the church hall today, she and the girls would turn the building into a respectable house of the Lord, but still his mind wandered.
"Maybe I can help you," Joe says, taking Pete's hand into his, giving it a reassuring squeeze.
Pete studies his ageing face, looking into his eyes as he calmly replies, "Ash told me. Baptismal water transforming into blood? Really, Joe."
"I know what I saw, Peter."
"Well it's a shame no one else did."
"Son, please. You must turn away from all of this before it's too late."
"Turn away from what?" Pete asks, leaning closer as Joe tries to pull his hand back. "Say it."
"Peter, there is a demon within you. Let me help you."
"There's no demon within me, but there's one within you. All men have sinned against God at least once in their lives. Even you, Joe."
"Let me go," Joe says, struggling to get away.
The distant sounds of hoofs and wagon wheels against stone pavement fill their ears. They watch as a younger Joe pulls on the reins, making the two black stallions come to a halt on the rain-washed road. He jumps down from his seat and walks to the side of the road, looking around.
A small, golden-haired girl clambers out of the wagon, ignoring Joe's orders to stay inside, and Pete realizes with a start that this must be the moment when his life changed course, when Joe Simpson found him hunched up and alone in a ditch, filthy and cold, and took pity on him.
The girl -- Ashlee -- runs to Pete’s side and demands to know his name, then grabs his hand and pulls him up, dragging him to Joe. She can’t be more than five summers old. She shows him off like he's a stray puppy that she must have, and she's adorable, so determined to save Pete’s life.
The vision comes to an end and Joe, twenty years older, turns to Pete, confused. "My greatest evil? Saving your life? Giving you refuge? Protecting and nurturing you?"
Pete shakes his head, terrified of what it all means. "No, this isn't -- it can't…"
"By your own words, the sin I must embrace, the evil that I have brought into this world --"
"Is me," Pete breathes out. He clambers up from the pew on shaky legs, steps up to the altar and kneels down, covering his face in his hands in shame. Jesus Christ manifests on the empty cross above his head and looks down at Pete, droplets of blood running down his forehead under the crown of thorns.
"It's not too late, son. Pray with me now. Beg the Lord God to have pity on you. Pray with me, pray that the demon leave you," Joe says fervently.
"But don't you see? There is no demon in me! The demon is me." In a moment of clarity, he grabs a heavy candlestick from the altar and shoves it in Joe’s hands, kneeling back down in front of him and lowering his head. "You know what you have to do, Joe. Now, before it's too late!"
Joe hesitates, holding the makeshift weapon in his loose grip.
"If you ever loved me," Pete says, clenching his jaw, his whole body tensing up.
Joe raises the candlestick above his head. With a trembling voice he whispers, "Surely, goodness and loving-kindness shall follow me all the days of my life." Pete can feel something within him awakening, like a sixth sense that allows him to see into Joe's soul. He knows Joe can't bring himself to kill him, even when it is the only reasonable thing to do. "And I will dwell in the house of Jehovah for the length of the days," Joe rasps out, exhaling shakily. The candlestick makes a loud clatter on the stone floor when it slips from Joe's hands, rolling to Pete’s feet.
"Joe!" Pete yells after him. A forceful wind bangs the church doors closed when Joe tries to open them, not allowing him to exit. The same gust of wind blows out the dozens of candles, leaving them in darkness. Light only comes in through the stained glass windows and casts dim specks of color on the floor.
Pete grabs the candlestick and lunges at Joe.
--
After breakfast Frank seeks Brian out and asks him about Babylon.
"It's just a town," Brian grunts around a cigarette, glancing distractedly at Frank. He's supervising the dismantling of the tents, barking out instructions that Frank knows just manage to irritate the rousties even more and not actually help get the job done.
"Ray thought otherwise."
"Yeah, well, there's no doubt that Ray is brilliant, but y'know what happens to people who never leave their house?"
"What's that?"
"They make mountains out of molehills. Reality bends in their minds, makes them imagine all these horror scenarios and worry about things that aren't even there, things that don't need worrying."
Frank frowns. "But he said nobody wants to go near that place."
