Euphemisms for Insanity (3/3)
first, second
That’s it, though. Ryan doesn’t go home but he does stop sitting on Spencer’s bed barefoot for long periods of time. He sleeps in the guest room and he stops telling Spencer that the morning like dirt or that he is too salty. Sometimes, Spencer sees Ryan lick his lips and look surprised, but he never says anything. He goes back to talking about music and movies and literature and only once remarks on the color of the sky, which is gray, which is the same color of Madam Asher’s dress, which Ryan thinks is a wretched color on anyone, even Madam Asher, don’t you agree, Spencer?
Spencer picks up a casserole from Ryan’s aunt.
Everything else goes back to normal. Ryan laughs at Spencer’s uniform slacks and dark button-downs. Spencer rolls his eyes at Ryan’s paisley ties and floral shirts. Ryan apologizes to Madam Asher within a day of his ‘feeling better’ as everyone refers to it, and gets his old job back immediately. They eat lunch together sometimes and sometimes they don’t and dine together whenever they get home at the same time, which is not very often, but they see each other in the bathroom brushing teeth in the evenings and the mornings. They’ve known each other since they were five and everything is normal, except Ryan won’t leave and they keep eating casserole.
So passes Ryan’s first week of post-evangelical healing. They do good, for the five days that it is.
Spencer gets home on Friday, late, because Stump’n’Bryar are fucking slave drivers, and he doesn’t see Ryan.
He sees Ryan’s shoes, he sees a pair of Ryan’s work trousers but he does not see Ryan.
Cursing, he heads back out. He doesn’t detour or pretend. He just walks straight out to the old fairgrounds, to the corner, where the bright little tent remains as bright as last weekend. The cacophony is unbearable, happy people singing with weak accompaniment. They really need a drummer.
Spencer ducks between the tent flaps and pushes his way through the crowd until he can see. Ryan’s sitting on the side of the stage with Jon. With a tambourine, even. Ryan’s never picked up a tambourine in Spencer’s life.
After he gets over being annoyed that Ryan lost his mind again and he’s not wearing shoes and he’s sitting on a dirty stage in his nice pants, and, man, is it going to be a bitch to get him home tonight, jealous sparks deep inside him. Ryan is sitting with his legs crossed and his feet bare next to Jon, who sits with his legs hanging on the stage, feet also bare. They’re mismatched, Ryan in that unbelievable floral shirt and Jon in a ratty sweater, but they look natural. Comfortable. Spencer wavers, caught between storming out and staying in, because Ryan has lost his mind again. Spencer wavers too long. Brendon, singing and dancing onstage, catches his eye and he smiles at Spencer, only at Spencer.
An invitation, Spencer realises. Again.
He turns on his heel and walks out. Sisky, standing in the back, waves goodbye to Spencer. He doesn’t look grey at all. His cheeks are pink.
Spencer stands outside the tent and breathes, in, out. It’s empty outside the tent and it’s late at night, and everything looks a lot bigger than he is.
He pulls his coat close to him and walks home alone, arms crossed.
;;
He takes the long way home, even though it is an unbearably teenage act and he’s too old and too tall to get away with walking along the back roads at night. He feels teenage though, he feels unbearably teenage and since it sits just fine with him, he hopes it’ll sit just fine with the sheriff and his deputies if he gets caught.
He tries to stay out of the light anyway, and ends up kicking rocks down the train tracks. He pulls out a nail just before he has to cut across someone’s backyard to get to his house, and puts it in his pocket.
;;
Ryan wanders into his room and says, “you ever feel like, uh, like the things we see and know aren’t enough and there’s like, uh, like this huge empty thing inside of you, like there aren’t bones and blood and stuff, just like, darkness and hollow things that echo?”
Ryan climbs onto Spencer’s bed and settles at the bottom like a well-trained, existential house pet. “When I was, uh. With the colors and everything, it was like, I don’t know, I wasn’t hollow because there was all of that, and you, so I didn’t feel that way.”
Ryan folds his legs and leans against the wall. “It’s not even like, love, you know? Us, I mean, it was just like you were the only person who was there and that was like, that was like the best thing ever, you and Jon, and that was it, and now it’s like, there are all these people but they don’t mean a thing.”
Spencer says, “Jon?” and then he says, “two-thirty in the morning, Ryan!” and then he sits up so fast that the covers bunch around his legs and he’s tangled and he doesn’t even care. He glares at Ryan. “You miss being crazy.”
“Well,” says Ryan, “yeah. Kind of.”
“Fuck, Ryan,” says Spencer, pulling at the covers around his legs. “Fuck.”
“I was talking to Jon,” says Ryan, earnest even with his arms around his knees. “He’s like me. He’s like how I was. You ever wonder why that guy is so zen? He sees colors and stuff, like. All the time.”
“No, I don’t. And why the hell doesn’t Brendon cure him?” says Spencer, but he changes his mind. “No, wait, fuck off. You miss being crazy? You miss having no job and not knowing anyone but me?”
“Um,” says Ryan, resting his head on his arms.
“And me having to feed you? And not doing anything but sitting on my bed all day?”
“Um,” says Ryan.
“Ryan, your aunt was feeding us casserole,” says Spencer desperately, even though he has really come to enjoy Ryan’s aunt’s casserole. He starts pulling at the covers around his knees again.
“I know,” says Ryan. “I know, I know, but. I miss it. Everything’s different now.”
“Maybe you need to get out of my house,” suggests Spencer.
Ryan shakes his head violently. “No, that’s just. No. I can’t.”
This is an argument Spencer has already lost. He gives the blankets one last, violent tug. Ryan topples over onto his legs.
“I think I’m leaving when they do,” says Ryan into the space between Spencer’s kneecaps.
“Ryan,” says Spencer. “I thought I was- I thought you were-”
“I thought so too,” says Ryan, struggling with some effort to right himself. “Sorry.”
Neither of them sleep that night. Ryan sits at the end of Spencer’s bed, arms folded over his knees, chin on his arms and Spencer sits against the headboard. They are both silent.
;;
Saturday is quiet for both of them. Ryan does the dishes and Spencer does the laundry and hangs it all up in the backyard where the grass is so oppressively green that Spencer feels like pouring salt on everything, just so it matches his mood.
He sits on the back steps for a while and watches their mis-matched clothing get pushed around by the breeze. Ryan’s plaid purple and green pants, his maroon shirts. The clothing clashes with each other, he noticed, but not exactly with the rest of Spencer’s yard. Somehow the green of the grass makes everything look normal. Anyone could be living in Spencer’s house right now. No one would ever know there was a guy who wasn’t crazy anymore and a guy who wasn’t ever crazy living in Spencer’s house right now, not by looking at Spencer’s laundry line.
The screen door opens behind him and Ryan sits down next to him. He hands Spencer a mug of coffee. They watch the breeze push their clothing around.
Spencer drinks half of his coffee before he can think of anything to say, and even then he can’t find the effort. He stares at his mug.
“Brendon asked about you last night,” says Ryan. “At the service. He wanted to know where you were.”
“I’m not a believer,” says Spencer, dismissive, without looking at Ryan. He looks at the grass instead. Fuck, it’s so green.
“He’s not a preacher,” says Ryan.
Spencer finishes his coffee. He’s just not feeling good today, that’s all. “You’re going to leave with them,” he says.
“They’re not leaving today,” says Ryan.
“But you are, when they do,” says Spencer.
“Yeah,” says Ryan.
Spencer sighs, and sits back, stretching. He crosses his legs at the ankles at glares at his faded jeans.
“I’m going tonight, wanna come?” asks Ryan.
“I’m not a believer,” says Spencer.
“Neither am I,” says Ryan. “Shit, Spencer.”
“Yeah,” says Spencer. He pushes himself back until he’s leaning against the screen door, head against the mesh. “Yeah.”
“They could use a drummer, anyway,” adds Ryan. “Brendon loses his rhythm pretty easily.”
Spencer tosses his mug into the grass. It bounces and lies on its side, white glaze reflecting the blue sky.
;;
Spencer makes it halfway through the old fairgrounds before he has to sit down and breathe. He sits down in the dust and breathes, head in hands.
;;
Ryan’s on stage again, with that fucking tambourine. He looks like a huge hippie, and he looks at Jon like Jon did nothing short of hanging the moon in the sky and polishing it every night. He looks at the crowd like they held the ladder that helped Jon put the moon up there.
Spencer stands in the back, hands tucked into his pockets.
Ryan looks really happy, is the problem.
Sisky and Butcher and jumping up and down on stage, reciting poetry, or something. Spencer hasn’t really been listening.
Someone touches his shoulder and he, to his credit, does not elbow them in the stomach. He flinches though and Brendon releases him immediately, with a “whoa, sorry.”
“What,” says Spencer, embarrassed.
“Sorry,” says Brendon again. “I just, hi. Good to see you here.”
“Okay,” says Spencer.
“We, uh,” says Brendon. He sort of deflates. “I mean, I can’t say we missed you given that you keep looking at us like you’re gonna punch us all in the stomach, but whatever, it was kind of exciting? Kept us on our toes, ha.” He puts his hands in his pockets, shoulders hunched.
Spencer takes his hands out of his pockets and says, “Greta could take me.”
Brendon laughs properly at that, with his face breaking into a huge grin and his eyes crinkling up in the corners and all his teeth showing. “Yeah,” he says, between giggles, “yeah, she totally could. She totally could.”
Spencer doesn’t know what to do with his hands. He puts them in his back pockets instead, rolling his shoulders as he does. Brendon watches him. Spencer looks away, towards the stage. He could swear Butcher and Sisky are leading the crowd the recitation of an old nursery rhyme.
“I locked my house,” says Spencer, “Ryan’s too, so.”
Brendon nods. “Yeah.” He smiles, sort of gray, Spencer thinks. “We’re leaving soon anyway.” He winks. “Sheriff’s onto us. We’ve done all we can for you people anyway.”
“Hey,” protests Spencer, because he doesn’t really count himself the same as everyone other slack-jawed believer in the tent with them, but then he remember he did give Brendon money, so Brendon probably counts him the same. Though he punched Brendon in the stomach, so their relationship is about even, he thinks. He takes as much as he gives.
They watch Sisky and Butcher jump around, shouting just for the joy of noise.
“Ryan wants to come with you,” says Spencer the same time as Brendon says, “Ryan.”
“Huh,” says Spencer.
“Yeah,” says Brendon. “He feels very comfortable with us.”
