The Song of David

I pushed the door open, climbed out, took several steps, and threw up all over Mo’s rear right tire. He was going to be so pleased. I should have known better. Pain pills always made me sick. Now I was shuddering, braced against the truck, dizzy and weak, and it all just pissed me off. I was a badass. I had worked hard to become one. I was tough, I was powerful, and all I could do was sway and cling, begging the world to hold still so I wouldn’t fall down.

We were north of Cedar City, south of a town called Beaver, which left nothing but open space and endless room for contemplation. The fields dotted with purple flowers on either side of the highway rolled serenely as the mountains looked on like indulgent parents. It was all so tranquil and benign it made me furious. It was such a lie. All of it.

“Do you need to pee, Tag?” Henry called from the interior of the truck. “Does he need to pee, Amelie? Can I pee too?”

Millie climbed out and gingerly felt along the side of the truck, her hands out-stretched until her fingers brushed my back. I heard Henry ask Moses if he could get out too, and Moses asked him to wait for just a minute. I appreciated that. I loved Henry, but I didn’t want an audience. The fact that Millie couldn’t see me was comforting. She was comforting.

She handed me a bottle of water without comment, and I took it gratefully, swishing my mouth and spitting a few times. I felt better and took a few careful breaths, filling my lungs to see if the nausea was gone.

“Better?” she asked softly.

“Yeah.”

“You can lean on me, you know. Rest your head in my lap. It will make the rest of the ride easier if you sleep.”

I had held myself stiffly the first few hours of the trip, keeping distance between us. She hadn’t touched me, and I hadn’t reached for her. There was so much to say, and so far, no chance to say it. Guilt and confusion and sorrow had been warring in me, especially in the last few days. I had had a plan—a shitty, terrible one—but still a plan. But it had been shot to hell, and now I couldn’t see my way forward.

I realized I’d said the last words out loud and turned to look at Millie, whose up-turned face was suddenly close enough to kiss. We hadn’t been this close since the night before my craniotomy, the night when we’d made love. I was such an asshole. I’d made love to Millie and then I’d run. Guilt sliced through me. Guilt and remorse and desire, and the nausea returned.

“I can’t see my way forward,” I repeated, giving her my back, willing the churning in my gut and the swaying in my head to ease.

“I can’t either,” Millie said softly. “But it hasn’t stopped me yet.”

I couldn’t reply. I couldn’t do anything but breathe and brace myself until my stomach settled. Eventually, Millie and I climbed back in the backseat, Henry took his turn outside the truck, and we resumed our journey.

Millie reached for my hand, and when she found it, she tugged, urging me toward her. I was a big man, and it was a bit of a press, but she cradled my head in her lap and pulled my coat up over my shoulders. I pressed my fists against my eyes like a child, holding back the helpless tears that wanted to fall. I kept them there until I fell asleep to Millie’s hands stroking and soothing, forgiving me, even though I didn’t deserve it.



(End of Cassette)





Moses




I DIDN’T KNOW what to do with my passengers. I didn’t dare take them back to Salt Lake. Tag’s apartment and the apartment above it were under contract—he had a buyer all lined up before he left for Vegas. Plus, he shouldn’t be alone. He wasn’t well, and I didn’t trust him not to do something ridiculous. Again. I could take Millie and Henry home to Salt Lake and insist Tag come home to Levan with me, but I knew Millie wouldn’t want that. I didn’t think she and Tag had had a chance to air things out. And they needed to. Tag needed to make it right, if that was even possible. I’d watched them in the rearview mirror, Tag finally giving in and letting Millie hold onto him for the last stretch of the trip. She would forgive him, if she hadn’t already, but I didn’t know if he would let her. The whole thing was seriously messed up. All of it, and I felt the anguish boil up in me again. I had no idea what to do.

Tag had an appointment with his oncologist in Salt Lake in one week. I’d made him call Dr. Shumway in my presence, and he put the doctor on speaker. Dr. Shumway had been briefed by the Vegas medical team on Tag’s fight, on the hemorrhage and swelling that had caused the seizure, and on Tag’s present condition, which was surprisingly good, considering. Apparently, after a craniotomy, it’s typical to wait at least a month to let the patient heal before embarking on a course of treatment, in other words, radiation and chemotherapy. It had been three weeks, so Tag’s treatment hadn’t been delayed by his decision to bolt, but Dr. Shumway informed Tag that it was unlikely, with the injury he’d “suffered”—Dr. Shumway was remarkably diplomatic—that treatment for the cancer would begin next week.