"That's another thing. People like Ray tell their horror stories to poor, simple-minded, superstitious fools who spread them around to their friends and family. Soon the whole world is afraid of this one little town that's never done anything to them."
"So you've been to Babylon?"
"Nah, never, but it doesn't mean I'm not right."
Doesn't mean you're not wrong, either, Frank thinks, trying to ignore the dark feeling in his gut. But if he's going to go through with seeing Ozzy at the rest home, he'll be better off agreeing with Brian for now.
"So, you wouldn't mind going there? I mean, just to prove your point to everyone?"
"Hell no, these people would start a fucking riot."
Frank tucks his fingers into his pockets and sighs.
"Why’re you asking around about Babylon all of a sudden, anyway?" Brian asks, giving him a suspicious look.
"It's just," Frank starts, and decides to be honest with him for once. "I'm looking for answers, and Ray hinted something about maybe finding them if I talked to this guy, Ozzy-"
"Ozzy?" Brian gives a startled laugh. "What the hell has Ray been telling you? I'm sorry, man, but the last time I saw Ozzy he didn't even know where he was. The man's all messed up in the head. You wouldn't get anything rational out of him even if you tried."
"I get it," Frank says, and tries not to let Brian's words bring him down.
The next morning is spent in trucks and trailers. They've been driving south ever since Frank came along, but also inching west, away from the coast. Tegan and Sara have been making plans to leave the troupe when they get to California to head towards Hollywood. Frank had asked Lindsey about this, about why she didn’t seem worried about the twins leaving the cooch show for good, but she just smiled and said that it wasn't the first time the girls had made plans. “No one ever leaves”, she’d said, “and when they do, they always come back”.
Frank spends the drive dozing off, not really wanting to sleep but too exhausted to stay awake. The back of Brian's truck has become his favorite place to spend the drives, the trailers are just too stuffy and cramped for him. He's always preferred open spaces, clear air to breathe. Outside his mind is clearer, and he doesn't feel like he's suffocating.
Music drifts to his ears from inside the truck, cheery and melodic, and if he closes his eyes and concentrates well enough, he can hear Bob in the front seat drumming along to the songs in perfect rhythm, his hands making sounds against his thighs.
As far as Frank knows, they should be driving past Babylon a safe fifty miles to the north of the town some time before noon tomorrow. It would be easy to just hop off the truck and make his way towards the spook town by himself. He could hitchhike his way to California and catch up with Brian and the rest of the gang there if he wanted, or he could just leave them all for good, and make his own choices from then on. He closes his eyes and thinks about Gerard and Brian and the girls, and wonders whether they'd miss him if he was gone.
In the evening when the sun is starting to set, the trucks come to a halt. People clamber out of their trucks and trailers, and Frank watches as they gather around the riverbank. He sits up slowly and listens to Brian’s loud cursing that’s scaring all the birds away from the branches of the trees.
He climbs down from the truck and finds Gerard standing just outside his trailer, his eyes bleary like he just woke up. "What's going on?" he asks, poking Gerard to the side to catch his attention.
"Oh, Frankie," he says distractedly, draping his arm around Frank’s shoulders like he doesn’t even notice what he’s doing, chewing on his bottom lip. He squeezes the ball of Frank’s shoulder and tucks his fingers inside his shirtsleeve, yawning wide.
"Why're we stopping? I thought the plan was to just keep going through the night."
"The bridge," Gerard motions with his free hand. Frank turns to look at the river, squinting his eyes for a better view in the dim evening.
"Holy shit," he breathes out, finally noticing the mess of the should-be-bridge spanning the river's width. It looks like a herd of angry elephants had tried to run across it, crashing the whole thing, a total mess of bits and pieces of wood in the water.
Brian hits the hood of his truck with the flat of his hands and leans his head and arms against it, muttering something to Bob.
"We're camping out here tonight," Bob calls out, addressing the crowd. "Find yourselves a place to crash but don't start setting up any fucking tents. We start moving tomorrow by sunrise after Schechter's decided which way we go."
