The Song of David

“I really want to know,” I said, and it came out in a husky whisper.

“We take care of each other,” she said simply. “He helps me with the stuff I have a hard time doing. He even cooks sometimes. I mean, not gourmet, but between the two of us, we get by. I may never truly know if my clothes match, or if the house is actually clean, or if there’s a fly in my soup, but Henry takes as good a care of me as I take of him.”

Right. It was pretty obvious who played parent and who played child. This girl was a surprise a minute.

“Henry and I are a team. You’ve got Tag Team, right? You understand. Everybody contributes something different.”

“Oh yeah?”

“He’s the eyes. I’m the heart. He’s the hands, and I’m the head. That’s what my mom used to say.”

We were silent then, my mind reeling, Henry back to fighting an epic battle with the huge punching bag, and Amelie standing straight and still, listening, as if by doing so she could actually see her brother’s attempt to take down an impossible opponent. What she didn’t know, what she couldn’t have known, was that she’d leveled me. I may have been standing next to her, but I was already falling.



(End of Cassette)





Moses




HE’S THE EYES. I’m the heart. He’s the hands, and I’m the head. The words rang in my ears. Millie could have been describing me and Tag. I was the eyes and the hands—the artist who could see what others could not, what Tag could not. But he was the leader, the head and the heart, and his head and his heart had provided for my eyes and hands time and time again. Tag was all heart, and sometimes it got him in trouble, it got us in trouble, but more often than not, it led us in the right direction. He’d taken care of me. I don’t know if I had taken care of him, though. I hadn’t thought I needed to.

“Why did he leave, Moses? Where did he go? Nobody’s seen him for two weeks. Nobody knows anything. If he was falling for me, like he says, then why did he leave like that?” Millie was close to tears and I had resorted to drawing, my fingers flying over a sketch pad so that I wouldn’t go crazy listening to my best friend saying goodbye.

I’d called Tag’s dad, who called his mom, who in turn called his two younger sisters who were away at school. Millie was right. Nobody knew anything. Nobody had seen or heard from him since he’d left.

“Did he say or do anything that seemed off? Anything that you can think of that might give us a clue where he went?” I asked helplessly. Listening to Tag had filled me with hopelessness. He was clearly telling a love story. And my experience with love led me to believe this story would not end well. Love stories tend to be tragic.

“No. I mean, he had seemed tired, which was unlike him,” Millie answered, interrupting my depressing train of thought. “Tag never seems tired. Have you noticed that? He has more energy than anyone I’ve ever met. But he was tired. He’d been training so hard for the Santos fight. A couple of nights he fell asleep on the couch watching TV with Henry. Once, I woke him up at about midnight because our couch is small and he had to have been uncomfortable. He was disoriented and so out of it that he was slurring his words a little. If I didn’t know better, I would have thought he was drunk. But he hadn’t had anything to drink. He’s never had so much as a beer the entire time I’ve known him. And he’d been asleep on the couch for three hours.

“I didn’t want him to drive. I told him he was too sleepy to be driving. Even if it was just a few blocks. But he said he was fine. I walked him out to his truck, and he made a joke about the blind leading the blind.” Her voice broke.

“Was that the last time you saw him?”

“No. The last night I saw him he . . . he and I . . .” Millie’s voice trailed off and her cheeks grew suspiciously pink.

Son of a bitch. I didn’t need any further explanation. Once again, I was at a complete loss. I excused myself to call Georgia, and she answered on the first ring, her voice sharp with hope and fear.

“What’s the news?” she said, foregoing a greeting for the obvious. That’s Georgia—take the bull by the horns. It was one of the things I loved most about her, one of the things that had saved us when our own love story took a few tragic turns.

The phrase awakened a memory and instead of answering I said, “Do you know that Tag actually grabbed a bull by the horns once? I saw him do it.”

Georgia was silent for a heartbeat before she pressed me again.