They both look to Ryan. Ryan is still on stage, beaming like it’s his fucking wedding day, beaming and bouncing along to whatever groove Jon has going on. Spencer has sort of tuned out everything around him except Brendon.
“Jon’s just like Ryan,” says Brendon. “Just, I couldn’t do anything for him, you know?” He rushes his words, like he’s making up excuses. “I couldn’t- there wasn’t anything. We just picked him up when we found him in Illinois. Not like, I mean, he wasn’t like a stray cat or whatever, but he, I mean, everyone he knew was going crazy trying fix him. And he liked us. So he came along.”
It occurs to Spencer for the first time that he’s never even asked Brendon what the fuck, how the fuck is he fixing all these people if he isn’t a doctor and he isn’t a priest. Because he certainly isn’t either, he’s just a man, a man in a red snakeskin coat who looks sort of anxious.
Brendon looks sort of anxious, Spencer realises. Spencer tries to figure what it means that he’s noticing this now, and not how Ryan on stage, smiling or how he’s feeling a bit hungry or how Butcher has shed a lot of clothing in the last five minutes. Brendon looks sort of anxious, talking about Jon.
Spencer doesn’t want to know how Brendon can just take his best friend and fix him with a couple of words when Spencer can spend two weeks and hardly get him to eat a full meal.
“I gotta go,” says Brendon. He reaches out and touches Spencer’s arm. “See you. If you stick around, uh.” He gestures, something like you should come talk to me and we can continue talking to each other or possibly you should take Ryan home because he gets a bit annoying when he’s tired (Spencer knows) or possibly just, this tent is fucking massive and I’m fucking tiny.
Brendon disappears while Spencer is still deciphering and reappears on stage to the roar of the crowd.
Spencer sits up tall and cranes his neck. Yes, Ryan is still sitting on stage, and he still looks happy.
But Brendon looks anxious. Even as he gestures and smiles and his voice drops into something loud, booming, convincing, he lacks a certain color. He’s a bit grey.
Spencer squints, but he still doesn’t want them to go.
;;
Spencer makes it half-way through the entire service before he has to go outside.
Greta finds him. Corners him, really, standing in the clearing by himself. “I saw you talking to Brendon,” she says. She moves as she talks, skirt fanning around her.
“Yeah.” Spencer doesn’t know what he’s agreeing to.
She hands him an unlabeled brown bottle of fuck-knows-what and Spencer takes it and drinks heavily.
She takes it out of his hands, grinning. “Easy.”
“Agh,” says Spencer, touching his throat. Every single part of his body feels hot.
Greta takes a small sip herself, cheeks coloring. She licks her lips.
“Don’t you have lives to be changing or something?” asks Spencer, feeling sluggish all of a sudden.
Greta smiles and it’s about five thousand watts more bright than the tent or the stars or possibly, possibly the sun. Maybe even brighter than Ryan smiling in the tent, shit, Spencer has no idea. What the fuck did she just give him. “You’re so reactive, Spencer. You need to just breathe.”
“You could take me,” says Spencer, casting about for something to put his hands on. The site is empty for the moment, though it sounds like service is just wrapping up, what with the shouting of the crowd and Brendon, and the bass and the unmistakable beat of the tambourine and Brendon.
“Yeah,” says Greta. She giggles. “Yeah, I totally could.” She spins for real this time and her dress fans out in a perfect circle. Spencer is mesmerized. “You don’t even have a beard.”
“Hey,” says Spencer.
She giggles at him, smiling with her eyes full of tears or stars or light or something. Butcher and Sisky come charging out of the tent. They race up to Greta, spin her around and take the bottle out of her hands. The three of them run off to the trailer, leaving Spencer alone in the dark.
Spencer sits down.
;;
People drift out of the tent in a continuous stream. Spencer is amazed by the amount of fools that come out to see Brendon lie convincingly. Billy-from-down-the-road waves at him and Spencer sort of nods. He can’t move very much, or the entire world slides away. He needs to tie himself down or something, he’s gonna float away and those stars, he can tell, aren’t going to do shit for him when he breaks through the stratosphere to whatever comes next.
Butcher passes by, a bit wobbly and carrying an empty green bottle. He high-fives Spencer. Spencer grabs onto his hand. Butcher’s slight, but he makes a good anchor. They let go immediately, but Butcher ends up standing sort of near him. It’s kind of like they know each other, might be acquaintances or maybe even friends. Spencer is perplexed by this and also by how Butcher has no shirt on and yet has no goosebumps. Spencer has goosebumps. It’s night time, it’s chilly. Spencer crosses his arms on his knees.
Sisky runs past, shouts something incomprehensible at them, and flies into the tent, where there is a great crash. Most of the parishioners have left, and only a few are still hanging around, talking to Greta (and where did Greta come from, thinks Spencer, she just appeared like stars in the sky outside the tent, twirling) and so there aren’t many screams when Sisky causes a great crash, but Jon and Ryan wander out of the tent together looking amused. Ryan still has his tambourine. They’re singing, too. Singing about. . .oh, Spencer has no idea. Sisky running into tents and causing huge crashes.
“Sisky!” shouts Butcher. He gives Spencer a halfway smile and runs into the tent. He emerges a few seconds later with Sisky on his back. He is surprisingly quick, given the load on his back, but they gallop across the campsite and collapse near the fire pit. Greta joins them with a couple of parishioners, and everyone is talking and laughing.
“Spencer.” It’s Billy-from-down-the-road.
Why is it always Billy-from-down-the-road.
“You look lost.” Billy looms over Spencer, hands on his hips.
“I know where I am,” says Spencer, trying so very hard to focus on Billy’s face and having an awful time of it.
“Spencer, you need guidance,” says Billy. “You should talk to Brendon.”
“No,” says Spencer to the entire thing.
Billy sits down next to him. “I don’t believe you.”
“I’m drunk,” says Spencer. He sways a little, away from Billy. Billy makes a face, appalled, probably, that Spencer would get drunk on holy ground. Billy believes in Brendon, which is pretty sad, thinks Spencer, pretty sad. Billy will just get his heartbroken when Brendon leaves soon.
Spencer makes a face like Billy’s.
“Don’t vomit on me,” Billy advises. He stands. “See you, Spencer.”
Spencer lies back and watches the trees through the stars. He feels grey.
;;
“Spencer,” says Ryan. “Get up, Spencer.”
Spencer looks up at him.
“You’re ruining your pants,” says Ryan. “Get up.”
Spencer blinks and it would appear that he’s lying in the campsite. Yes, he is in fact lying in the campsite, and his black trousers are dusty. No wonder Ryan sounds pissed.
Ryan kicks his shoulder. “What are you doing, seriously.”
“Uh,” says Spencer. “I don’t know.”
“Empty,” says Ryan. “Empty empty empty. Whatever, dude. I’m gonna go talk to Jon.”
“You spent all service with Jon,” Spencer begins but it’s a lost point because Ryan walks away, towards a bonfire that has appeared in Spencer Smith’s temporary absence. He sits and tries to make himself pay attention but even with that short nap, he’s pretty far gone. He’s warm all over, dusty too, and wow, whatever Greta gave him was fucking intense. He’s not even sure it was alcohol anymore. Secret tent-top preacher booze, or something, whoa. He turns over, onto his back. God, but the stars are bright like Greta’s eyes and what is this? He doesn’t even like Greta. She could punch him in the stomach like he could punch Brendon, except she wouldn’t even feel bad about. She would probably laugh, in fact. She seems like the kind of girl who would laugh after punching him in the stomach. Certainly she can drink him under the table because he can hear her singing at the other end of the camp site. Amazing grace, how sweet the wretch that saved a sound like me. She’s not lying in the dust.
Why would Ryan leave him, Spencer, the picture of stability and good-judgement, for people like this. People who live and breath without guilt. How could Ryan leave him for that.
Well, shit.
The stars crinkle up in the corners like smiles with all the teeth showing. Spencer passes out again, chuckling to himself.
;;
“Spencer,” Brendon shakes him, “wake up, dude, you’re gonna choke on your own vomit.”
Spencer starts, throwing a hand over his eyes. “No vomit,” he intones. “None.”
“Trust me,” says Brendon. “It’s coming and it ain’t going to be pretty.”
“I am stronger than this,” says Spencer, because his head is roaring and it is still night time, what the fuck. He refuses to be hung-over before he sees daylight. Where is Ryan. No. Where is Greta, he needs more of that shit that makes him feel warm and useless.
Brendon sits down next to him as Spencer struggles into a sitting position. He’s not smiling, but he looks less grey, but maybe that’s because Spencer can see him closely now.
“You stayed,” says Brendon. “Well, you passed out, I guess, but you stayed, huh? That’s pretty cool, thanks. For staying. I saw you in the service for a little bit.”
“Yeah,” says Spencer. “Oh, yeah. For a bit. But I had to go out. Because you were grey. Then Greta gave me something.”
“Greta’s generous,” says Brendon. “Wait, grey?”
“Yeah,” says Spencer. “But you aren’t as much anymore.”
“You’re drunk,” says Brendon.
“Greta gave me something,” says Spencer. “You knew that. Of course you knew that, you probably orchestrated it. If I didn’t lock my house, I bet you’d be stealing from me.”
Brendon does not crinkle up in the corners, in fact, he sort of frowns. “Yeah. Well. We like you now.”
“I like you too,” says Spencer. “I don’t even want to punch you in the stomach anymore.”
It feels good, saying that, so he says it again. “I don’t even want to punch you in the stomach anymore.” He even smiles, and he feels like smiling, so it’s a real smile at Brendon.
“Oh good,” says Brendon. “That’s, yeah, that’s really great.”
“Yeah,” says Spencer.
“I’d be drunk with you if there weren’t parishioners hanging around,” Brendon declares, quietly, just to Spencer.
“Wish there weren’t,” says Spencer and what the hell. He needs to just stop talking, right now, stop talking because Brendon smiles at that, no more sort-of frowning but a real, genuine smile.
“See you, Spencer,” says Brendon. He knocks Spencer’s shoulder with his own. “Don’t lie down and choke on your own vomit.”
“I won’t,” says Spencer. “I’m vomit free.”
Brendon smiles again at that, and he gets to his feet, dusting off the seat of his pants. He walks away, smiling still, and starts to sing a song about pigeons that look like ducks.
“I don’t even want to punch you in the stomach anymore,” says Spencer, out loud, again, just because it feels so good.