Bob walks past Gerard and Frank, a frown on his face, not even glancing in their direction. He finds Lindsey and bluntly asks her if there's room for him in their trailer. She gives Bob a warm smile and lets him in, steering him with a hand on the back of his neck. The twins follow them inside, hand in hand.
Frank raises his eyebrows, but finds Gerard glaring daggers at their retreating backs.
He feels awkward when he says, "Um, well, I'll see you in the morning, I guess," motioning at Brian's truck. Brian's just stopped banging his head against the hood and is now sitting in the driver's seat, staring into space.
Gerard says, "Wait," and grabs Frank's wrist, a soft look on his sleepy face. "The armchair in my trailer's way more comfortable than Brian's old truck. You look like you're in serious need of a good night's sleep. Whaddya say?"
"I - uh," Frank says. Gerard's hand on his wrist feels cool and firm. Truthfully, he'd prefer to sleep outdoors, but spending the night with Gerard doesn't feel like such a bad alternative. "I guess --"
"Great! Come on, man, let's go."
They settle down in the trailer, Gerard fussing with the blankets and cushions, glaring at Mikey every now and then. Frank curls up in the chair where his cards had been read and tries to relax.
"Here," Gerard shoves a dark, satiny bundle into Frank's lap with nervous energy, his earnest gestures making Frank feel more at ease, then steps back and gives him an expectant look.
For an awkward moment Frank struggles with the comforter, somehow gets it tangled around his legs and almost slams face down on the floor in the process. What the fucking fuck? he thinks, breaking free from the tangles.
"Um, you can use my pillow," Gerard says, face so earnest that Frank doesn't know what to do with himself. "It's way better than all of these other lumpy things."
"Gee," Frank sends a smile his way from under the soft comforter. "Keep your pillow, man, everything's good just like it is."
Gerard looks at him with doubtful eyes. "Only if you're sure."
"I'm positive," Frank says and yawns to prove his point. It grows so wide that his jaw clicks. "Thanks, Gee," he adds, the stuffy air and the warm bed covers softly pacifying him. "And Mikey Way, thank you for putting up with me. You're both pretty fuckin' awesome people."
"He says you should try and get some sleep, Frank," Gerard says with a quiet voice and makes himself comfortable in the chair by Mikey's bedside, crossing his arms behind his head and letting out a soft sigh. Maybe spending the night with Gerard and Mikey isn't such a bad idea after all, Frank muses. Maybe he'll finally get to have a full night's sleep devoid of bad dreams.
--
There's a stone inside of Pete's chest, heavy and smooth. He can feel it pressing against his sternum, shifting painfully every time he breathes. He wonders if he should tell the doctor, or the pretty nurse, about the stone, but then he realizes that there's no real use in telling them, they can't fix him up when there's nothing concrete to fix.
Joe looks peaceful with his eyes closed and his whole body relaxed, but Ashlee can't stop fluffing up his pillow and smoothing out the wrinkles from his already smooth blanket.
Paralyzed, the doctor had said, shaking his head, and the moment keeps repeating itself in Pete's head over and over like a broken record.
He sits in the chair beside Joe's bed all night, next to Ashlee, and watches her body tremble as she sobs into her hands.
--
All too soon the sun starts warming Frank's face and drilling into his eyes through the uncovered window. He had awoken in the middle of the night once or twice, cold sweat shaking his body, but when he tried to think about his dreams, they slipped out of his memory too fast to make any sense of.
Standing up, he stretches out the kinks in his muscles, then runs a hand through the messy mop of his hair, looking around. Gerard's still snoring softly, open-mouthed and the side of his face squished into his pillow.
Frank feels a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth when he looks at Gerard. He stumbles to him and pokes him in the arm, smirking at Mikey who raises his eyebrows at him.
"Nooo," Gerard mumbles, swatting blindly at Frank's hand, burrowing deeper into the pillows. Frank cracks up and it startles Gerard awake, and then Frank can’t stop laughing at him.
Gerard’s face is one big scowl when he follows Frank outside.
"What the shit," Frank says, almost bumping into a heavily tattooed man standing by the trailer.
