Turn It Up

by Inez Kelley

  “That’s my daughter,” Caz sobbed. “I’ve never seen her. I’ve never touched her. Maggie said I was too dangerous, too messed up. Her father is listed as unknown. Unknown. But I know it.”

  Anger bled away and Bastian sagged against the door frame. “Oh, Boo.”

  Caz spun around and thrust his hands into his hair. “Today, Lisa’s baby…I held her. She was so little, so soft. You want a child and can’t have one, and I have one that I can’t touch. I would give my life to spend one minute holding my kid, just seeing her with my own eyes, and you couldn’t even look at a baby that didn’t belong to you. You tell me who is more fucked up, because from where I stand, we are both piss-poor excuses for men.”

  The picture wasn’t new. It was creased along one corner and some of the gloss had been rubbed away, as if Caz had stroked it too many times to count. The shine was gone from the baby’s face.

  “Where’d you get the picture if you’ve never seen her?”

  “Security threw my stoned ass out of the hospital.” Self-loathing twisted Caz’s mouth. “My manager kept me from being arrested that night but I’m not sure how. He bribed a neo-nurse for it.” Caz was lost to memory, his eyes heavily shaded with ache and sorrow. The weight deepened his voice to a husky whisper. “She came too early. I was always wasted then. I…Maggie said she only weighed two pounds. Two pounds and four ounces…at five fifty-three in the morning, July twelfth.” He leaned on the window sash, burying his face in his arms. “She’ll be five and she doesn’t even know my name.”

  Bastian squeezed his eyes shut. July twelfth. Caz had OD’d July thirteenth. Almost five years ago. Understanding leaked into his voice. “You tried to kill—you got clean for her.”

  “Doesn’t matter. I’m still an addict and an alcoholic and I always will be.” Caz drew a huge breath, his back rising with the force. “You’d be the perfect fucking dad and I’m a fuckup. Life’s cruel, man.”

  The couch groaned as Bastian collapsed onto it. He tucked the bloody handkerchief into his pocket and tongued his sore lip. Realization sank into him with a sigh. Caz was long past withdrawal. He trembled not because he craved a high, he craved his child. Bastian’s eyes pinched tight. How well he knew that longing. “Have you talked to a lawyer?”

  “I’m not stupid, of course I did. Unless Maggie identifies me as her father, I can’t do shit legally.”

  “Where is she now?”

  “Atlanta. Maggie moved back in with her parents when she got pregnant. I tried to—it got ugly. I can’t go within two hundred feet of her or I go to jail. Nice, huh?”

  Caz looked over his shoulder. A depth in his eyes struck hard at Bastian’s gut.

  “Don’t you get it? Everything you touched was golden. Everything I touched turned to shit. Now you’ve got Charlie. I’m jealous, asshole. How petty is that? The one thing I have that you can’t…I really don’t have.” Caz jerked his head away and stared out the window. A loud liquid sniff ripped through the air and he straightened. “But she’ll grow up one day. Once she’s eighteen, then I…I started a saving account for her. I put money in every month. Maybe I can’t be her daddy but I can give her that. She will want for nothing.”

  The vehemence in his words rushed through Bastian with pride. He’d never heard his brother so determined. “That’s a good move. Colleges are expensive, weddings, stuff like that. I’m sure she’ll appreciate it.”

  “Too little, too late, but it’s all I got.” Raking his long hair back into a ponytail, Caz looped a tie around it then dug an envelope with a California bank’s name on it out of the sax case. He pulled a folded paper out and stared. “Not enough but what else can I do?”

  Knowing it was an invasion of privacy, Bastian reached out and took the paper. Two names graced the top corner, Casper Alexander Talbot and Grace MacKenzie Campbell. His daughter didn’t have his name but Caz had drawn a heart around hers in blue ink. Grace. The name tattooed on his heart. The title of the beautiful song. His daughter’s name was Grace.

  After nearly five years, the savings account had grown to a healthy figure. Bastian’s brows crashed down low at the numbers of zeros on the final line. He double-checked the date. Current as of last month. “Boo, is this math right? Do you know how much is in here?”