“Fuckin’ sweet, dude,” says Sisky. Spencer smiles at him too.
;;
“Get up, Spencer,” says Ryan, kicking him. “You’re going to choke on your own vomit and die, and then I won’t have anywhere to live.”
Spencer tries to tell Ryan that, whoa, he has a house, or whoa, he said he was picking up with Brendon anyway, or whoa, come one, he’s Spencer, he is vomit free, but instead he rolls over, sits up and vomits all over Ryan’s shoes. Where did Ryan even get shoes? He wasn’t wearing any in the tent.
“Must I always take care of you,” says Ryan. He sounds disgruntled, like Spencer has been killing his party all night, like Spencer hasn’t been keeping to himself, in the dust, all by himself. Ryan kicks off his shoes into the dark, takes off his socks and chucks them away as well. He leans down and grabs Spencer’s arm. “We gotta go home now.”
“Sure,” says Spencer, “okay.” And he even makes an effort to get up on his own, although his head is really killing him now, and his legs don’t quite feel like his own.
They stumble home together, through the darkened streets. Spencer feels his headache clang louder with every echoing footstep, until he finally stops and kicks off his shoes as well, kicking them into someone’s yard. He takes off his socks as well and throws them into the gutter.
“Are you drunk?” asks Ryan.
“I have a headache,” says Spencer, bending over, rubbing his temple.
“Whoa,” says Ryan, “hey. Let’s go home.” He hooks an arm through Spencer’s and they walk home. The sun is rising, somewhere. It’s not as dark as it used to be, greyer rather then black. Spencer frowns.
“Sunday morning,” he says.
“Yeah,” says Ryan. “You have a full fifteen hours to recover before tonight’s service.”
Spencer says, without thinking, “I don’t want to punch Brendon in the stomach anymore.”
“I know,” says Ryan. “He told me.” He grins, a little crooked and weird like usual. “He’s really happy.”
“He wasn’t though, not until I said that.”
“Yeah, well, you were drunk.” Ryan guides him up the walk. Spencer fumbles in his pocket for a key and comes up instead with a railroad nail. He shifts it to the other pocket and continues searching.
“He said he wished I was drunk,” says Spencer. “When I was drunk, he wanted to be drunk too.”
“He told me that too,” says Ryan.
“Hell,” says Spencer and comes up with his keys, fucking finally, even if they are too loud in his hands, “you two are best friends now.”
Ryan gently extracts the keys from Spencer’s hand and opens the door. “Spencer.”
“Yeah,” says Spencer.
They fall asleep in Spencer’s bed together, out of habit more than any real need for either of them to be comforted.
;;
Spencer wakes up with a splitting headache and bright colors that spin before his eyes. He climbs over Ryan and makes it to the bathroom just in time.
;;
Ryan’s packing a bag, so Spencer leaves. Because Spencer doesn’t have anything productive to say, nothing that isn’t going to try to dissuade Ryan from leaving. He fidgets, sitting at the kitchen table with a great headache and a terrible cup of coffee, watching Ryan take his wooden spoons and put them in socks. At least Spencer did the laundry yesterday.
He gets up and leaves when Ryan starts examining his whisks. He leaves his keys on the counter though, because Ryan needs to examine his own house as well. Spencer isn’t going to do that.
It’s bright outside, warm like any other Sunday in the spring. The streets are empty, everyone asleep or in religious services. Spencer rolls up his sleeves and walks down the middle of the street for the hell of it. It still makes him feel like a bad ass, like he’s breaking the law and his mother’s rules and no one’s gonna find out.
He thinks he spies Sisky in the living room of one house, but he’s not sure. He keeps walking, doesn’t know the owners of the house so it’s not like it bothers him. Why would it, anyway, Sisky means well, he just likes his aubergine coats or something. Spencer doubts that anyone in Brendon’s camp ever steals anything of value. Maybe it’s a lesson in valuing worldly possessions too much, whatever. Or that’s how they would justify it to the sheriff. Teaching the people a lesson. It would make headlines, at least. Brendon could probably pull it off. Brendon is pretty convincing when he wants to be.
Spencer still has a headache. Goddamn Greta. She might have warned him.
He turns off one of the better-paved streets and down one of the alleys that connects the streets. All the garbage bins are out, and Sisky hops over a fence and right into an open one.
Sisky flails, and shrieks. He’s landed right in the Bailey’s garbage, which is about as good as it gets, with the new baby and them opening a restaurant.
Spencer laughs. Then he grabs Sisky by the fore-arms and attempts to heft him out of the bin. Sisky smells terrible. Sisky gets out of the garbage bin, but not before knocking it, and three others, over. They flee down the alley and out onto the street.
“You smell terrible,” says Spencer, walking a few paces away from Sisky.
“I ripped my kite,” says Sisky sadly. “It must have caught on fence.” He drops it in the street and they continue walking up the road.
“You really smell terrible,” says Spencer.
“Butcher will hose me off,” says Sisky. “Nice shirt, by the way. White is flattering, you should wear that color more often.”
Spencer isn’t sure he trusts the fashion advice of a kid in a ripped cotton t-shirt and maroon trousers, but then again, he’s let Ryan advise him, and he’s seen Ryan wearing pink and brown paisley without batting an eye. “Thanks,” he says.
“No prob,” says Sisky. He starts to turn down the walk of another house but Spencer grabs his arm. “No, the Murphys never leave their house.”
“It looks abandoned,” says Sisky, frowning at the sick-colored grass and heaps of newspapers in the front lawn.
“Trust me,” says Spencer. “My sister was a girl scout. Mr Murphy chased us off with a musket.”
It had been traumatizing at the time. He’d been ten. His sister had been seven. His mother had called the police and the police wouldn’t even step onto the front lawn.
Sisky snickers and moves away. “I’m going home,” he says. “Before today gets more disappointing. See you.”
“See you,” says Spencer and keeps walking. Past Madam Asher’s store, past Ryan’s house, past Stump’n’Bryar’s, past Ryan’s aunt’s house and along the railroad. The railroad doesn’t get used very often, only for freight. Everyone has cars and trucks these days, and it’s rare to see a passenger train, rarer for one to stop. Spencer lives in the middle of nowhere. He has come to accept this.
He likes the railroad tracks though, the way they go on for ages in one direction, and straight into the woods in another. He knows he can never get lost either way. He waits for a freight train to pass, a good ten minutes of blue and red containers and then three minutes more of logs and then he follows.
He walks for a while, out through the woods where it’s quiet except for birds and squirrels and leaves. It’s actually quite noisy. It’s spring, after all.
After an hour, he sees Brendon sitting on the tracks.
He stops.
Brendon looks up and smiles at him. Spencer walks toward him.
“Spencer,” says Brendon, gracious.
“What are you doing out here?” asks Spencer.
“I don’t know. I started walking just to like, clear my head. And then this train came by, so I stood off the tracks and I was tired so I sat down, but like, I kinda spaced and forgot what direction I was going in and where I’d come from.”
He sounds remarkably uncaring about the fact that he might have been lost forever on the train tracks.
“Pretty existential, huh,” says Brendon and he laughs. Actually, he does sound kind of nervous.
“Yeah,” says Spencer. He sits down, across from Brendon, perched on the edge of the rail. It’s uncomfortable but Brendon doesn’t look bothered so he tries not to be either.
“Nice shirt,” says Brendon. “You should wear white more often.”
“Uh,” says Spencer, “thanks.”
They sit and the birds are very loud in the shade. Spencer squints and stares at the gravel under the tracks.
“We’re leaving,” says Brendon. “Tomorrow, if we can get the tent down.”
“Oh,” says Spencer. “Yeah, okay. I think Ryan’s really gonna come with you.”
“Yeah,” says Brendon. “Yeah, I know.”
Spencer can’t even muster up a joke about taking good care of the kid, making sure he eats all of his vegetables, getting him to bed on time. Because it’s not a joke and Ryan will be fine. Ryan will be the best he’s ever been. Spencer is depressed. He pushes some of the gravel around with his fingers, lets it sift through his fingers.
Brendon hums something, a hymn, probably.
Spencer is going to miss his best friend so fucking much.
The birds go on, making noise like they’ve been doing, will always do. Spencer foresees a lot more of these pointless walks without Ryan around.
“How did you,” says Spencer. He clears his throat, swallowing. “How did you do it?”
“What,” says Brendon, looking up at him. His face is clear.
“Ryan.”
Brendon looks at his hands. “I don’t know,” he says. “I just. Like, I’ll just know, sometimes. That I can fix someone and they’ll be fine. Sometimes it’s an accident.”
Brendon twists his hands around. He cracks his knuckles one by one as he speaks. He puts his legs out, crossed at the ankles, then brings his legs in again, folded near his chest.
Spencer pulls his knees close to his chest, hands on his ankles.
Brendon shifts. “There was this one boy, this little British kid who lived above me,” Brendon looks up at Spencer. “He was crazy, like, legitimately insane, shouting French nonsense at pigeons. My mom used to make me bring food up to his mom since she worked like three jobs just to keep the kid. I saw him a lot. He was always on the windowsill, all the time.”
Spencer’s hands tighten around his ankles. Brendon looks uncomfortable, nervous. Spencer watches Brendon, eyes locked on his face.
“All day, you know? All day and all night, just shouting all the time. It was like he thought he was a bird or something. So I finally got sick of it. I was eighteen and it was seriously fucking annoying how sad it was, how his mom tried so hard and the kid couldn’t- ” Brendon breaks off, shaking his head. “Whatever, so I went up there one night. Butcher was there, he could tell you. We were neighbors at the time and he saw me go up there and followed. And I just opened the door and went into their apartment and I grabbed him,” Brendon pauses again, to look at Spencer.
Brendon wants to be believed, Spencer realises. He wants so badly to be believed.
Brendon says, “I just told him to stop. I grabbed him and sort of shook him and told him he had to stop. And he collapsed, and when he came to, he told us he was going to bed. In plain English.”
Spencer is silent.
“It’s true,” says Brendon. “I swear it’s all true, you can ask Butcher but that was when. . .I don’t know. When stuff started happening around me. And then my parents kicked me out.”
Spencer is silent and he doesn’t dare break Brendon’s gaze.
“So Butcher and I hit the road and first I tried to convince people I could fix them or heal them or whatever, but it never worked when I said it would.” He smiles. “So I started lying instead.”
“And then Greta,” says Spencer.
