“But you’re there now,” Rebekah prompts.
“Just for the summer, then I’m going back to Vail.” Chris looks at Bethany, openly sliding his gaze down her legs and up again.
“His parents are the ones who had that crazy art project, those insect sculptures all over their house, remember that?” Rebekah says.
“Seriously?” Bethany chirps, leaning forward. “I loved that. I’m so sad they took it down.”
Chris chortles. “You’re the only one.”
“Naw, man, I liked it, too,” the guy next to Chris interjects. “That shit was sick.”
“How the hell do you know?”
“I saw the picture in the paper. Your parents rock.” The guy drinks deeply from his cup and appears to go back to sleep.
Chris gestures to his friend. “He’s from freakin’ Dunfield. He’s never even seen my parents’ house.”
“So, uh, how do you know Rufus—and these other guys?” Bethany ventures.
“They were all roommates at some point,” Rebekah answers for him. “Right?”
“Yeah.” He chuckles. “Crazy times.”
Bethany is quiet. These crazy times, she surmises, must have included Rufus’s overdose. These are very likely the people who were with him when it happened. Through the smoothing plane of her high, Bethany feels a millipede of agitation. She stays quiet with her Thermos while Rebekah tries to talk to Chris about his time in Colorado. He really mellowed out there, seems to be the gist of it. All that sun and snow.
He and the others seem to be well into their twenties—-perhaps even thirty—resting like complacent tortoises. She allows herself to feel a sizzle of aversion, then willfully dampens it into something tolerable, something more like anthropological interest, like being embedded with another tribe. She studies the men. The one next to Chris wears mismatched tube socks, pink and orange. His dark hair is shaggy, too long to be fashionable, flattened at the top as by an invisible hat.
Rufus has now put the instrument down, and stands in the middle of the tent until he has the group’s attention.
“You all know that I’m clean now,” he begins. “But this is a special occasion, and so I brought something special, just for tonight. For everyone.”
“Something really special,” Rebekah adds.
Bethany looks sharply at her, and Rebekah grins.
“Yes, something really special. You can’t even get it in this country. It’s from the Amazon, a very ancient, medicinal brew. I made it at home from the caapi vine and some other imported ingredients. The tribespeople call it ‘vine of the soul.’” He pauses. “It’s not really a drug, more like a potion. It’s supposed to be taken communally as part of a ceremony. My mentor went down there and drank it with a real curandero. He said it was like a soul purge, like ten years of therapy in one night. It cracks the whole world open.”
“You done this before?” one of the Solo guys asks.
“No.” Rufus smiles. “I’ve been waiting for the perfect time to try it, and I decided that instead of saving it for myself, I’d share it with you guys, do a real ceremony. There’s no place I feel more comfortable and safe than this.”
Rebekah looks admiringly at him. Bethany feels dread like a trapdoor opening beneath her.
“All right, bro, bring it on,” says the guy in tube socks.
“Not yet, Stooge.” Rufus holds up a hand. “Not till after the music’s done tonight. Maybe midnight or so.”
“Cool.”
“Just to warn you, it’s so powerful it can actually cure drug addiction.”
The guy called Stooge laughs, exposing a set of stained teeth.
Rufus finishes his announcement and takes a seat. Bethany stares at the war paint on his chest while Rebekah reaches for his hand.
“Hey, babe,” she says, as if they are alone. “Can I see that?” She points to the little guitar where it rests on a folding chair.
“Did I ever show this to you? Apocatequil brought it back for me.”
“You told me about it, but I never saw it,” Rebekah says, blinking her lashes. She turns the instrument over in her hands, then passes it to Bethany. It is made from some sort of animal shell.
“What—” Bethany begins.
“Armadillo,” Rufus answers.
Bethany touches the scaly hull, the stiff hairs still attached, and feels a small shudder. The instrument is hollow, eerily light. She thinks of the armadillo that was sacrificed, its flesh scooped out.
“It’s called a charango,” Rufus says. “It’s for courtship rituals.” He points to a mermaid carved into the head of the instrument. “This is a totem to the sirens who can help the musician win love.”
He takes it from Bethany and plucks a few wobbly notes. “Maybe we can use it in the ceremony tonight.”