  Caz’s lips thinned but he never lifted his face from securing the sax lid. He didn’t glance up while taking the statement and picture from Bastian. The floor creaked as he headed down the hall. He paused and his voice rasped deep, tightly modulated and controlled.

  “Maybe I don’t save lives. Maybe I’m not the picture-perfect example of a father. But despite being a screw-up, I’m a good songwriter, Bastian, and I get paid accordingly.”

  The back door slammed shut behind him.

  The second hand on the grandfather clock in the foyer chuck-chucked and Bastian sat staring at the forgotten instrument. A live wire hissed and sizzled in his belly, too many thoughts coursing through his head. Licking his sore lip, he rose and walked woodenly into the dining room he used as an office. The pen scratching on the paper echoed overly loud. The soft tear screamed through the silent room. His slick soles tapped on the hardwood and he eased the veranda door open.

  Cigarette smoke hit him in the face but he didn’t blink. Slouched over the iron railing, Caz didn’t acknowledge his presence.

  “Here.” He held out the check until Caz turned his head. “For my niece. I’ve got some birthdays and Christmases to make up for. Tell her it’s from her Uncle Bastian.”

  Caz’s lids slammed shut but he took the check and then a long drag. Thin blue smoke blew into the night as he looked at it. “You sure you can afford this?”

  Shoving his fists into his pants’ pockets, Bastian rocked on his heels. “I got a sweet bonus when I signed with the UC. Yeah, I’m sure.”

  Caz tucked the folded check under the pack of cigarettes and stared out at the dark yard. “Tell me she won’t hate me. I really need someone to tell me that.”

  “She won’t hate you.” A shuddering in his chest gave him strength and he firmed his jaw. “You’re doing it. You’re staying clean, struggling every day but winning. Tonight proves you can face whatever and not cave. You’re providing for her as much as her mother will let you. You love her, even if she doesn’t know it yet.”

  Ash fell to the floor from Caz’s cigarette but Bastian barely noticed. His gaze was fixed on his brother’s face. His hand landed on Caz’s shoulder and squeezed.

  “You aren’t a screw-up. You create things of such…beauty. Your songs, your music and now your little girl. Those are things I can only dream about. You’d be a wonderful father and, one day, I hope you get that chance.”

  Orange fire sailed into the black as Caz pitched the cigarette into the yard with a flick. “Littlebit’s gonna be stoked about her birthday present.”

  Bastian let his hand fall away, recognizing the distance needed now. He leaned his ass on the railing. “Hope so. I figure she’ll call here in a little while. Thanks for handling that while we were out.”

  “No problem, not like those boxes were heavy or anything, there were just a lot of them. Eddy really got into it.” He chuckled softly. “She’s a trip. I asked her out but she just laughed and said she had wrinkles older than me.”

  Bastian groaned. “Please don’t date my future mother-in-law. It’d really make holidays awkward.”

  “You know me, anything to piss you off.” Caz stretched his arms over his head. “I never knew you were such a sap. You really do love Charlie, don’t you?”

  “I really do.” Bastian leaned his head back and studied the stars. “I’m going to bed. I want—”

  A hand on his arm stopped him. “Stay. I just…I don’t want to call my sponsor. I need…Let me sit with my big brother for a while, okay? He might have some trouble with his own but he always keeps my bullies away.”

  Bastian was never sure who moved first but he didn’t mind the fierce crush of strong arms around his waist. He hugged tight and
buried his face in Caz’s long hair, letting silent tears soak his shirt.

  “I clocked Timmy Johnson for you, didn’t I? Let those bullies come and I’ll whip their ass.”

  Charlie climbed her stairs with a hazy, rosy glow shading everything. Bastian’s old jacket cocooned her and she clutched the edges, the bite of his too-large class ring digging into her skin. It should seem hokey, a grown man giving a woman his high school treasures, but somehow it didn’t. It just felt…perfect.

  At the top of the stairs, she flipped on the living room light and gasped. Everywhere she looked, from every crevice and corner, paper chains crossed her apartment. Construction paper in every color imaginable looped in long strands, stapled to her walls, draped over the curtain rods, dangling from her ceiling fan. They rustled as she pushed them aside to step into the room. Outside, the gravel crunched as Bastian drove away. How had he…?