“And then Greta,” says Brendon. “That scared the fucking shit out of me. But I sort of knew. Like, I set up in her yard and she came out and I. . .knew. And I grabbed her, and I said, ‘you can speak’ and she fucking sang, Spencer.” Brendon frowns or smiles, or just moves his mouth, lips pressed together. “She opened her mouth and sang.”
“You’re fucking crazy,” says Spencer, without looking away or even raising his voice very much over the noise of the birds..
“Yeah,” says Brendon. “But you believe me, don’t you?”
“Yeah,” says Spencer.
And then he sits up straight and lets go of his ankles. “Yeah, I do.”
“I fixed Ryan,” says Brendon. “He’s better, he’s healed or whatever, right? He’s not crazy anymore.”
“No more crazy than he was before,” says Spencer. “Well, maybe a little more, since he’s leaving with you,” says Spencer. “He doesn’t eat much,” says Spencer. “I don’t think he’ll cause much trouble,” says Spencer.
He frowns and his eyes are warm and he asks, “why can’t you heal Jon?”
“I don’t know,” says Brendon, looking away from the first time to the treetops and the blue skies up above. “I don’t know, I tried but.”
Brendon looks back at Spencer. “Good musician, though.” He grins, eyes bright. “Good-looking too.”
Spencer snorts and feels the flush on his face. “Open and accepting congregation,” he mocks.
Brendon grins hugely. “We’re just waiting for you, Spence.”
Spencer laughs.
They sit in silence again, or near silence. The birds have come to a hush now that it’s nearing mid-afternoon, and the squirrels chirp with less enthusiasm. Spencer doesn’t feel like talking so much anymore. Brendon looks meditative. He’s calm, and he doesn’t look away from Spencer.
The squirrels are silent. Spencer ignores them.
The tracks are vibrating slightly, and Spencer ignores that too.
But the tracks are vibrating and the squirrels are all silent. Spencer stands and holds a hand out to Brendon. They jump off the track and stand a ways away and as the second train of the day passes, a circus Spencer has never seen before. Magic, proclaims a banner on the side of a passenger car, Magic, Mystery, Mayhem. The next car after it has a picture of a monkey.
Brendon drops Spencer’s hand as a car with a car with an purple elephant painted on the side passes by. He does so only to clap both of his hands and cheer, though. His excitement is lost in the roar of engine and the rattle of wheels on old tracks, but Spencer thinks he sees someone in the caboose wave back at Brendon through lace-covered windows.
It’s pretty funny how the circus blew right past their town without even stopping. Spencer shakes his head. It would’ve been fun, too.
They walk back to town together. Brendon sings hymns, warming up, he protests, when Spencer laughs at him.
“See you tonight,” says Brendon and he hesitates for a moment with a smile on his face. He leans in, pauses again, and knocks Spencer in the stomach, right above the belt. It doesn’t hurt at all, but it catches Spencer off guard and he reflexively smacks Brendon in the hip.
“Ooh,” says Brendon, “hitting a preacher, ooh.” He makes a stupid face at Spencer.
“See you tonight,” says Spencer. Brendon grins.
;;
Sunday night service is like every other performance. Spencer surprises himself by walking there alone; he’d known he wouldn’t, he’d decided he wouldn’t, he’d thought he wouldn’t and then he unrolls his sleeves and puts on a coat and walks there by himself anyway. He’s late, because he spent so much time deciding, but not so late that Sisky and Butcher are on stage. He hears them at the entrance of the tent before they come into focus.
“Good evening Mr Avery!” they cheer. “Miss Williams, hello. So good to see you!”
“We’re so happy to have you with us this evening.”
“Our last service in these parts for a while, we think.”
“Oh, we’ll be back, of course, we will.”
Something twists in Spencer’s gut and he slows.
“Just not for a while, yes. Preacher’s here tonight! He’ll be on stage shortly. Don’t know if he’ll be healing tonight. The Lord doesn’t follow our rules of time, does he Butcher?”
“Nope.”
Spencer approaches when most of the believers have entered the tent and Sisky and Butcher wave at him to come over.
“Spencer,” says Sisky. “My man.”
“My man with a plan,” says Butcher.
“Hi,” says Spencer.
“Take a seat in the back,” hisses Butcher when Spencer passes by him, taking his elbow to hiss in his ear. “You can see the stage better from the back, in the corner.”
Spencer does take a seat in the back in the corner, but he doesn’t get what Butcher means. He can barely see Ryan at all. He can hear him though, Ryan and his damn tambourine. Spencer doesn’t care what it makes him; he’s going home right after this and getting Ryan his guitar before he leaves. Damn tambourine. Ryan has no flair. Not rhythmically, anyway. He’s wearing his favorite yellow shirt, with the tiny brown roses on it. Spencer doesn’t think those shades are ever found in nature together, and yet there they are on Ryan, looking good. For Ryan.
He crosses his legs and waits, hands tapping on his thighs.
Someone touches his shoulder, just as Butcher and Sisky rush onto stage, shouting about joy. Spencer turns. Brendon’s got his hand on Spencer’s shoulder, not urgent or attention-seeking, just waiting, watching the stage. He looks down at Spencer and smiles, distracted.
“Hey,” whispers Spencer. “You’re leaving tonight?”
“Tomorrow morning,” says Brendon. He puts his other hand on Spencer’s shoulder. “Sheriff’s been around, threatening Sisky.”
“Greta could take him,” whispers Spencer. “What the hell are you worried about?”
“Fuck,” says Brendon. He leans down, close to Spencer’s ear, “she totally did, you should have seen it. First she pulled the little converted girl act and then she kicked him in the shin.”
“Did he cry?” asks Spencer, turning just so he can feel Brendon smiling against the top of his head.
“No,” says Brendon. “I wish, but no. He tried to arrest her though, but the deputies talked him out of it. Cos they think she’s a nice girl.”
He huffs a breath and mumbles, “so we gotta book it.”
“Oh,” says Spencer, torn between smiling and leaving the tent. “Oh, yeah.” He smiles. “hey, well, if you ever-”
“Preacher,” calls Butcher. “Preacher, we need you.”
Brendon straightens. He squeezes Spencer’s shoulders and heads up the aisle, smiling at everyone.
Spencer sits back, and watches the show.
;;
Sisky slinks into the seat next to Spencer. He hands Spencer the tambourine.
“Where’s Ryan?” whispers Spencer. Brendon is praying.
Sisky shrugs, “dunno.” And makes a big show of bowing his head when Billy looks back at them, frowning.
;;
Spencer can’t find Ryan afterwards, so he just goes to Ryan’s house and takes Ryan’s guitar back to the campsite.
Greta punches him in the stomach.
“Thought you had left without saying goodbye,” she says. “You still owe me!”
“Owe you what?” asks Spencer, rubbing his stomach and trying very hard not to cry. He needs to sit down.
Greta sits down with him, even though she’s wearing a nice skirt and she has to fold down, like paper, into the dirt next to him. “I don’t know, but you owe me something.”
Spencer’s not carrying any money. Or anything of value at all, except for Ryan’s guitar case. Maybe his shoes. He pats his stomach gingerly and his hand brushes against the railroad nail in his pocket.
“You should play tambourine for me,” she says, leaning back on her hands.
“Alright,” says Spencer. “Next time you’re in town.” He shifts and pulls the railroad nail out of his pocket and hands it to her. “Here. For you.”
“Next time we’re in town,” she echoes, and looks a bit sad at that. She runs her fingers along the edge of the railroad nail.
“Is Ryan around?” says Spencer. He half-smiles. “He’s a terrible tambourine player and I brought him his guitar. You need a guitar anyway. Brendon needs accompaniment.”
Sisky wanders by and sits down in the dirt with them. “You play guitar?”
“No, Ryan does,” says Greta. “Won’t that be nice?”
“Yeah,” says Sisky. He raises his voice. “Jonny!”
“What,” says Jon from halfway across the carnival grounds, standing on a log, trying to balance.
“Ryan will play guitar with you,” says Sisky.
“Sweet,” says Jon, and he sticks his arms out horizontal to balance. “Pretty sweet, guys.”
Butcher sits down, in front of them. With a brown bottle. Spencer eyes it warily. “Play us a chune, Miss Salpeter,” says Butcher. He drinks and passes it to Greta.
“It’s Ryan’s,” says Greta importantly. She drinks and passes it to Sisky.
Brendon appears from the trailer and walks toward them. He smiles, puts his hands on his hips. “Guitar?” he says. “For-”
“Ryan,” they all say together. Brendon sits down next to Spencer. “Awesome, dude. How long has he been playing? It’d be pretty sweet to get some accompaniment, my voice is getting fucked up there.”
“Couple of years,” says Spencer, by which he means about eleven, now. “Where is Ryan, anyway?”
“He said he was going home for a little bit,” says Brendon. “Was he there?”
“I don’t know, I was at his house,” says Spencer. He’s worried suddenly. He sits up straight, starts to stand. Brendon passes him the bottle.
;;
“Spencer,” says Ryan, with a bag in one hand and a bag in the other. “What the hell are you doing?”
“Uh,” says Spencer. He starts to stand, to brush the dust off his knees.
“I packed your bag for you,” says Ryan. He looks disgruntled. “You lazy bastard.”
“Ryan?” says Spencer.
“So you can’t complain about anything you wear for the next year,” says Ryan. “Now, fuck. Give me that bottle.”
Sisky hands him that bottle and Ryan sits in the dust with them, next to Spencer.
“Oh,” says Spencer. “Uh.”
Ryan glares, and Sisky, and Butcher, and Greta, and Jon look at him.
“Yeah, okay,” says Spencer. He looks at Brendon.
“Cool,” says Brendon, who is already drunk, with a huge smile on his face. He sways, clapping his hands. “Cool, so we gotta get up early and break camp, okay, cool.”
“Fuck,” says Sisky.
“We’re already drunk,” Greta points out. “We might as well do it now.”
“We might actually do it better,” says Butcher. “You know? Like last time? When we took the tent down accidentally because we were drunk.”
“In Auburn!” says Sisky. “That was awesome!”
Brendon is fidgeting. Brendon is bouncing. Spencer puts a hand on Brendon’s knee and takes the bottle from Greta. Brendon stills with a glance at him. Spencer shrugs his shoulders, stretching, and drinks.
“Hey man,” says Jon. “He’s totally red, isn’t he?” He waves a hand in Spencer’s direction.
“Totally is,” says Ryan. “Blood-pulsing.”