"Jeph!" Gerard beams and pulls the guy into a friendly hug.
"G-Man!" Jeph's smile is big and dopey when he throws his arms around him.
"What're you guys doing here?" Gerard asks as he pulls back, waving at a bunch of other people Frank's never seen before, but judging by their appearances, he guesses they’re carnies as well.
"As Bert was just saying," Brian says, stepping closer with a short, disheveled man under his arm, "they seem to be sharing our problems." Frank watches as Bert breaks free from Brian's grasp and crashes into Gerard's arms, hugging him so fiercely that Frank's worried about him bruising Gerard's lungs.
"Where's Dan?" Gerard asks after breaking free from Bert. His face is flushed, surprised and happy.
"Our Gepetto's checking out the damage," Jeph laughs. "Quinn went to supervise, although I bet he's just waiting for the perfect moment to get back at 'Sides for the prank he pulled last night. Maybe push him in the water."
Bert's laugh sounds like the yip of a small dog: high and drilling. Looking at Jeph and Bert snickering together, Dan and Quinn wrestling on the riverbank, Frank is reminded of a pack of young wild dogs.
"So have you decided which way we take?" Bob asks, rubbing at his wrists. One road leads straight to Babylon, the other steers away from their original path so much that it'll take days of travel to get back on the right course.
Brian's amused grin drops fast, his usual frown taking its place. "Honestly? I don't fucking know."
"Why don't we all just camp out here today and catch up with everyone. I'm sure we can figure something out before tomorrow," Jeph suggests, and everyone agrees, even Brian after a moment's hesitation. What rush Brian always has is anyone's guess, the guy's obsessed with keeping things on perfect schedule.
"I'll get Mikey out," Gerard says, beaming. "Fresh air'll do him good, also I can't wait to see his face when he sees you guys."
Bert grins and says, "I bet he already knows we're here."
The girls start piling out of their trailer. When Lindsey notices Bob, she gives him a wink and a very private smile. Jimmy's already sitting in a truck with the radio on. People are setting up breakfast by the riverside, some messing around in the river, enjoying the clean, fresh water. Brian pulls Frank aside, claiming he has business to discuss with him.
"What is it?" Frank asks, leaning up against the side of Brian's truck.
Brian stands tall, wearing what Frank has started to refer to as his boss-face. "Look, I know how much you hated doing that revival nonsense the other day. I never really got around to thanking you for going through with it."
Frank shrugs. "It's no problem, man. I'm part of the gang, right? We look out for each other."
Brian's mouth turns into a pleased, lopsided smile. "I'm glad you feel that way."
"Um," Frank says, after a pause. "Was that all?"
"Yeah, except --" Brian digs out a thin wad of bills from his pocket and hands it over. "Your reward. You've deserved it, if it wasn't for you we would have lost the whole day's earnings."
"Thanks, Brian. You're a good guy." Frank pockets the money and gives Brian an awkward smile. "I just, I want you to know you can count on me."
"Okay, okay," Brian grins, patting him on the back and then trying to cuff his head. Frank ducks away from him, laughing. "Run along now, go play with the other kiddies."
"Hey, Brian," Frank calls after him, sobering up. "You good? I mean, with this bridge thing and all?"
"Yeah, I mean. I'm not walking on air or anything, but things could be a lot worse. It's just that I don't think the troupes will be all that happy with me when they hear what I have to say."
--
The church hall is already packed with curious Okies when Pete steps in early in the morning. He shakes a few hands and kisses some babies, gives people half-assed blessings, but his mind is still stuck inside that hospital room. He had left Ashlee at the hospital at the crack of dawn but told her to go home and sleep, she'd be no use to Joe if she wasn't strong enough to even take care of herself. Joe had woken up some time in the night, unable to talk or move, but the look he had regarded Pete with was something he doesn't think he can ever forget.
"The place is starting to look really good," a young man quips from the doorway to his office, rasping the door with his knuckles.
"All thanks to my sister and her friends," Pete says, coming to greet the man. He offers him a hand to shake, which the man takes with a wide grin.