  She walked deeper into the room, deeper into a sea of paper rings. Her mouth hung open. She shed the jacket, dropping it in a heap on the couch, and fingered the green paper loop hanging in the center. This was the beginning. She spun and her mouth fell open, realizing the chain extended into her bedroom. There must be a mile or more of construction paper strips. Each ring held a phrase, the same phrase over and over, some in childish crayon scribbles, some in adult ink strokes.

  Forever.

  From her kitchen into her bedroom, the paper weaved back and forth, over her light fixtures, across her closet door, draped from the ceiling with thumbtacks and staples. She swam through the chains, pushing them aside and laughing at the overwhelming hilarity of it. The only place not boiling over with paper loops was her bathroom. Charlie stood in that free space and wrapped her arms around her waist, holding her tumbling emotions inside by sheer will.

  She didn’t understand this. Why were her insides jumping and her blood zinging over a bunch of high school junk and a buttload of construction paper? Other men had given her gifts of jewelry, vacations and slinky lingerie. The only jewelry Bastian had ever given her, other than his class ring, were the diamond studs in her ears right now. And those were a Christmas gift, not a “thanks for the blow job” present.

  Tonight wasn’t about how much he’d spent, it was that he’d given her something that couldn’t be bought. Sweetness. Innocence. Purity. He’d given her a memory, an experience a too-jaded teenager had scorned and a grown woman treasured.

  She fingered the paper rings as she strolled into her bedroom. She searched the corners, the tacks, the clumps of glue showing. Each loop read Forever and the chain was never broken. But where did it end?

  Trailing down the wall to rest on her pillow, a final loop in red was hooked around a small hinged box. The mattress sagged under her weight as she sat and reached for it. Bastian had written this one. She’d know that chicken scratch anywhere. And it didn’t simply say forever. He’d added I love you before it.

  Carefully, taking time to not break that precious strip of red, Charlie eased the box out of the loop. The hinge made no noise when she flipped the lid open. An astonished sob ripped from her chest.

  A slender ID bracelet rested on a dark blue molded stand. It didn’t have her name engraved in elegant script but, although her vision blurred, she could read it clearly. Forever. Not in paper and crayon, but captured in polished platinum.

  “Oh, Bastian.” Peeling off the long gloves, Charlie fumbled with the hook until it latched. It gleamed next to her skin. He’d given her a forever she could hold. Could she hold him just as long?

  Scared to believe but aching to try, Charlie collapsed back onto her bed. Paper wrinkled under her shoulder and she shifted, pulling it out. Her joy fizzled. The second rejection letter. She tucked her nail in the flap and tore it open.

  Bolting upright on the bed, she gaped at the opening.

  Dear Ms. Pierce,

  Both myself and Robert Jensen, the owner of KPNX, were delighted to receive your résumé and recordings. The subjects were fresh and informative, the delivery flawlessly given with just enough sass to make it engaging, and the control over call-ins showed you to be a true professional. We feel you and your program format would be a good match for our expansion goals. To discuss joining the KPNX team, please contact me at—

  Charlie blinked wetness away and skimmed the rest of the letter. Her eyes jerked wide at the proposed freedoms and salary package. Her heart sped up. Content control would be hers. She would have the liberty to do as she wished in her shows. More promises were hinted at, mentions of satellite links and national broadcasts. A smile started to form but a frown crowded it out.

  She looked up at the paper chains. Thousands of feet of interlocked promises of forever. Forever with Bastian in Northern Virginia…or her dream coming true in Arizona?

  Something in her chest cracked with a sharp pain.

  The time read 3:12 in soft red and Charlie hadn’t called yet. Waiting, Bastian let his mind drift. It drifted toward the taste of her skin, the feel of her nipples on his tongue, the bite of her fingers into his back as he held her against the wall. His hand crept into his boxers without thought and his fantasies took flight.

  She’d begged him, the hitching gasps in her plea coursing through him with white-hot heat. Once she said yes, he’d having her begging for more and more until at last, they’d both hold nothing back. His hand moved quickly, recalling her satiny folds under his touch, surrounding his finger with liquid silk. He wanted to taste her, to sink inside her, to rock them together hard and deep. She was loud and he loved it, wanted to hear her scream his name as she came apart beneath him.