That’s it, though. Ryan doesn’t go home but he does stop sitting on Spencer’s bed barefoot for long periods of time. He sleeps in the guest room and he stops telling Spencer that the morning like dirt or that he is too salty. Sometimes, Spencer sees Ryan lick his lips and look surprised, but he never says anything. He goes back to talking about music and movies and literature and only once remarks on the color of the sky, which is gray, which is the same color of Madam Asher’s dress, which Ryan thinks is a wretched color on anyone, even Madam Asher, don’t you agree, Spencer?
Spencer picks up a casserole from Ryan’s aunt.
Everything else goes back to normal. Ryan laughs at Spencer’s uniform slacks and dark button-downs. Spencer rolls his eyes at Ryan’s paisley ties and floral shirts. Ryan apologizes to Madam Asher within a day of his ‘feeling better’ as everyone refers to it, and gets his old job back immediately. They eat lunch together sometimes and sometimes they don’t and dine together whenever they get home at the same time, which is not very often, but they see each other in the bathroom brushing teeth in the evenings and the mornings. They’ve known each other since they were five and everything is normal, except Ryan won’t leave and they keep eating casserole.
So passes Ryan’s first week of post-evangelical healing. They do good, for the five days that it is.
Spencer gets home on Friday, late, because Stump’n’Bryar are fucking slave drivers, and he doesn’t see Ryan.
He sees Ryan’s shoes, he sees a pair of Ryan’s work trousers but he does not see Ryan.
Cursing, he heads back out. He doesn’t detour or pretend. He just walks straight out to the old fairgrounds, to the corner, where the bright little tent remains as bright as last weekend. The cacophony is unbearable, happy people singing with weak accompaniment. They really need a drummer.
Spencer ducks between the tent flaps and pushes his way through the crowd until he can see. Ryan’s sitting on the side of the stage with Jon. With a tambourine, even. Ryan’s never picked up a tambourine in Spencer’s life.
After he gets over being annoyed that Ryan lost his mind again and he’s not wearing shoes and he’s sitting on a dirty stage in his nice pants, and, man, is it going to be a bitch to get him home tonight, jealous sparks deep inside him. Ryan is sitting with his legs crossed and his feet bare next to Jon, who sits with his legs hanging on the stage, feet also bare. They’re mismatched, Ryan in that unbelievable floral shirt and Jon in a ratty sweater, but they look natural. Comfortable. Spencer wavers, caught between storming out and staying in, because Ryan has lost his mind again. Spencer wavers too long. Brendon, singing and dancing onstage, catches his eye and he smiles at Spencer, only at Spencer.
An invitation, Spencer realises. Again.
He turns on his heel and walks out. Sisky, standing in the back, waves goodbye to Spencer. He doesn’t look grey at all. His cheeks are pink.
Spencer stands outside the tent and breathes, in, out. It’s empty outside the tent and it’s late at night, and everything looks a lot bigger than he is.
He pulls his coat close to him and walks home alone, arms crossed.
;;
He takes the long way home, even though it is an unbearably teenage act and he’s too old and too tall to get away with walking along the back roads at night. He feels teenage though, he feels unbearably teenage and since it sits just fine with him, he hopes it’ll sit just fine with the sheriff and his deputies if he gets caught.
He tries to stay out of the light anyway, and ends up kicking rocks down the train tracks. He pulls out a nail just before he has to cut across someone’s backyard to get to his house, and puts it in his pocket.
;;
Ryan wanders into his room and says, “you ever feel like, uh, like the things we see and know aren’t enough and there’s like, uh, like this huge empty thing inside of you, like there aren’t bones and blood and stuff, just like, darkness and hollow things that echo?”
Ryan climbs onto Spencer’s bed and settles at the bottom like a well-trained, existential house pet. “When I was, uh. With the colors and everything, it was like, I don’t know, I wasn’t hollow because there was all of that, and you, so I didn’t feel that way.”
Ryan folds his legs and leans against the wall. “It’s not even like, love, you know? Us, I mean, it was just like you were the only person who was there and that was like, that was like the best thing ever, you and Jon, and that was it, and now it’s like, there are all these people but they don’t mean a thing.”
Spencer says, “Jon?” and then he says, “two-thirty in the morning, Ryan!” and then he sits up so fast that the covers bunch around his legs and he’s tangled and he doesn’t even care. He glares at Ryan. “You miss being crazy.”
“Well,” says Ryan, “yeah. Kind of.”
“Fuck, Ryan,” says Spencer, pulling at the covers around his legs. “Fuck.”
“I was talking to Jon,” says Ryan, earnest even with his arms around his knees. “He’s like me. He’s like how I was. You ever wonder why that guy is so zen? He sees colors and stuff, like. All the time.”
“No, I don’t. And why the hell doesn’t Brendon cure him?” says Spencer, but he changes his mind. “No, wait, fuck off. You miss being crazy? You miss having no job and not knowing anyone but me?”
“Um,” says Ryan, resting his head on his arms.
“And me having to feed you? And not doing anything but sitting on my bed all day?”
“Um,” says Ryan.
“Ryan, your aunt was feeding us casserole,” says Spencer desperately, even though he has really come to enjoy Ryan’s aunt’s casserole. He starts pulling at the covers around his knees again.
“I know,” says Ryan. “I know, I know, but. I miss it. Everything’s different now.”
“Maybe you need to get out of my house,” suggests Spencer.
Ryan shakes his head violently. “No, that’s just. No. I can’t.”
This is an argument Spencer has already lost. He gives the blankets one last, violent tug. Ryan topples over onto his legs.
“I think I’m leaving when they do,” says Ryan into the space between Spencer’s kneecaps.
“Ryan,” says Spencer. “I thought I was- I thought you were-”
“I thought so too,” says Ryan, struggling with some effort to right himself. “Sorry.”
Neither of them sleep that night. Ryan sits at the end of Spencer’s bed, arms folded over his knees, chin on his arms and Spencer sits against the headboard. They are both silent.
;;
Saturday is quiet for both of them. Ryan does the dishes and Spencer does the laundry and hangs it all up in the backyard where the grass is so oppressively green that Spencer feels like pouring salt on everything, just so it matches his mood.
He sits on the back steps for a while and watches their mis-matched clothing get pushed around by the breeze. Ryan’s plaid purple and green pants, his maroon shirts. The clothing clashes with each other, he noticed, but not exactly with the rest of Spencer’s yard. Somehow the green of the grass makes everything look normal. Anyone could be living in Spencer’s house right now. No one would ever know there was a guy who wasn’t crazy anymore and a guy who wasn’t ever crazy living in Spencer’s house right now, not by looking at Spencer’s laundry line.
The screen door opens behind him and Ryan sits down next to him. He hands Spencer a mug of coffee. They watch the breeze push their clothing around.
Spencer drinks half of his coffee before he can think of anything to say, and even then he can’t find the effort. He stares at his mug.
“Brendon asked about you last night,” says Ryan. “At the service. He wanted to know where you were.”
“I’m not a believer,” says Spencer, dismissive, without looking at Ryan. He looks at the grass instead. Fuck, it’s so green.
“He’s not a preacher,” says Ryan.
Spencer finishes his coffee. He’s just not feeling good today, that’s all. “You’re going to leave with them,” he says.
“They’re not leaving today,” says Ryan.
“But you are, when they do,” says Spencer.
“Yeah,” says Ryan.
Spencer sighs, and sits back, stretching. He crosses his legs at the ankles at glares at his faded jeans.
“I’m going tonight, wanna come?” asks Ryan.
“I’m not a believer,” says Spencer.
“Neither am I,” says Ryan. “Shit, Spencer.”
“Yeah,” says Spencer. He pushes himself back until he’s leaning against the screen door, head against the mesh. “Yeah.”
“They could use a drummer, anyway,” adds Ryan. “Brendon loses his rhythm pretty easily.”
Spencer tosses his mug into the grass. It bounces and lies on its side, white glaze reflecting the blue sky.
;;
Spencer makes it halfway through the old fairgrounds before he has to sit down and breathe. He sits down in the dust and breathes, head in hands.
;;
Ryan’s on stage again, with that fucking tambourine. He looks like a huge hippie, and he looks at Jon like Jon did nothing short of hanging the moon in the sky and polishing it every night. He looks at the crowd like they held the ladder that helped Jon put the moon up there.
Spencer stands in the back, hands tucked into his pockets.
Ryan looks really happy, is the problem.
Sisky and Butcher and jumping up and down on stage, reciting poetry, or something. Spencer hasn’t really been listening.
Someone touches his shoulder and he, to his credit, does not elbow them in the stomach. He flinches though and Brendon releases him immediately, with a “whoa, sorry.”
“What,” says Spencer, embarrassed.
“Sorry,” says Brendon again. “I just, hi. Good to see you here.”
“Okay,” says Spencer.
“We, uh,” says Brendon. He sort of deflates. “I mean, I can’t say we missed you given that you keep looking at us like you’re gonna punch us all in the stomach, but whatever, it was kind of exciting? Kept us on our toes, ha.” He puts his hands in his pockets, shoulders hunched.
Spencer takes his hands out of his pockets and says, “Greta could take me.”
Brendon laughs properly at that, with his face breaking into a huge grin and his eyes crinkling up in the corners and all his teeth showing. “Yeah,” he says, between giggles, “yeah, she totally could. She totally could.”
Spencer doesn’t know what to do with his hands. He puts them in his back pockets instead, rolling his shoulders as he does. Brendon watches him. Spencer looks away, towards the stage. He could swear Butcher and Sisky are leading the crowd the recitation of an old nursery rhyme.
“I locked my house,” says Spencer, “Ryan’s too, so.”
Brendon nods. “Yeah.” He smiles, sort of gray, Spencer thinks. “We’re leaving soon anyway.” He winks. “Sheriff’s onto us. We’ve done all we can for you people anyway.”
“Hey,” protests Spencer, because he doesn’t really count himself the same as everyone other slack-jawed believer in the tent with them, but then he remember he did give Brendon money, so Brendon probably counts him the same. Though he punched Brendon in the stomach, so their relationship is about even, he thinks. He takes as much as he gives.
They watch Sisky and Butcher jump around, shouting just for the joy of noise.
“Ryan wants to come with you,” says Spencer the same time as Brendon says, “Ryan.”
“Huh,” says Spencer.
“Yeah,” says Brendon. “He feels very comfortable with us.”