"I'm William Beckett from the KMTR radio in Hollywood. But I'm sure a man of your status has no time for something so mundane like listening to the radio."
"My sister loves the radio," Pete says. "She listens to music every night for hours on end. I sometimes catch the game just because Joe always wants to talk about it the next morning."
"That would be, uh, Ashlee and Joe Simpson?" William asks, racking his brain.
Pete is surprised. "Yeah, how'd you know them?"
William gives him a big, cheesy grin. "A good reporter always does his research," he says grandly, puffing out his chest. He sounds as young as he looks, and Pete can't find the energy or will to talk to him much longer.
"Look, as awed as I am that a star reporter such as you walks into my church, there's just a lot of stuff going on right now and-"
"Say no more, Brother!" William interrupts, wildly gesturing with his hands. "I don't want to keep you from your duties, I just came to ask you if you'd consider talking on the radio sometime."
"What?"
"The word on the street is that you're one hell of a speaker, and our station's been looking for a radio preacher for a while."
Pete blinks slowly, utterly perplexed. "You want me to preach a sermon on the radio?"
"Every weekend if you'd like. But first I'm gonna have to come and hear your next sermon in this fine church of yours. No worries, it's just a formality, the hundreds of people praising you can't all be lying, and I'm sure they're not under some freak spell of yours, either," William winks and nudges Pete's arm with his sharp elbow.
"That's fine," Pete says dryly, rubbing at his arm, "everyone's welcome to my church."
"So you'll agree to speak on the radio?"
"I guess I will. I don't really see any reason not to. Um, I'm sorry for rushing you out, Mr. Beckett, but there's been an emergency in the family and I have a lot of stuff on my mind that I need to sort out."
"Oh," William looks concerned. "I'm sorry to hear that, nothing too serious I hope?"
"My," Pete pauses. He's never felt comfortable calling Joe his dad or even his adoptive father, and after puberty he mostly stopped referring to Ashlee as his sister, although it sometimes slips out without him even noticing. "Uh, Joe was... mugged last night, he's in the hospital."
"Good lord! That's terrible!" William exclaims. "I hope they catch whoever did this to him."
Pete smiles grimly. "Yeah, we all do."
After William's gone, Pete wanders around in the house. The main room's big enough to fit a couple hundred people. He recognizes some of his migrants cleaning up the floors and windows, carrying chairs in. It's hard to believe that the room was once occupied with showgirls and dirty, horny old geezers every single night. The carnality of it all excites Pete more than he'd be willing to admit to anyone.
The second floor is reserved for young orphans, kids whose parents drought has taken, kids who'd be begging for food in street corners and sleeping in alleyways. It had been Ashlee's idea from the start, and Pete had no reason to turn her down. For all his life Pete believed that Ash was the sole force keeping him on the right path, not letting him stray. Now he's afraid of what he might do to her if things keep progressing this way.
Two kids run past him on the hallway and disappear into their rooms, laughing with that childlike indifference, and suddenly Pete finds it very hard to breathe. He tugs at his collar, stumbling out of the house, the stone inside of him shifting upwards, blocking his windpipe, forcing him to gasp for air.
The harsh midday sun hits him in the eyes and beads of sweat start forming on his temples. He leans against the wall of the house and tears away his clerical collar, breathing heavy and hard. He clutches at the white stripe of fabric in his fist and clenches his eyes shut, praying for forgiveness.
--
It's a slow day for Frank. He's spent most of it sitting at the breakfast table with a mug of coffee, listening to Bert and Quinn's stories from the road. Sometimes Jeph and Dan walk by and add details to their stories, but soon they wander off again, similar smirks adorning their faces. Gerard occasionally asks questions about the places Bert had promised to visit and his eyes light up whenever Bert digs out small souvenirs from his worn-out backpack and presents them to him. Cigarette lighters with intricate engravings, matchboxes, semiprecious stones, incense and a brand new, handsome deck of Tarot cards.
"He's like a magpie," Bert crows delightedly. "Attracted to shiny things!"
Gerard juts out his lip and glowers. "I'm not like a motherfucking bird!"