  His hips thrust up, balls tightening in anticipation. Faster, harder, he focused on the pure imagined pleasure of finally being inside her. Orgasm hit with one second of intense bliss and then screeching agony. The cry that flew from his mouth wasn’t satisfaction but surprised pain. Waves of knife-like sensations cut his climax short and forced him to curl up.

  The immediate pain receded and his breath rasped in harsh gulps. What the fuck was that? He snapped on the lamp. No trace of pink lurked in the shiny white coating his belly. Slowly, the throb faded away but fear raced in.

  He wiped his stomach with his T-shirt and examined his testicles as best he could. They looked fine. There was no bruising or swelling, no marks at all. But he knew that looks were deceiving. Outward appearance meant nothing. Something was wrong.

  Tamping down terror, Bastian snapped off the light and slid back under the sheet. He watched the clock change numbers. The phone never rang and he was almost grateful. There was no way he could calmly talk to Charlie right now, not with all the questions circling in his brain. He relived every second of the drunk’s kick, of seeing the blood in the toilet bowl. The twinge during his first masturbatory session had been nothing compared to the outright fire that shot through him this time.

  The sun rose and he gave up on sleep. He dawdled with a shower, with fixing breakfast, all the while keeping his eye on the clock. At 6:45, he took the phone into the dining room and closed the door.

  Two short rings and a man answered, sounding like he had a mouthful of toothpaste.

  “’Lo?”

  “Dale, it’s Bastian Talbot. Sorry to call you at home but I need a favor…fast and quiet.”

  The exam room was cold. Goose bumps broke out along his arms as Bastian zipped his jeans and reached for his shirt. The lack of sound was an eerie reminder that Sundays were a day of rest. But medical crises never slept. Having the right doctor owe you a favor never hurt, either. A quiet knock on the door twisted his gut. He pulled the shirt over his head and heard the latch click.

  Dr. Dale Kramer wore a striped rugby shirt and a wrinkled frown. He closed the door and lowered his hulking frame onto a wheeled stool. The paper liner crackled as Bastian sat back on the exam table. He scoured Dale’s face, looking for clues. Sometimes he hated the impartiality medicine required.

  “Any trouble with getting the sperm sample?”

  “No, but your porn su
cks. Get new movies.”

  Dale snickered and studied his chart. “Any pain this time?”

  “A bit, nothing bad but…a little.”

  “The ultrasound is clear, nothing weird showing up but that’s not abnormal. Nothing found on X-ray, but that’s like looking for a needle in a haystack anyway. You had the previous clean genetic workup. But I can’t find reports of any other testing.”

  “Wasn’t any.” Bastian wiped his damp palms down his jeans and then gripped the table edge. “They ruled out infections, diabetes and shit like that, no medications so that wasn’t it. I did what they told me, switched to boxers, no hot tubs, improved my diet, made sure my blood pre—”

  “Why didn’t you take it further?”

  “Lisa divorced me.”

  “That’s a good reason.” The wheels squeaked under him as Dale leaned forward. Harsh light played over his dark skin. “You played ball in school?”

  Bastian nodded. “Football and baseball in high school. Just football in college.”

  “Wear a cup?”

  “Yeah. Every practice and game.”

  “You box now, right? Ever get hit during sparring matches?”

  “Yeah, but at best it’s a gut shot or a rabbit punch, never below the belt.”

  Dale scratched under his eye then flipped a few pages. “The kick in the ER, black out?”

  “No, it dropped me but I never passed out.”

  “Puke?”

  “Like a dog.”

  “And how much blood in your urine?”

  “A trace, and only immediately after. No blood later and just a twinge during ejaculation the next morning.”

  “What about penetration during intercourse? Does the pressure on your testicles hurt at all?”

  Bastian looked at the ceiling. “Uh, wouldn’t know. I’m on sexual leave of absence until my girlfriend accepts my proposal.”

  Dale squinted at him. “Wait, that radio thing? It’s real? You really asked Honeypot to get married? I thought it was a promotional stunt to raise the ratings.”