They both look to Ryan. Ryan is still on stage, beaming like it’s his fucking wedding day, beaming and bouncing along to whatever groove Jon has going on. Spencer has sort of tuned out everything around him except Brendon.
“Jon’s just like Ryan,” says Brendon. “Just, I couldn’t do anything for him, you know?” He rushes his words, like he’s making up excuses. “I couldn’t- there wasn’t anything. We just picked him up when we found him in Illinois. Not like, I mean, he wasn’t like a stray cat or whatever, but he, I mean, everyone he knew was going crazy trying fix him. And he liked us. So he came along.”
It occurs to Spencer for the first time that he’s never even asked Brendon what the fuck, how the fuck is he fixing all these people if he isn’t a doctor and he isn’t a priest. Because he certainly isn’t either, he’s just a man, a man in a red snakeskin coat who looks sort of anxious.
Brendon looks sort of anxious, Spencer realises. Spencer tries to figure what it means that he’s noticing this now, and not how Ryan on stage, smiling or how he’s feeling a bit hungry or how Butcher has shed a lot of clothing in the last five minutes. Brendon looks sort of anxious, talking about Jon.
Spencer doesn’t want to know how Brendon can just take his best friend and fix him with a couple of words when Spencer can spend two weeks and hardly get him to eat a full meal.
“I gotta go,” says Brendon. He reaches out and touches Spencer’s arm. “See you. If you stick around, uh.” He gestures, something like you should come talk to me and we can continue talking to each other or possibly you should take Ryan home because he gets a bit annoying when he’s tired (Spencer knows) or possibly just, this tent is fucking massive and I’m fucking tiny.
Brendon disappears while Spencer is still deciphering and reappears on stage to the roar of the crowd.
Spencer sits up tall and cranes his neck. Yes, Ryan is still sitting on stage, and he still looks happy.
But Brendon looks anxious. Even as he gestures and smiles and his voice drops into something loud, booming, convincing, he lacks a certain color. He’s a bit grey.
Spencer squints, but he still doesn’t want them to go.
;;
Spencer makes it half-way through the entire service before he has to go outside.
Greta finds him. Corners him, really, standing in the clearing by himself. “I saw you talking to Brendon,” she says. She moves as she talks, skirt fanning around her.
“Yeah.” Spencer doesn’t know what he’s agreeing to.
She hands him an unlabeled brown bottle of fuck-knows-what and Spencer takes it and drinks heavily.
She takes it out of his hands, grinning. “Easy.”
“Agh,” says Spencer, touching his throat. Every single part of his body feels hot.
Greta takes a small sip herself, cheeks coloring. She licks her lips.
“Don’t you have lives to be changing or something?” asks Spencer, feeling sluggish all of a sudden.
Greta smiles and it’s about five thousand watts more bright than the tent or the stars or possibly, possibly the sun. Maybe even brighter than Ryan smiling in the tent, shit, Spencer has no idea. What the fuck did she just give him. “You’re so reactive, Spencer. You need to just breathe.”
“You could take me,” says Spencer, casting about for something to put his hands on. The site is empty for the moment, though it sounds like service is just wrapping up, what with the shouting of the crowd and Brendon, and the bass and the unmistakable beat of the tambourine and Brendon.
“Yeah,” says Greta. She giggles. “Yeah, I totally could.” She spins for real this time and her dress fans out in a perfect circle. Spencer is mesmerized. “You don’t even have a beard.”
“Hey,” says Spencer.
She giggles at him, smiling with her eyes full of tears or stars or light or something. Butcher and Sisky come charging out of the tent. They race up to Greta, spin her around and take the bottle out of her hands. The three of them run off to the trailer, leaving Spencer alone in the dark.
Spencer sits down.
;;
People drift out of the tent in a continuous stream. Spencer is amazed by the amount of fools that come out to see Brendon lie convincingly. Billy-from-down-the-road waves at him and Spencer sort of nods. He can’t move very much, or the entire world slides away. He needs to tie himself down or something, he’s gonna float away and those stars, he can tell, aren’t going to do shit for him when he breaks through the stratosphere to whatever comes next.
Butcher passes by, a bit wobbly and carrying an empty green bottle. He high-fives Spencer. Spencer grabs onto his hand. Butcher’s slight, but he makes a good anchor. They let go immediately, but Butcher ends up standing sort of near him. It’s kind of like they know each other, might be acquaintances or maybe even friends. Spencer is perplexed by this and also by how Butcher has no shirt on and yet has no goosebumps. Spencer has goosebumps. It’s night time, it’s chilly. Spencer crosses his arms on his knees.
Sisky runs past, shouts something incomprehensible at them, and flies into the tent, where there is a great crash. Most of the parishioners have left, and only a few are still hanging around, talking to Greta (and where did Greta come from, thinks Spencer, she just appeared like stars in the sky outside the tent, twirling) and so there aren’t many screams when Sisky causes a great crash, but Jon and Ryan wander out of the tent together looking amused. Ryan still has his tambourine. They’re singing, too. Singing about. . .oh, Spencer has no idea. Sisky running into tents and causing huge crashes.
“Sisky!” shouts Butcher. He gives Spencer a halfway smile and runs into the tent. He emerges a few seconds later with Sisky on his back. He is surprisingly quick, given the load on his back, but they gallop across the campsite and collapse near the fire pit. Greta joins them with a couple of parishioners, and everyone is talking and laughing.
“Spencer.” It’s Billy-from-down-the-road.
Why is it always Billy-from-down-the-road.
“You look lost.” Billy looms over Spencer, hands on his hips.
“I know where I am,” says Spencer, trying so very hard to focus on Billy’s face and having an awful time of it.
“Spencer, you need guidance,” says Billy. “You should talk to Brendon.”
“No,” says Spencer to the entire thing.
Billy sits down next to him. “I don’t believe you.”
“I’m drunk,” says Spencer. He sways a little, away from Billy. Billy makes a face, appalled, probably, that Spencer would get drunk on holy ground. Billy believes in Brendon, which is pretty sad, thinks Spencer, pretty sad. Billy will just get his heartbroken when Brendon leaves soon.
Spencer makes a face like Billy’s.
“Don’t vomit on me,” Billy advises. He stands. “See you, Spencer.”
Spencer lies back and watches the trees through the stars. He feels grey.
;;
“Spencer,” says Ryan. “Get up, Spencer.”
Spencer looks up at him.
“You’re ruining your pants,” says Ryan. “Get up.”
Spencer blinks and it would appear that he’s lying in the campsite. Yes, he is in fact lying in the campsite, and his black trousers are dusty. No wonder Ryan sounds pissed.
Ryan kicks his shoulder. “What are you doing, seriously.”
“Uh,” says Spencer. “I don’t know.”
“Empty,” says Ryan. “Empty empty empty. Whatever, dude. I’m gonna go talk to Jon.”
“You spent all service with Jon,” Spencer begins but it’s a lost point because Ryan walks away, towards a bonfire that has appeared in Spencer Smith’s temporary absence. He sits and tries to make himself pay attention but even with that short nap, he’s pretty far gone. He’s warm all over, dusty too, and wow, whatever Greta gave him was fucking intense. He’s not even sure it was alcohol anymore. Secret tent-top preacher booze, or something, whoa. He turns over, onto his back. God, but the stars are bright like Greta’s eyes and what is this? He doesn’t even like Greta. She could punch him in the stomach like he could punch Brendon, except she wouldn’t even feel bad about. She would probably laugh, in fact. She seems like the kind of girl who would laugh after punching him in the stomach. Certainly she can drink him under the table because he can hear her singing at the other end of the camp site. Amazing grace, how sweet the wretch that saved a sound like me. She’s not lying in the dust.
Why would Ryan leave him, Spencer, the picture of stability and good-judgement, for people like this. People who live and breath without guilt. How could Ryan leave him for that.
Well, shit.
The stars crinkle up in the corners like smiles with all the teeth showing. Spencer passes out again, chuckling to himself.
;;
“Spencer,” Brendon shakes him, “wake up, dude, you’re gonna choke on your own vomit.”
Spencer starts, throwing a hand over his eyes. “No vomit,” he intones. “None.”
“Trust me,” says Brendon. “It’s coming and it ain’t going to be pretty.”
“I am stronger than this,” says Spencer, because his head is roaring and it is still night time, what the fuck. He refuses to be hung-over before he sees daylight. Where is Ryan. No. Where is Greta, he needs more of that shit that makes him feel warm and useless.
Brendon sits down next to him as Spencer struggles into a sitting position. He’s not smiling, but he looks less grey, but maybe that’s because Spencer can see him closely now.
“You stayed,” says Brendon. “Well, you passed out, I guess, but you stayed, huh? That’s pretty cool, thanks. For staying. I saw you in the service for a little bit.”
“Yeah,” says Spencer. “Oh, yeah. For a bit. But I had to go out. Because you were grey. Then Greta gave me something.”
“Greta’s generous,” says Brendon. “Wait, grey?”
“Yeah,” says Spencer. “But you aren’t as much anymore.”
“You’re drunk,” says Brendon.
“Greta gave me something,” says Spencer. “You knew that. Of course you knew that, you probably orchestrated it. If I didn’t lock my house, I bet you’d be stealing from me.”
Brendon does not crinkle up in the corners, in fact, he sort of frowns. “Yeah. Well. We like you now.”
“I like you too,” says Spencer. “I don’t even want to punch you in the stomach anymore.”
It feels good, saying that, so he says it again. “I don’t even want to punch you in the stomach anymore.” He even smiles, and he feels like smiling, so it’s a real smile at Brendon.
“Oh good,” says Brendon. “That’s, yeah, that’s really great.”
“Yeah,” says Spencer.
“I’d be drunk with you if there weren’t parishioners hanging around,” Brendon declares, quietly, just to Spencer.
“Wish there weren’t,” says Spencer and what the hell. He needs to just stop talking, right now, stop talking because Brendon smiles at that, no more sort-of frowning but a real, genuine smile.
“See you, Spencer,” says Brendon. He knocks Spencer’s shoulder with his own. “Don’t lie down and choke on your own vomit.”
“I won’t,” says Spencer. “I’m vomit free.”
Brendon smiles again at that, and he gets to his feet, dusting off the seat of his pants. He walks away, smiling still, and starts to sing a song about pigeons that look like ducks.
“I don’t even want to punch you in the stomach anymore,” says Spencer, out loud, again, just because it feels so good.