"Yeah, except that your hair totally looks like a bird's nest in the morning," Frank says in jest.
Mikey quirks his lips a smidgen, eyes shining at Frank. Bert cracks up as if on cue, and Frank thinks if Gerard's a magpie then Bert is definitely a mockingbird. Quinn's stayed quiet throughout the teasing, but he's constantly keeping a close eye on Bert, sitting a little closer when Bert's attention is focused on Gerard. The more time Frank spends observing the trio, the more curious he gets. There’s a lot of history between them, much more than they’re letting on.
Frank's attention starts to stray when the conversation steers back to reminiscing. The names they mention -- Kitty, Amanda, Geoff -- have no meaning to Frank, so he doesn't even bother to try and keep up. Even with all the hours of sleep he got last night his brain still feels disgustingly fuzzy, like it's wrapped up in a thick layer of cotton. He's pretty sure that he shouldn't have been dreaming about any big explosions, and the earsplitting ringing after the countdown was something he had never even heard before, so how could he have dreamed it? And what's the deal with the creepy minister? Why does this one man keep haunting his dreams?
He closes his eyes just for a second and he's already swept away in another dream.
He's running again, this time across a big cornfield, the cobs so young and firm that they cut small scratches on his skin when he rushes past them. He chances a look behind him and gasps, dread creeping in. In the distance he can make out the shape of the bull-like man, his tattoo spanning his entire upper body, the branches of the tree curling over his ribs. He’s walking in a steady pace but somehow he's still gaining on Frank. Frank tries to speed up but the cobs are growing thicker now, suffocating him, not letting him through. The terrible burning pain in his thighs makes his legs shake and he tumbles down, his palms hitting the ground. He presses his face down and draws in heavy breaths of air, listening to the steady pace of his pursuer growing closer.
"Frank? Frank! Frankie, c'mon, wake up, man," Gerard's voice pierces through his dream. He thinks if Gerard didn't wake him up at the most opportune moments, he would have already been scared to death by these dreams.
"Bwuh," Frank says into his arm, feeling drowsy. He realizes that the skin there is wet and angry red. He must have been biting his arm while he slept, his body numb with terror. The pain is only now starting to register. "Ow, goddamn it."
"Must've been some dream," Quinn comments, arching his brows. Bert's staring at him like he's some kind of a freak, but Gerard's hand running up and down his back is making everything feel much better.
"Shit. Did I um..."
"You were screaming," Gerard says apprehensively. Frank doesn't dare to turn his head to see the expression on Gerard's face; his worried voice is enough to make Frank feel like a total idiot.
"Understatement of the year," Bert says with a nervous huff of a laugh.
"Sorry," Frank presses his face into his palms and wants the fucking ground to swallow him up. Please, God, I wouldn't say no to a nice little lightning strike, either, he thinks, face disgustingly clammy in his hands.
"Frank," Gerard breathes out. His voice is so quiet that it feels like he's only talking to him, like no one else needs to hear what he has to say. "No matter what, don't ever apologize for your dreams, Frankie, because that's just fucked up. You can’t control them." Gerard glances at Mikey and then runs his hand along the ridges of Frank's spine with more vigor, straying his fingers in his sweat-curled hair and combing it away from his burning neck.
"D'you wanna tell me about it?" Gerard whispers close to Frank's ear, his jaw moving on Frank's shoulder, his forehead almost touching the side of Frank's head.
Frank shakes his head and pulls away, giving Gerard a tight smile. "Maybe later."
"Okay," Gerard drops it surprisingly fast, just squeezes the slope of Frank's shoulder and then pulls away from him completely, giving him space.
But Bert and Quinn are still keeping a wary eye on Frank, and Gerard's worrying his lip and giving him that look, like he wants to pull Frank aside and have a deep conversation with him, which, just no. That's the last thing Frank wants. He gets up from the table and mumbles something about needing to stretch his legs a little, to clear his head, and skips off before anyone has a chance to react to him.
