His father turned and glanced at the guards. He turned back with a gleam in his eye. “Do you think they think we’re not weird?”
That’s a fair point. Dill blushed. Might as well rip off the Band-Aid. He quickly and quietly sang the requested number a capella. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the guards stop conversing to listen.
“More,” his father said, applauding. “A new one.”
“I…haven’t really written any new ones for a while.”
“You’ve given up music?”
“Not exactly. I just write…different stuff now.”
His father’s face darkened. “Different stuff. God did not pour out music on your tongue so that you could sing the praises of men and whoredom.”
“I don’t write songs about whoredom. I don’t have even one song about whoredom.”
His father pointed at him. “Remember this. Christ is the way. The only way. Your path to salvation. And your music is your path to Christ. My path to Christ was the manifestation of faith signs. We lose our path to Christ; we lose our path to salvation. We lose our eternal reward. Got it?”
“Yeah. I got it.” Talking to his father made Dill feel like he was talking to a sentient brick wall that somehow knew about Jesus. “Okay, well, I have to go.”
His father’s face darkened further. “You just got here. Surely you didn’t come all this way just to spend a few minutes and go back home.”
“No. I hitched a ride with some friends who had to do some school shopping. They’re waiting out in the parking lot and it’s really hot. They were nice to let me come here for a few minutes.”
Dill’s father exhaled through his nose and stood. “Well, I guess you’d better go to them, then. Goodbye, Junior. Give your mother my love and tell her I’ll write soon.”
Dill stood. “I will.”
“Tell her I’ve been getting her letters.”
“Okay.”
“When will I see you again?”
“I don’t know exactly.”
“Then I’ll see you when God wills it. Go with Jesus, son.” Dill’s father raised his two fists and put them together side by side. Mark 16:18. Then he turned and walked away.
Dill released a long exhale as he left the building, as though he’d held his breath for the entire time he was inside to keep from inhaling whatever virulence the men imprisoned there harbored. He felt only slightly better without the dread of visiting his father. Now he just carried the original dread from that morning.
He reached the car. Lydia was saying something to Travis about how many calories a dragon would have to eat per day to be able to breathe fire. Her argument did not seem to be persuading him.
She looked up as Dill approached. “Oh thank God.” She started the car. “So, how’s your dad?”
“Weird,” Dill said. “He’s really weird.”
“Is—” Travis started to ask.
“I don’t really feel like talking about it.”
“Okay, jeez.”
“I’m sorry, I’m not trying to be rude,” Dill said. “Just…let’s go home.”
They were mostly silent on the return trip. Travis read his book. Lydia switched to a Nick Cave & the Bad Seeds/Gun Club mix and tapped the steering wheel to the rhythm, still radiating good cheer. And why shouldn’t she. She’s had a great day.
Dill gazed out the window at the trees that lined both sides of the highway, the occasional handmade roadside cross, marking where someone had met their end, punctuating the unbroken wall of green. Three vultures circled something in the distance, soaring on updrafts. He tried to savor the remaining moments of the drive.
Last time school shopping together. The death of a little piece of my life. And I didn’t even get to enjoy it completely because of my crazy dad. Who keeps slowly getting crazier.
Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Lydia drive. The edges of her mouth. The way they turned up in a near-perpetual smirk. How her lips moved almost imperceptibly as she unconsciously sang along with the music.
Remember this. Write it on a handmade cross and plant it in your heart to mark this ending.
When they pulled into Forrestville, the shadows were long and the light looked like it was streaming through a pitcher of sweet tea. They dropped Travis off first.
Travis hopped out and bent down to look in the car, his hand on the roof. “Another year, y’all. See you tomorrow?”
“Unfortunately,” Dill said.
Travis ambled up the front walk. He turned and waved again when he reached his porch, staff held high.
Lydia sped off.
“I’m in no hurry to get home,” Dill said.
“Habit.”
“Want to go to Bertram Park and watch trains until it gets dark?”
“I’d love to hang, but I really need to start putting some time into the blog for the next few months. I’ll be leading with it in my college apps, so there needs to be good content.”
“Come on.”
“Look, that’d be fun in its usual somewhat boring way, but no.”
They pulled up to Dill’s house. He sat for a moment, not reaching for the door handle, before turning to Lydia. “You gonna be too busy for us this year?”
Lydia’s face took a defiant cast. Her eyes hardened, her exuberant air evaporating. “Sorry, I wasn’t paying attention—what were we doing for the last several hours? Oh, right.”
“That’s not what I mean. Not today. I mean in general. Is that how this year’s going to be?”
“Um, no dude. Same question. Is this how this year will go? You not understanding and being weird when I need to do the stuff I need to do?”
“No.”
“Well, we’re not off to a great start.”
“I get it. You’ll be busy. Whatever.”
“But you’ll just be really silent and taciturn about it and maybe somewhat of a dick.”
“I have a lot on my mind.”
“I’m serious, Dill. Please don’t be gross when I’m busy.”
“I’m not being gross.”
“Yeah, you are a little.”
“Sorry.”
They regarded each other for a moment as though giving the opportunity for airing additional demands or grievances. Lydia’s face softened. “On a different topic, half of my salad from Panera isn’t much of a dinner.”
“I’m fine.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay. I better go. Buds?” She reached over and hugged him goodbye.
Dill breathed in her smell once more, gathering it along with his new clothes. “Thanks for doing this. I didn’t mean to come off as unappreciative.”
“Good, because I made you something.” She pulled from the center console a CD with “Joy Division/New Order” written on it in black Sharpie. “This is what we were listening to on the drive to Nashville. I knew you’d want a copy.”
Dill tapped the CD. “You were right. Thanks.”
“And you should know that ‘Love Will Tear Us Apart’ is my favorite song on Earth.”
“Noted.”
“Tomorrow, seven-fifteen.”
He gave her a thumbs-up. “I’ll be ready.”
Dill got out and walked up to his house. He climbed the cracked, eroding concrete steps to his front door and had his hand on the doorknob before thinking better of it. No use sitting in a gloomy house until it got dark. He laid his bags of clothes and CD on the steps, then sat and stared at the church sign.
No peace, no peace. No peace, no peace.
It cheered Raynar Northbrook’s spirit every time he returned from the hunt to see the battlements of Northhome. He wanted nothing more than to sit beside a roaring fire and let his weariness melt away with a flagon of summer mead, trading tales of conquest of lands and beautiful women with his captain of the guard. Until he looked down from his highest battlement and saw the ranks of Rand Allastair’s army of fell men and Accursed approaching to lay siege to his walls, he meant to enjoy life….
Travis walked in to see his father finishing off a can of Budweiser, his feet on the coffee table, watching the Braves play the Cardinals. A plate covered in congealing chicken wing bones sat on his lap. His eyes were red and bleary.
His father didn’t look up from the TV. “Where were you?”
“In Nashville, school shopping for Lydia and Dill. I told you.”
His father belched, crumpled the can, added it to a large pile, and drew a new can from a dwindling pile. “You get yourself some new clothes? So you don’t look like Dracula?” He popped open the beer.