“Fuckin’ sweet, dude,” says Sisky. Spencer smiles at him too.
;;
“Get up, Spencer,” says Ryan, kicking him. “You’re going to choke on your own vomit and die, and then I won’t have anywhere to live.”
Spencer tries to tell Ryan that, whoa, he has a house, or whoa, he said he was picking up with Brendon anyway, or whoa, come one, he’s Spencer, he is vomit free, but instead he rolls over, sits up and vomits all over Ryan’s shoes. Where did Ryan even get shoes? He wasn’t wearing any in the tent.
“Must I always take care of you,” says Ryan. He sounds disgruntled, like Spencer has been killing his party all night, like Spencer hasn’t been keeping to himself, in the dust, all by himself. Ryan kicks off his shoes into the dark, takes off his socks and chucks them away as well. He leans down and grabs Spencer’s arm. “We gotta go home now.”
“Sure,” says Spencer, “okay.” And he even makes an effort to get up on his own, although his head is really killing him now, and his legs don’t quite feel like his own.
They stumble home together, through the darkened streets. Spencer feels his headache clang louder with every echoing footstep, until he finally stops and kicks off his shoes as well, kicking them into someone’s yard. He takes off his socks as well and throws them into the gutter.
“Are you drunk?” asks Ryan.
“I have a headache,” says Spencer, bending over, rubbing his temple.
“Whoa,” says Ryan, “hey. Let’s go home.” He hooks an arm through Spencer’s and they walk home. The sun is rising, somewhere. It’s not as dark as it used to be, greyer rather then black. Spencer frowns.
“Sunday morning,” he says.
“Yeah,” says Ryan. “You have a full fifteen hours to recover before tonight’s service.”
Spencer says, without thinking, “I don’t want to punch Brendon in the stomach anymore.”
“I know,” says Ryan. “He told me.” He grins, a little crooked and weird like usual. “He’s really happy.”
“He wasn’t though, not until I said that.”
“Yeah, well, you were drunk.” Ryan guides him up the walk. Spencer fumbles in his pocket for a key and comes up instead with a railroad nail. He shifts it to the other pocket and continues searching.
“He said he wished I was drunk,” says Spencer. “When I was drunk, he wanted to be drunk too.”
“He told me that too,” says Ryan.
“Hell,” says Spencer and comes up with his keys, fucking finally, even if they are too loud in his hands, “you two are best friends now.”
Ryan gently extracts the keys from Spencer’s hand and opens the door. “Spencer.”
“Yeah,” says Spencer.
They fall asleep in Spencer’s bed together, out of habit more than any real need for either of them to be comforted.
;;
Spencer wakes up with a splitting headache and bright colors that spin before his eyes. He climbs over Ryan and makes it to the bathroom just in time.
;;
Ryan’s packing a bag, so Spencer leaves. Because Spencer doesn’t have anything productive to say, nothing that isn’t going to try to dissuade Ryan from leaving. He fidgets, sitting at the kitchen table with a great headache and a terrible cup of coffee, watching Ryan take his wooden spoons and put them in socks. At least Spencer did the laundry yesterday.
He gets up and leaves when Ryan starts examining his whisks. He leaves his keys on the counter though, because Ryan needs to examine his own house as well. Spencer isn’t going to do that.
It’s bright outside, warm like any other Sunday in the spring. The streets are empty, everyone asleep or in religious services. Spencer rolls up his sleeves and walks down the middle of the street for the hell of it. It still makes him feel like a bad ass, like he’s breaking the law and his mother’s rules and no one’s gonna find out.
He thinks he spies Sisky in the living room of one house, but he’s not sure. He keeps walking, doesn’t know the owners of the house so it’s not like it bothers him. Why would it, anyway, Sisky means well, he just likes his aubergine coats or something. Spencer doubts that anyone in Brendon’s camp ever steals anything of value. Maybe it’s a lesson in valuing worldly possessions too much, whatever. Or that’s how they would justify it to the sheriff. Teaching the people a lesson. It would make headlines, at least. Brendon could probably pull it off. Brendon is pretty convincing when he wants to be.
Spencer still has a headache. Goddamn Greta. She might have warned him.
He turns off one of the better-paved streets and down one of the alleys that connects the streets. All the garbage bins are out, and Sisky hops over a fence and right into an open one.
Sisky flails, and shrieks. He’s landed right in the Bailey’s garbage, which is about as good as it gets, with the new baby and them opening a restaurant.
Spencer laughs. Then he grabs Sisky by the fore-arms and attempts to heft him out of the bin. Sisky smells terrible. Sisky gets out of the garbage bin, but not before knocking it, and three others, over. They flee down the alley and out onto the street.
“You smell terrible,” says Spencer, walking a few paces away from Sisky.
“I ripped my kite,” says Sisky sadly. “It must have caught on fence.” He drops it in the street and they continue walking up the road.
“You really smell terrible,” says Spencer.
“Butcher will hose me off,” says Sisky. “Nice shirt, by the way. White is flattering, you should wear that color more often.”
Spencer isn’t sure he trusts the fashion advice of a kid in a ripped cotton t-shirt and maroon trousers, but then again, he’s let Ryan advise him, and he’s seen Ryan wearing pink and brown paisley without batting an eye. “Thanks,” he says.
“No prob,” says Sisky. He starts to turn down the walk of another house but Spencer grabs his arm. “No, the Murphys never leave their house.”
“It looks abandoned,” says Sisky, frowning at the sick-colored grass and heaps of newspapers in the front lawn.
“Trust me,” says Spencer. “My sister was a girl scout. Mr Murphy chased us off with a musket.”
It had been traumatizing at the time. He’d been ten. His sister had been seven. His mother had called the police and the police wouldn’t even step onto the front lawn.
Sisky snickers and moves away. “I’m going home,” he says. “Before today gets more disappointing. See you.”
“See you,” says Spencer and keeps walking. Past Madam Asher’s store, past Ryan’s house, past Stump’n’Bryar’s, past Ryan’s aunt’s house and along the railroad. The railroad doesn’t get used very often, only for freight. Everyone has cars and trucks these days, and it’s rare to see a passenger train, rarer for one to stop. Spencer lives in the middle of nowhere. He has come to accept this.
He likes the railroad tracks though, the way they go on for ages in one direction, and straight into the woods in another. He knows he can never get lost either way. He waits for a freight train to pass, a good ten minutes of blue and red containers and then three minutes more of logs and then he follows.
He walks for a while, out through the woods where it’s quiet except for birds and squirrels and leaves. It’s actually quite noisy. It’s spring, after all.
After an hour, he sees Brendon sitting on the tracks.
He stops.
Brendon looks up and smiles at him. Spencer walks toward him.
“Spencer,” says Brendon, gracious.
“What are you doing out here?” asks Spencer.
“I don’t know. I started walking just to like, clear my head. And then this train came by, so I stood off the tracks and I was tired so I sat down, but like, I kinda spaced and forgot what direction I was going in and where I’d come from.”
He sounds remarkably uncaring about the fact that he might have been lost forever on the train tracks.
“Pretty existential, huh,” says Brendon and he laughs. Actually, he does sound kind of nervous.
“Yeah,” says Spencer. He sits down, across from Brendon, perched on the edge of the rail. It’s uncomfortable but Brendon doesn’t look bothered so he tries not to be either.
“Nice shirt,” says Brendon. “You should wear white more often.”
“Uh,” says Spencer, “thanks.”
They sit and the birds are very loud in the shade. Spencer squints and stares at the gravel under the tracks.
“We’re leaving,” says Brendon. “Tomorrow, if we can get the tent down.”
“Oh,” says Spencer. “Yeah, okay. I think Ryan’s really gonna come with you.”
“Yeah,” says Brendon. “Yeah, I know.”
Spencer can’t even muster up a joke about taking good care of the kid, making sure he eats all of his vegetables, getting him to bed on time. Because it’s not a joke and Ryan will be fine. Ryan will be the best he’s ever been. Spencer is depressed. He pushes some of the gravel around with his fingers, lets it sift through his fingers.
Brendon hums something, a hymn, probably.
Spencer is going to miss his best friend so fucking much.
The birds go on, making noise like they’ve been doing, will always do. Spencer foresees a lot more of these pointless walks without Ryan around.
“How did you,” says Spencer. He clears his throat, swallowing. “How did you do it?”
“What,” says Brendon, looking up at him. His face is clear.
“Ryan.”
Brendon looks at his hands. “I don’t know,” he says. “I just. Like, I’ll just know, sometimes. That I can fix someone and they’ll be fine. Sometimes it’s an accident.”
Brendon twists his hands around. He cracks his knuckles one by one as he speaks. He puts his legs out, crossed at the ankles, then brings his legs in again, folded near his chest.
Spencer pulls his knees close to his chest, hands on his ankles.
Brendon shifts. “There was this one boy, this little British kid who lived above me,” Brendon looks up at Spencer. “He was crazy, like, legitimately insane, shouting French nonsense at pigeons. My mom used to make me bring food up to his mom since she worked like three jobs just to keep the kid. I saw him a lot. He was always on the windowsill, all the time.”
Spencer’s hands tighten around his ankles. Brendon looks uncomfortable, nervous. Spencer watches Brendon, eyes locked on his face.
“All day, you know? All day and all night, just shouting all the time. It was like he thought he was a bird or something. So I finally got sick of it. I was eighteen and it was seriously fucking annoying how sad it was, how his mom tried so hard and the kid couldn’t- ” Brendon breaks off, shaking his head. “Whatever, so I went up there one night. Butcher was there, he could tell you. We were neighbors at the time and he saw me go up there and followed. And I just opened the door and went into their apartment and I grabbed him,” Brendon pauses again, to look at Spencer.
Brendon wants to be believed, Spencer realises. He wants so badly to be believed.
Brendon says, “I just told him to stop. I grabbed him and sort of shook him and told him he had to stop. And he collapsed, and when he came to, he told us he was going to bed. In plain English.”
Spencer is silent.
“It’s true,” says Brendon. “I swear it’s all true, you can ask Butcher but that was when. . .I don’t know. When stuff started happening around me. And then my parents kicked me out.”
Spencer is silent and he doesn’t dare break Brendon’s gaze.
“So Butcher and I hit the road and first I tried to convince people I could fix them or heal them or whatever, but it never worked when I said it would.” He smiles. “So I started lying instead.”
“And then Greta,” says Spencer.