He walks around for a while, his hands tucked in the pockets of his dungarees, says hi to people when he passes by them but doesn't stop to talk to them. There's Lindsey by the river, scrubbing at a silky nightgown in the water while talking to Jimmy, Tegan and Sara practicing a difficult-looking choreography and some of Bert's guys that Frank's never talked to drinking from dusty, green bottles and wolf-whistling the twins. For a second he wonders if he should tell the guys to fuck off -- he wants to, so much that it’s in the set of his jaw, the flex of his fingers -- but he seems to be the only one bothered by them.
Sara beams and waves at Frank, a large feather attached to her wrist with string, then turns back to her sister as they continue their dance. Maja, one of Bert's girls, sits down on a trunk and gives both sisters sultry looks that they reciprocate.
Gabe's training his snakes outside his trailer and Vicky's sitting with him, brushing her hair while Gabe makes a couple of thin, yellow snakes sway to the tune of his whistled melodies.
He finds Brian, Bob, Jepha and Dan behind of one of the brightly painted trailers. Brian's perched on a box in the middle of their little half square while Jeph is doing something to his arm.
"Hey, Iero!" Brian says, motioning him over with his other arm. "Come see the master at work."
"What's going on?" Frank asks, stepping closer to peer over Jeph's hunched back. "Oh, Christ. Awesome," he breathes as he watches Jepha working on a picture on Brian's skin with a tattoo gun. He’s seen one up so close only once before and that was when he got his numbers on his wrist, not really the high point of his life.
"It's just a hobby," Jepha says with modesty, his mouth quirked up in a pleased smile.
"Yeah, he's only done every single tattoo on his whole crew," Brian says exasperatedly, giving Jepha a slight nudge with his foot, careful not to jostle him too much. "And just look at that crew, you don't find more heavily tattooed people anywhere in the world, no matter where you look. It's kind of a tradition that whenever our paths cross Jepha draws a new design on me," he adds, grinning.
"We have do it away from prying eyes though, don't wanna risk at Gerard walking in on us and getting a fucking panic attack," Dan says, chuckling to himself. Bob slaps him on the hip from the box he's perched on.
Frank gives Brian a confused look.
”Gerard gets really freaked out around needles or anything needle-like,” Brian explains, “which is kind of ridiculous considering he's lived in a carnival for all his life. By now he should be used to everything.”
"Can I, um --" Frank doesn't really know what he's asking. Everything about this whole tattoo business is just new and fucking fascinating to him.
"Do you wanna try it out?" Jepha asks, holding up the hand-sized machine for Frank, smiling at him encouragingly.
"Just not on me," Brian retorts, pulling back his arm. Next to him Bob snorts. "You can stick that needle wherever, I don't fucking care, just stay away from me."
Frank grins and snatches the machine from Jeph and waltzes up to Brian, advancing on him, snickering when Brian jumps from his seat and yells out in protest.
"Fuck off," Brian exclaims, keeping Frank at an arm's length with his fingers around Frank's wrists. Frank wrestles with Brian for a while, just for the hell of it, but eventually gives up and lets Brian push him away.
"Have a seat," Dan says with that dopey smile of his, nudging at the box with the side of his foot.
Frank doesn't hesitate. He drops down on the box and holds out his arm, feeling every bit like the kid in the candy store he must look like. Jeph chuckles as he takes the tattoo machine back from Frank and plunks down on another box, his knee pressing into the outside of Frank's thigh.
"So, Mr. Iero," Dan says, all showmanship. "What'll it be? Jepha can do it all, take the stars from the sky and put them on your skin, the birds from the trees --" Frank glances up, there's only vultures circling the sun, waiting, always just waiting for someone to drop dead from the heat. "Or maybe you're into bigger stuff, tigers and dragons, black bears with their long snouts and knife-sharp teeth-"
"No!" Frank cries out, yanking his arm back and blinking fast against the film of images flashing in front of his eyes. The huge black bear from his dream is too sharp and real in his vision.
"No?" Dan asks, utterly put off by Frank's reaction.
Frank shifts uncomfortably, ignoring Bob's curious look and Brian's confused face. "I'll take the stars," he says with determination, holding out his hand to Jepha once more.
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