“And then Greta,” says Brendon. “That scared the fucking shit out of me. But I sort of knew. Like, I set up in her yard and she came out and I. . .knew. And I grabbed her, and I said, ‘you can speak’ and she fucking sang, Spencer.” Brendon frowns or smiles, or just moves his mouth, lips pressed together. “She opened her mouth and sang.”
“You’re fucking crazy,” says Spencer, without looking away or even raising his voice very much over the noise of the birds..
“Yeah,” says Brendon. “But you believe me, don’t you?”
“Yeah,” says Spencer.
And then he sits up straight and lets go of his ankles. “Yeah, I do.”
“I fixed Ryan,” says Brendon. “He’s better, he’s healed or whatever, right? He’s not crazy anymore.”
“No more crazy than he was before,” says Spencer. “Well, maybe a little more, since he’s leaving with you,” says Spencer. “He doesn’t eat much,” says Spencer. “I don’t think he’ll cause much trouble,” says Spencer.
He frowns and his eyes are warm and he asks, “why can’t you heal Jon?”
“I don’t know,” says Brendon, looking away from the first time to the treetops and the blue skies up above. “I don’t know, I tried but.”
Brendon looks back at Spencer. “Good musician, though.” He grins, eyes bright. “Good-looking too.”
Spencer snorts and feels the flush on his face. “Open and accepting congregation,” he mocks.
Brendon grins hugely. “We’re just waiting for you, Spence.”
Spencer laughs.
They sit in silence again, or near silence. The birds have come to a hush now that it’s nearing mid-afternoon, and the squirrels chirp with less enthusiasm. Spencer doesn’t feel like talking so much anymore. Brendon looks meditative. He’s calm, and he doesn’t look away from Spencer.
The squirrels are silent. Spencer ignores them.
The tracks are vibrating slightly, and Spencer ignores that too.
But the tracks are vibrating and the squirrels are all silent. Spencer stands and holds a hand out to Brendon. They jump off the track and stand a ways away and as the second train of the day passes, a circus Spencer has never seen before. Magic, proclaims a banner on the side of a passenger car, Magic, Mystery, Mayhem. The next car after it has a picture of a monkey.
Brendon drops Spencer’s hand as a car with a car with an purple elephant painted on the side passes by. He does so only to clap both of his hands and cheer, though. His excitement is lost in the roar of engine and the rattle of wheels on old tracks, but Spencer thinks he sees someone in the caboose wave back at Brendon through lace-covered windows.
It’s pretty funny how the circus blew right past their town without even stopping. Spencer shakes his head. It would’ve been fun, too.
They walk back to town together. Brendon sings hymns, warming up, he protests, when Spencer laughs at him.
“See you tonight,” says Brendon and he hesitates for a moment with a smile on his face. He leans in, pauses again, and knocks Spencer in the stomach, right above the belt. It doesn’t hurt at all, but it catches Spencer off guard and he reflexively smacks Brendon in the hip.
“Ooh,” says Brendon, “hitting a preacher, ooh.” He makes a stupid face at Spencer.
“See you tonight,” says Spencer. Brendon grins.
;;
Sunday night service is like every other performance. Spencer surprises himself by walking there alone; he’d known he wouldn’t, he’d decided he wouldn’t, he’d thought he wouldn’t and then he unrolls his sleeves and puts on a coat and walks there by himself anyway. He’s late, because he spent so much time deciding, but not so late that Sisky and Butcher are on stage. He hears them at the entrance of the tent before they come into focus.
“Good evening Mr Avery!” they cheer. “Miss Williams, hello. So good to see you!”
“We’re so happy to have you with us this evening.”
“Our last service in these parts for a while, we think.”
“Oh, we’ll be back, of course, we will.”
Something twists in Spencer’s gut and he slows.
“Just not for a while, yes. Preacher’s here tonight! He’ll be on stage shortly. Don’t know if he’ll be healing tonight. The Lord doesn’t follow our rules of time, does he Butcher?”
“Nope.”
Spencer approaches when most of the believers have entered the tent and Sisky and Butcher wave at him to come over.
“Spencer,” says Sisky. “My man.”
“My man with a plan,” says Butcher.
“Hi,” says Spencer.
“Take a seat in the back,” hisses Butcher when Spencer passes by him, taking his elbow to hiss in his ear. “You can see the stage better from the back, in the corner.”
Spencer does take a seat in the back in the corner, but he doesn’t get what Butcher means. He can barely see Ryan at all. He can hear him though, Ryan and his damn tambourine. Spencer doesn’t care what it makes him; he’s going home right after this and getting Ryan his guitar before he leaves. Damn tambourine. Ryan has no flair. Not rhythmically, anyway. He’s wearing his favorite yellow shirt, with the tiny brown roses on it. Spencer doesn’t think those shades are ever found in nature together, and yet there they are on Ryan, looking good. For Ryan.
He crosses his legs and waits, hands tapping on his thighs.
Someone touches his shoulder, just as Butcher and Sisky rush onto stage, shouting about joy. Spencer turns. Brendon’s got his hand on Spencer’s shoulder, not urgent or attention-seeking, just waiting, watching the stage. He looks down at Spencer and smiles, distracted.
“Hey,” whispers Spencer. “You’re leaving tonight?”
“Tomorrow morning,” says Brendon. He puts his other hand on Spencer’s shoulder. “Sheriff’s been around, threatening Sisky.”
“Greta could take him,” whispers Spencer. “What the hell are you worried about?”
“Fuck,” says Brendon. He leans down, close to Spencer’s ear, “she totally did, you should have seen it. First she pulled the little converted girl act and then she kicked him in the shin.”
“Did he cry?” asks Spencer, turning just so he can feel Brendon smiling against the top of his head.
“No,” says Brendon. “I wish, but no. He tried to arrest her though, but the deputies talked him out of it. Cos they think she’s a nice girl.”
He huffs a breath and mumbles, “so we gotta book it.”
“Oh,” says Spencer, torn between smiling and leaving the tent. “Oh, yeah.” He smiles. “hey, well, if you ever-”
“Preacher,” calls Butcher. “Preacher, we need you.”
Brendon straightens. He squeezes Spencer’s shoulders and heads up the aisle, smiling at everyone.
Spencer sits back, and watches the show.
;;
Sisky slinks into the seat next to Spencer. He hands Spencer the tambourine.
“Where’s Ryan?” whispers Spencer. Brendon is praying.
Sisky shrugs, “dunno.” And makes a big show of bowing his head when Billy looks back at them, frowning.
;;
Spencer can’t find Ryan afterwards, so he just goes to Ryan’s house and takes Ryan’s guitar back to the campsite.
Greta punches him in the stomach.
“Thought you had left without saying goodbye,” she says. “You still owe me!”
“Owe you what?” asks Spencer, rubbing his stomach and trying very hard not to cry. He needs to sit down.
Greta sits down with him, even though she’s wearing a nice skirt and she has to fold down, like paper, into the dirt next to him. “I don’t know, but you owe me something.”
Spencer’s not carrying any money. Or anything of value at all, except for Ryan’s guitar case. Maybe his shoes. He pats his stomach gingerly and his hand brushes against the railroad nail in his pocket.
“You should play tambourine for me,” she says, leaning back on her hands.
“Alright,” says Spencer. “Next time you’re in town.” He shifts and pulls the railroad nail out of his pocket and hands it to her. “Here. For you.”
“Next time we’re in town,” she echoes, and looks a bit sad at that. She runs her fingers along the edge of the railroad nail.
“Is Ryan around?” says Spencer. He half-smiles. “He’s a terrible tambourine player and I brought him his guitar. You need a guitar anyway. Brendon needs accompaniment.”
Sisky wanders by and sits down in the dirt with them. “You play guitar?”
“No, Ryan does,” says Greta. “Won’t that be nice?”
“Yeah,” says Sisky. He raises his voice. “Jonny!”
“What,” says Jon from halfway across the carnival grounds, standing on a log, trying to balance.
“Ryan will play guitar with you,” says Sisky.
“Sweet,” says Jon, and he sticks his arms out horizontal to balance. “Pretty sweet, guys.”
Butcher sits down, in front of them. With a brown bottle. Spencer eyes it warily. “Play us a chune, Miss Salpeter,” says Butcher. He drinks and passes it to Greta.
“It’s Ryan’s,” says Greta importantly. She drinks and passes it to Sisky.
Brendon appears from the trailer and walks toward them. He smiles, puts his hands on his hips. “Guitar?” he says. “For-”
“Ryan,” they all say together. Brendon sits down next to Spencer. “Awesome, dude. How long has he been playing? It’d be pretty sweet to get some accompaniment, my voice is getting fucked up there.”
“Couple of years,” says Spencer, by which he means about eleven, now. “Where is Ryan, anyway?”
“He said he was going home for a little bit,” says Brendon. “Was he there?”
“I don’t know, I was at his house,” says Spencer. He’s worried suddenly. He sits up straight, starts to stand. Brendon passes him the bottle.
;;
“Spencer,” says Ryan, with a bag in one hand and a bag in the other. “What the hell are you doing?”
“Uh,” says Spencer. He starts to stand, to brush the dust off his knees.
“I packed your bag for you,” says Ryan. He looks disgruntled. “You lazy bastard.”
“Ryan?” says Spencer.
“So you can’t complain about anything you wear for the next year,” says Ryan. “Now, fuck. Give me that bottle.”
Sisky hands him that bottle and Ryan sits in the dust with them, next to Spencer.
“Oh,” says Spencer. “Uh.”
Ryan glares, and Sisky, and Butcher, and Greta, and Jon look at him.
“Yeah, okay,” says Spencer. He looks at Brendon.
“Cool,” says Brendon, who is already drunk, with a huge smile on his face. He sways, clapping his hands. “Cool, so we gotta get up early and break camp, okay, cool.”
“Fuck,” says Sisky.
“We’re already drunk,” Greta points out. “We might as well do it now.”
“We might actually do it better,” says Butcher. “You know? Like last time? When we took the tent down accidentally because we were drunk.”
“In Auburn!” says Sisky. “That was awesome!”
Brendon is fidgeting. Brendon is bouncing. Spencer puts a hand on Brendon’s knee and takes the bottle from Greta. Brendon stills with a glance at him. Spencer shrugs his shoulders, stretching, and drinks.
“Hey man,” says Jon. “He’s totally red, isn’t he?” He waves a hand in Spencer’s direction.
“Totally is,” says Ryan. “Blood-pulsing.”